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Pairing: King Arthur x f!Reader
Summary: Arthur is still getting used to his new roles.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: ANGST, grief, angst (there's a lot), hurt/comfort featuring Blue (a child), mentions of child abuse (Princess Haworthia is a piece of work y'all), mentions of injury to a child- a bruise and a cut, mentions of a sick child, angry!arthur, sad!Arthur :( , this is emotionally whumpy, Arthur has A LOT on his plate, Arthur needs a goddamn hug
Rating: Teen/Mature, eventually Explicit in future chapters. All my works and blogs are 18+ only. Minors DO NOT INTERACT.
A/N: this story is still spinning like a rotisserie chicken in my mind- hoping this summer I'll have more time/ energy for writing. miss y'all. thanks for your support during this begrudgingly extended hiatus 💖💖💖
Songs listened to while writing: y'all really wanna angst it up? (me in the background: YAAAAASSS) Listen to Innocence and Sadness by Dermot Kennedy as this song heavily inspired a lot of this chapter
The Page
Blue scrambles onto the top of the barrel- boots barely clearing the light that bursts from the hall as Arthur strides into the cellar. Above, Blue holds his breath from atop his shadowed perch. Hidden in the dark while Arthur comes to a halt with Goosefat at his heels- their voices terse and brunt with the seriousness that Blue remembers after his father’s death. Clinging to the wood beams of the shelves that hold the barrels of ale beneath his feet- Blue steadies himself on the sloped surface of the barrel by straightening his spine and letting his scalp dig into the beam above him. The wood structured like the rib cage of a giant beast- and he’s stood in its belly- trying to remain small and hidden. Arthur’s voice echoes against the walls- terse and sharp.
“Inform the steward that all access to the larders and winecellars must be approved by me,” Arthur orders and while Blue can’t see his face- he recognizes the gruffness of his voice. It’s the same voice Arthur used back in the streets of Londinium when he ran the markets of illustriously acquired goods. It reminds Blue of the time Arthur cut off their local importer of olive oil- and the revolt that he managed from local bathhouses and rival brothels when their supply ran thin before he secured a direct line straight from Spain at a reduced cost.
Goosefat makes a noise somewhere between agreement and disbelief.
“There’s at least ten accesses from the hour before sunrise when the cooks prepare breakfast alone Arthur- you can’t possibly attend to every instance-” Goosefat begins but Arthur cuts him off.
“I’ll do what needs to be done-” Arthur insists, voice firm with anger- he hardly sleeps these days anyways- what difference does it make if he must be guard and garrison to the castle’s most precious keep? His housemaids can’t eat coin, and the winter's been longer than anyone had anticipated- was still yet longer with the way the temperatures had dropped this evening- let alone a half castle increase of hungry mouths added from Princess Haworthia’s guests.
Sure, he could order his steward to go out and purchase food and supplies from the markets of Londinium- Arthur knows the best places. Bakers, butchers, winemakers. The ones with the best deals to buy from- but Arthur remembers the lean winters of his youth- if they can get by here with what they have- then why shouldn’t they try?
Goosefat sighs- heavy with words he’s been holding close to his chest for yet weeks now- ever since that Princess arrived at their gates and Arthur’s been keen to pretend as though she hadn’t.
“Then attend the party- give your order to the source of all these troubles-,” Goosefat says- exasperation clear in his voice- the way his hands raise and lower as though he can thrust the idea into Arthur’s head and make it take hold.
Arthur stands silent, face covered by shadow, before his shoulder jumps as though he can shake off Goosefat’s insistence.
“I said I would, didn't I?” Arthur mumbles, like a child caught in a lie, and Goosefat laughs- deep from his belly and it bounces off the barrels and echoes back to them- Blue can’t help the snicker he lets loose when he leans forward, eager to get a closer look at Arthur who tries to sidestep Goosefat’s accusatory response by walking further into the cellar. Blue places too much faith in his footing- his boots sliding on the wood. The beam atop of his head slices into his hair when he overcorrects his balance- and then bites into his scalp further and Blue can’t help the hiss of pain.
The sound snaps Arthur’s head up as Goosefat’s laughter cuts off.
“Who's there?” Goosefat calls- threat edging his voice as Blue catches himself on a beam, righting himself but not before Arthur’s caught a glimpse of his laces- untied because Blue’s keen for attention in any shape or form- and he’ll run off with shoes undo to the chagrin of everyone that notices.
