gotta know how ben interacted with ava prior to the attack. there had to be signs. no way the guy that tries to deescalate with “surprise 😍” was nonchalant about the fact he was staging a massacre.
Summary: Ben sabotages the buildings air conditioning so he can get off to you having little-to-no clothes on.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ , smut , no use of y/n for reader , stalking , ben being a creep , masturbation , gn reader , reader is stated to have a vagina , non-consensual voyeurism
a/n: Takes place in an au where the reader moves into the bugged apartment instead of Ava. I'd imagine Ava still moves in later, but it's a different room and Ben is already smitten with the reader. (We've effectively saved Ava!) (And doomed ourselves!)
Cross-posted on Ao3
There was no escape from the muggy heat that infested your apartment. The complex's AC was broken, causing every resident, including yourself, to find other ways to cool down. You swore out loud to nobody in particular, lifting the hem of your tank top up a little bit to fan the sweat that had accumulated between your skin and the fabric. The fan you had recently purchased from a department store was, in your expert opinion, doing absolutely nothing to combat the sultriness of the South Carolina sun.
Soft knocking from your door interrupted your well-deserved moping. You were already irritated by your situation, and in no mood to deal with an equally irritated neighbor. After a moment of consideration, you peeled yourself from the couch, and the tiny bit of comfort from your fan, to answer the door. Peering through the peep-hole, you see that the culprit was an older lady that lived down the hall. Parts of her usually curled hair were stuck to her sweat-damp forehead, and she was just as shiny as you were. She was kind, and probably the only person you'd be relatively happy seeing right now. You opened the door to greet her, asking if she was alright.
“I'm doing the best I can with no air-conditioning. Hopefully that maintenance man can fix what's wrong with it soon. I actually stopped by to ask if you had any ice packs? I have my own, but they've all melted already,” she explains, adjusting her glasses.
“I might? Let me check my freezer,” you replied, keeping the apartment door open as you enter your kitchen. The cool air from the freezer felt like heaven, so much so you paused for a second after opening the door. Your eyes scanned the box for any possible ice packs you'd forgotten about, but all that’s found is a few microwave dinners and those cheap popsicles that come in plastic tubes. How do you not have any ice packs? Maybe she’d appreciate a popsicle? Closing the door you strode back over to where Joyce waited for you, and told her about your lack of ice packs, opting to ask if she'd like a popsicle instead.
She smiles and asks, “Do you have any grape flavored? They’ve always been my favorite.”
“Oh, sure. I don’t think I’ve even touched any of these yet,” you respond, heading back to the freezer to grab a purple ice-pop from the netted bag. After you hand it to her, she says thank you, and you're quick to close the door to sit back down. Trying to nap through the past two days has been nothing short of impossible, since the heat makes every position you have tried uncomfortable. The only solace you currently find is in your fan, and the fact that Ben is working on the AC right now. You had messaged him yesterday, about two hours after it went out, and asked if he knew when it would be working again. His response was a simple “Soon.” It wasn't a time frame but it was better than being left in the dark. Sitting back down in front of your fan, you close your eyes, attempting to entirely relax your body in the suffocating heat.
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The AC should have been fixed by now. It should've been fixed yesterday. Honestly, the problem wasn't complex or even expensive. Breathing is difficult in the basement, the air is humid and reeks of mildew among other unpleasant scents. Light emanates from the several monitors he seats himself in front of, and the image of your body lounging in your home reflects off of his glasses. It's selfish. Everyone in the building is practically melting, just so he can see more of you. He's seen your unclothed body more times than he can count, but so far it's only glimpses before and after showers. This is different. You're splayed on your couch, skin seeming to glow in the poor video feed, everything but your torso and pelvis is revealed.
How long has it been since he began watching you this evening? An hour? Two? His hand is growing tired, breaths becoming more uneven as the condition of the basement starts to get to him. Soft growls bubble up after each exhale. He knows it won't be much longer.
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Your tank top feels like a second skin now, as do your shorts. Sometimes you wish that sweating wasn't necessary to body heat regulation, it's just too much to deal with. Like how it makes clothes that you're wearing stick to you and then you need to peel them off. Now that you think about it, what's stopping you from just… taking your tank top off? And your shorts? It's like, 7 o'clock at night and no one should be coming over. Why be miserable in clothes when you could be less miserable half naked? No one is going to see you.
Grabbing the hem of your tank top, you pull it over your head and toss it to the other side of your couch, letting your chest and stomach breathe for the first time since this morning. That feels so much better. You slip your fingers in the sides of your shorts, lifting your lower abdomen up in order to pull them out from under you, and you toss them with your tank top. When the temperature drops after sunset, the atmosphere of your home will feel so much better. Hundred degree days like these are just full of waiting and trying to distract yourself from the oppressive warmth. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, you'll wake up in an apartment with working air conditioning.
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“Fuck,” he whispers, this is what he's been waiting for. Whimpers escape his throat as he observes you undress in an entirely nonsexual way. As long as it's you, the context doesn't matter in the slightest. His grasp on himself tightens slightly, eyes scan your chest heaving as you breathe in the stifling apartment. He whines your name over and over like it’s a prayer, imagining it's your hand wrapped around him. Or your cunt. God, he'd kill to be buried inside you, clutching onto you as if you're the only thing that matters to him. Your stuttering breaths goad him to hit deeper, deeper until—
Ben lets out a long groan, the image of you coming undone under him pushing him over the edge. Pumping himself a few more times, he rides the high of his orgasm. Every part of his body feels slick and sticky, especially his hand. Only after getting off to you for about two hours, does the condition of his surroundings really sink in for him. He needs to clean his release off of the floor, and take a shower, and… fix the AC. You know, what he's been meaning to do for two days now. In his peripheral, you adjust yourself on the couch. His eyes fall back to the screen, to you relaxing on the couch, unassuming and unaware.
He'll fix it tomorrow.
My first fic ever haha. But I really like this guy so I started with something small. Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. I hope you have a good time, no matter what time it is.
I like the weird little hand gestures he does. The tiny clap after fixing the lightbulb. Whatever the fuck this is. It's fine. I can say it. I would've folded.