“Blue,” Arthur calls up- stern and layered with a paternal tone he’s adopted as of late when directed towards the boy. The way his name leaves Arthur’s lips reminds Blue of his father, slides up Blue’s spine and makes his hands clench around the beam- his teeth gritted into a stubborn silence.
“Blue, come down,” Arthur orders after a moment- hands on his hips- brow knitted together as it has been since they laid the crown upon his head. Blue can’t remember the last time Arthur had laughed. Can’t remember his father’s laughter- grief balls up in his throat and sinks to his stomach where it rolls over and burns with anger. Stabbing through him like hot coals stirred up. He doesn’t want to be here- causing ruckus in a castle that’s meant to be his new home- discovering secret passageways and getting into trouble- everything a boy could ever hope for- and yet he’s alone in it all. There’s emptiness inside him. A gaping hole that even the embers of his angry grief can’t warm.
Arthur’s busy playing at being King. Goosefat chasing him and all the whispers about their new King that run through these halls and no one notices Blue. No one that matters anyways- Blue sulks, cheeks burning with tears- one still tingly from the slap the Princess had given him earlier when he went to inform her that her lady’s maid had fallen ill and the laundress was delayed in cleaning her dress for this evening’s party. Jennie hadn’t meant to get sick, Blue despairs- tears falling for the worry of his newfound friend.
Jennie had been the first to notice him when they came here. His first friend since Londinium.
It’d been his fault- he’d brought her to the newest secret tunnel he’d discovered. It’d been cold- and damp- and Jennie’s quarters were already colder than his. She was one fierce shiver away from the wracking cough to start and then he’d gone and led her to such a stupid place. He wasn’t as clever as Arthur- as strong or good at fighting as George- he couldn’t protect his friends or himself.
“Blue,” Arthur’s voice softens when he hears the sobs above him before he grabs hold of the shelving and hoists himself upwards. In an instant he’s pulling Blue into his arms over the barrel while the boy sobs- clings and cries into Arthur’s vest with such a fierceness that Arthur worries he’ll run out of air.
“Easy, Blue, deep breaths, alright lad?” Arthur coos, hugging Blue to him tighter while he lowers them to the cellar ground where Blue hauls them into a heap. Goosefat strokes the boy’s head, concern rife in his eyes when they meet Arthur’s over the upset child when his hand lifts away- bloodied. Arthur’s jaw ticks with stress- chin latched over Blue’s shoulder while Blue cries over his.
The boy’s grief pours out- and while Arthur feels a measure of relief for its expression-Blue had hardly expressed anything except anger since his father’s passing- the heart aching sound of Blue’s grief wrenches in Arthur’s chest.
“Papa,” Blue wails in Arthur’s arms.
Arthur shores himself up against the onslaught of tears- wishes them to erode him into the shape that Blue searches for in how he wraps his arms around Arthur- trying to find the form of his father.
Each heaving sob of Blue's slamming into Arthur like the waves that crash against the foundation of the castle where stone meets sea. Where his own father was lost and here he's found once again. Cut loose from the shroud of Arthur's memory. Taken form to reflect in Arthur’s embrace of Blue but yet not the same as Back Lack's.
Arthur wishes he could be who Blue needs him to be- all too aware of Goosefat’s gaze upon him. The servants that peer in from the hall- their eyes expectant.Iinquisitive. Who is this man? This King? And is he what they need?
Could he ever be what Blue needs?
“It’s alright, Blue,” Arthur tries to reassure but Blue revolts in his grasp. Throws his weight around until Arthur releases him. The boy pulls back- red faced and wet-cheeked. There’s a bloody slice in Blue’s hairline and yet more worrying the bruise over his cheekbone.
More distracting is the anger in Blue’s body- words hurled at Arthur like arrows loosed from an archer's bow. Rapid. With force. Striking Arthur in the chest and catching him off guard with how hard they hit. Pierce his heart and shatter it to pieces.
“No!” Blue shouts, sobs wrecking the words as they burst from him, “No it’s not! Papa’s dead! Jennie’s sick! You don’t care!”
Goosefat attempts to soothe- wraps a hand around Blue’s arm when he sees it cock backwards but Blue is faster. Strikes Arthur in the face- and Arthur doesn’t even try to block- just rests on his haunches, arms slack with something akin to defeat. Doesn’t raise them to shield against the volley of punches that Blue unleashes.
Blue’s only a child- his hits barely hurt. But his words slam into Arthur in their own way- he hadn’t been around much lately. Blue had been left to his own for the most part.
Guilt digs into Arthur harder than Blue could ever hit him- Arthur thinks it's a worse pain than when he’d been struck by Vortigern’s axe.
Goosefat tries to wrangle the boy away, “That’s enough, Blue,” he orders- but Blue only wails louder- cries turning to a shout fit for a warrior- kicks added to the punches and Arthur merely withstands it. Jaw clenched against the attack until Blue tires.
His cries turned back to sobs, his fists back to fingers that reach out and grasp for Arthur’s shoulders until Blue collapses back into Arthur. Curls into his arms as Arthur accepts him as easily as though he were his very own.
“M’sorry,” Blue repeats. Over and over as though his life depends on it while Arthur shushes him. Rocks him in his arms until Blue’s cries are barely audible. Arthur murmurs into Blue’s crown- lips pressed to his temple in equal measures of reassuring words and firm kisses- and Goosefat can see Arthur’s own cheeks wet with tears.
“Jennie’s your friend, aye?” Arthur asks, and Blue nods into his chest. The first solid response they’ve gotten since his outburst.
“The little red-headed girl whose mum works in the kitchen- Adelyn’s her name right?” Arthur asks and Blue cranes his head back- studying Arthur with surprise before he nods.
“How’d you know Addie?” Blue asks, suspicion in his eyes and Arthur cracks a grin. A laugh rumbling in his chest and Blue hugs him tighter just to revel in the first laugh he’s seen Arthur produce since becoming king- and he made him laugh. Blue’s heart swells with pride- his own smile and laughter joining Arthur’s- and Goosefat’s above.
“A King knows his people, Blue. It's his duty, especially those closest to him,” Arthur offers and Blue hugs him tightly in response.
“Jennie can’t have been ill long- I saw her helping her mum this morning,” Arthur says and Blue nods.
“Fever caught this aft. It’s m’fault,” Blue murmurs, a frown pulling at mouth and brows so deeply, eyes casting down in shame.
Arthur leans back- pulls Blue’s face up to meet his gaze, careful to avoid the red swelling around the newly forming bruise over his cheek before he speaks.
“You have to know Blue, you didn’t cause this-”
“I showed her the secret corridor, it was damp and cold- and she sleeps in the west wing- it’s freezing there-'' Blue volleys back.
“Is it?” Arthur asks, although he knows the steward hardly heats the servants quarters no matter how many times Arthur has ordered him to keep the coal burning hot there. Goosefat sighs, clipped and restrained at Arthur’s pointed look that screams Right that immediately.
“And who did this?” Arthur asks, voice firm with his anger. Fury boiling in him that someone would dare to harm Blue even as his hands gently press the injury below Blue’s teary eye and Blue grows quiet. Recoiling from Arthur’s touch and the memory of what happened. Realizing extracting the truth from Blue would be like pulling teeth, and with the warm heat of Blue beneath his hands- Arthur relents. Blue could be warm from his outburst- but Arthur worries he might have caught what Jennie has.
“You should go with Goosefat and take a rest, Blue,” Arthur insists. “Get that scratch looked at. Can you do that for me?” Arthur asks and Blue accepts the diversion in the conversation with a nod.
“Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?” Arthur asks Goosefat while they make their way out of the cellars.
“Yes, my liege,” Goosefat offers sarcasm and sincerity mixing in his tone- a plea in his eyes while he begs Arthur with a look to address the other concern of the Princess and the party.
“And no more secret corridors for you,” Arthur says, pointing at Blue who nods solemnly.
Arthur departs the cellars with a knot in his chest- the gaze of the servants heavy upon his shoulders as he departs. Making his way to his chambers- Arthur spots a flash of red up the hall and picks up his pace. Adelyn is carrying a serving tray nearly half as tall as she and she catches Arthur’s wild concern but doesn’t pause as she makes her way to the great hall, only dips her head and her legs in a quick courtesy.
“My liege,” she says- voice thin and when Arthur stops in front of her- arms held out as though to offer assistance and her voice verges on offended. “My liege!” she says and Arthur huffs.
“Gods, Addie, how many times have I told you it’s Arthur? Let me help,” Arthur insists, pulling the tray from Addie’s grasp and striding into the great hall before she can protest.
“My liege- Arthur- liege,” Adelyn struggles to keep up with Arthur’s long legs- correcting her addressing of him as they approach another group of servants.
“How’s Jennie?” Arthur asks once he places the tray upon one of the tables in a spot that isn’t grossly overloaded with food and drink- it takes him a moment to find the space and his attention is diverted only as long as it takes Adelyn to startle at his question. The woman gapes- shocked that Arthur knows her daughter’s name.
“She’s Blue’s best friend,” Arthur offers.
“The new page,” Adelyn remarks- knowing Blue had been assigned a role in the castle in hopes to keep him busy following his father’s funeral- it’s how he befriended Jennie.
Arthur chuckles, Blue hadn’t been much for his assigned duties- its confirmed by Adelyn’s embarrassed flustering- Jennie had undoubtedly been distracted by Blue’s attraction to trouble. It’s obvious Adelyn’s oblivious to Jennie’s condition- too busy preparing for another indulgent evening by Princess Haworthia to keep tabs on her daughter’s whereabouts. Odds are high she believes Jennie’s found a way to become a disturbance to her King.
“If Jennie’s disturbed your peace sir-” Adelyn starts and Arthur shakes his head.
“She’s caught a fever,” Arthur says, apologetic for the fear that alights in Adelyn’s eyes.
“You should take the night off. Be with her,” Arthur insists and Adelyn looks on the verge of tears.
“You’re so kind, my liege- Arthur,” Adelyn says.
“If you need anything- the doctor, medication, please let the steward know- it’s yours,” Arthur offers and Adelyn weeps with a frantic nod.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Adelyn says, “It’s true what they say-” Adelyn starts and Arthur raises a brow, “You’re just as kind as King Uther. He’d be proud of you.”
Her words slam into Arthur and he takes a moment to recover- a small smile and nod- before he motions her away to the hall- it’s all Adelyn needs to disembark but when she passes him, she reaches out, grips his arm and squeezes- her eyes empart a silent thanks before she’s on her way.
The touch nearly floors Arthur with its sincerity. All the comfort he’d had to offer Blue- and this small gesture- when so many servants are wary of him- the lasting legacy of his uncle being one of fear and distance from those he’s surrounded by- makes it so that any touch aside from formal- has been non-existent as of late. When he’d lived with Maggie- the women had cared for him so maternally that Arthur was never long for a hug or caress of warm affection growing up.
Adelyn’s touch brings up a sense memory so bittersweet that Arthur forgets the room around him until it begins bustling with activity once more. There is even more food brought onto the overloaded tables and Arthur leaves before his anger gets the better of him.
Returning to his room since he’d woken up in a cold sweat that morning- another nightmare about battling Vortigern forcing him awake before the final strike can be had- Arthur sidesteps the growing pile of letters at the entrance.
Princess Haworthia had not only been busy placing pen to paper- but enlisting his staff in emptying their supplies- not to their fault- Arthur knows no one in this castle would be stupid enough to strike Blue. Unless that person didn’t know Blue was more than just a page boy- he was effectively Arthur’s adopted son. Whoever decided to leave a mark was either incredibly unaware or dumb- or wanted to get on Arthur’s bad side.
If that was the case- well they’d have it- Kingly or not. Arthur would rouse the man he was on the streets of Londinium to deal with the offending party. And on that topic- Arthur cringes while he strips- steps into the tub that’s gone nearly cold since Goosefat had ordered it drawn- washing up quickly to stave off the chill of the evening air.
Dressing in his preferred blue vest- Maggie had always told him that was his color- “It brings out your joie de vivre, Arthur,” she’d coo at him while smoothing the creases on his collar- her smile warm before she made him promise he wouldn’t get blood on the fabric- he’d started bouncing for the brothel then- keeping out the riff raff.
“It is the color fit for a King,” she’d said once and Arthur can’t help but shake his head with a soft smile about it now- wondering if he’d be able to keep that promise tonight to avoid bloodshed when he confronts the Princess and her unwelcome guests.
He’d do much to avoid the legacy of Vortigern before him- to avoid a rule by fear and terror. Although treading the path of his father may prove difficult- Arthur was raised surrounded by violence and action- but it didn’t make him violent or reactive- so perhaps he has a chance.
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Thanks for reading y'all! Your support is l i t e r a l l y everything!!
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Director's cut for Itch please 😍🥰❤🙏🏾 The painnnnn i felt reading it, it was so good. No pressure to answer love xoxo
Thank you Soraya!! Sorry this took me so long to reply! I tried before and Tumblr ate it 😭
I wrote Itch because I wanted to do a character study on Pope! I wanted to understand his character more for my What if he never had to go oneshot (now series) for Benny/Santi pairing.
There’s the scene with Will in TF where Santi braces himself for Will’s response about the job and that’s what captured me for Itch. Pope looked like he was ready for Will to say no and when Will says yes I loved Santi’s “ReAlLy?” lol xD and I wondered what may have led to that interaction between them. Their dynamic is so compelling! Will holds so much space for Santi 🥺
Thanks again for sending this in! I’m so happy you enjoyed this fic ^_^ 💖
Pairing: William Ironhead Miller x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors Do Not Interact.
Summary: You and Will resolve some tension.
Words: 5.5k
Warnings: S M U T, JFC *SMUT*, mastubation (f), slightly dubcon initially, dirty talk, idiots to lovers, some light angst, p in v sex, multiple orgasms, dom!Will (could be possibly considered soft!dom), shower sex, reader is described as having a small stature, reader deals with sexism in the military, swearing, mentions of food, dealing with a jealous asshole bully, protective!Will, more angst than I thought but hey its me :) lol
A/N: I think this is the smuttiest smut I've ever written. I'm not sorry.
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The hot water cascades over your skin pressing into your muscles that burn with the exertion of the day. This skills boot camp is kicking your ass seven ways to sundown. But luckily the hours after the sun sets are yours alone- for the most part. Not that you can do much with them with how exhausted you are.
It's all you can do to shovel food in your mouth and stumble off to the showers before you collapse into your bunk. It's been a few weeks here, but it feels like months.
Your surrounded by loud, smelly men and gunfire and pushing your body through so many tactical manoeuvres that you see them coordinated behind your eyelids when you sleep. The guys talk endlessly- and you're not used to it since it's been months since your last tour. Recruitment to the Special Forces meant your missions as of late have been smaller units- quieter than this. They talk- sometimes loudly and although a lot of the banter makes you smile- it's not substantial enough to keep you truly engaged. It's more a very loud static in the background. Constant and a little grating after the long days.
Combined with the mental and physical exhaustion you're desperate for some peace and quiet- a little bit of solitude that you find in the sole shower stall that has a floor to ceiling curtain. The full blast water pressure lets you know that you're the only one even showering at the moment and you take your time.
The guys will give you shit about it- make comments about the amount of cleansers and sweet smelling soaps in your shower caddy but you've already caught a few of them peeking the labels when they think your not looking.
It's hard to have secrets in the bunk area. You've been assigned to a space no larger than a dorm room with cement block walls that don't even reach your waist. Two bunks to a space. Your neighbours a breath away. Your bunkmate even closer.
And gods do you have a secret.
Your bunkmate is Will Miller- a golden haired handsome fucker that looks like he could be a sun kissed god carved from stone. A pillar of honor and quiet strength- he's gorgeous and smart and kind and you've been crushing on him hard.
It started the first day- when you were climbing the 10 foot wall and then your grip slipped. With a curse you fell backwards to the earth- head bouncing off the hard ground and the air knocked out of you. The pain in your ribs makes it hurt to breathe- your vision crawling with little white stars before a face swims into view above you.
And gods his smile.
If you weren't already breathless you would be at the sight of this stranger's grin.
It's amused but tinged with concern and kindness.
"You alright, sweetheart?" he'd asked, slightly breathless for the effort he'd put into reaching you.
And from that moment you would never be alright ever again because being around Will Miller felt like falling into the fucking sun. His smiles brightened your dark moments. The ones you didn't let anyone else see.
Will Miller cemented himself to your side from that day- helping you through the courses and drills when others had brushed you off given your smaller stature. Will didn't assist you out of pity or because he thought you couldn't manage on your own- he did it because you let him. And because Will believed in teamwork- that relying on others was a sign of true inner strength and he knew the final assessment at the end of this course would come down to that. He could tell you felt the same- even if years of having to stick up for yourself meant you relied on yourself almost to a fault. To the point that Will could see you getting worn out. Made him worried that you might get injured because of it.
Will's used to shouldering the burden of conflict and tension for others- had done it for Benny for arguably too long- even when Benny could handle his own. So while he wasn't used to the way you'd brushed him off that first day he respected it. You tackled the wall and remaining course obstacles showing a grit and drive that both impressed and scared him. Your intense purpose and pursuit of perfection reminded him of Pope.
Some of the other guys became offended when you refused their help- and you dealt with that too. Richards was particularly annoying- you fielded more shit from him than Will could even tolerate. His hands clenching in his lap because he knew if he responded in your stead he'd be the recipient of your wrath instead of Richards.
You could handle your own. Years of doing it for so long had hardened you. But there was still a softness you held space for. That you let the good ones see.
Will was the only one allowed to call you sweetheart. The only one that you let clear your tray when you finished eating or let borrow some of your things. He'd mysteriously run out of soap a week into the boot camp. From the way he meticulously kept count of everything in his life- from the amount of black shirts he had, to the amount of water bottles you consumed daily- you found it hard to believe he'd make such a glaring error in preparing for his stay during the course.
But you let him use some of your soap and he gave you one of his shirts to sleep in when Richards "accidently" spilled garbage on yours.
It was easy to fall in love with Will. Not that you let yourself think about it in those strict terms. You held your regard for him loosely in your head- at least you told yourself this. Tried to believe you weren't attached to him as you were. That you didn't enjoy the feel of his baggy shirt around you when you slept. The scent of him still clinging to it and filling your head with heated thoughts.
The first night you'd worn it had been a torture. Will slept bare chested across from you- so close you could reach out and touch him. His chest falling and rising in slow breaths. His usually serious face softened in the dim light cast from someone else's bunk space.
And goddammit did you want to touch him. You stole glances at him from where you lay in your bed- the smell of him surrounding you. The t-shirt against your skin, melding his scent with yours and it felt like a claim. Like the way he called you sweetheart- all slow smiles and warm blue eyes upon you.
The need that had been building between your legs was close to bursting, but you didn't dare to help it ignite. Not when Will slept like an insomniac- his eyes snapping open at the smallest disturbances. Not with the soft desk light of your neighbours illuminating where you lay. Not when Richards might swing around your bunk and "accidently" deposit another load of garbage juice over your head.
Christ, you weren't going to give Richards that image if you could help it.
It was a thrilling thought in regard to your bunkmate though. That Will might catch you- hands between your legs and your eyes locked on him. But one that you barely entertained when exhaustion rolled you under sleeps grip and you knew your hands would take you too long to win that fight. You debated humping your pillow- but a late-night conversation between a few of the guys- including Will had informed you that yes- they were all too aware of this method. Therefore, reducing your options to take care of things to in the shower.
It prompts you now where you linger under the shower spray. Unfortunately, even being alone, time is a luxury, and you approach addressing the building need between your thighs with efficiency. Your hands would work but not fast enough. Switching the water from the shower head to the faucet, you lay your old shirt onto the tile floors and settle your butt on it before scuttling closer beneath the stream. It's a familiar position but still feels awkward as you walk your feet up the wall until your core is under the pillar of water.
The water pulses over your clit as you line yourself up beneath it, toes already curling as pleasure sparks over your nerves. It won't take you long to cum- not with the way you mentally replace the water with Will's tongue- and you lean back onto your hands. Wait for your release to wash over you.
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It's late when Will enters the barrack showers. Everyone else is already settling into their bunks but you've disappeared. Maybe off to collect a late-night snack at the vending machines- some chocolate bar or the gummy candies you like that you'll inevitably end up sharing with him. He cherishes those sweet moments with you. Hoards your smile in a place in his chest that pounds whenever you look at him, whenever your hands brush his as you pass him the night's chosen candy.
He pauses as he makes his way to a stall. The one at the end- the one with the largest curtain- sounds as though someone's left the water running.
Goddammit Richard, Will thinks because last week Richards had purposefully let the hot water run dry while Will had been away at the camp office. Had smirked at Will when he'd exited the stall- shivering and teeth chattering.
"Guess your sweetheart has to warm you up, Miller. That is if you're even fucking," Richards had sneered and Will registered the note of jealousy in his tone. In an act that would have impressed Fish, Pope and Benny- Will merely clenched his fists around his towel and smirked as he passed Richards- knocking his shoulder and shaking the water from his hair.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Will said and Richards scowled, jumping away from the cold droplets.
Will stalks to the stall now, wrenches the curtain open- intent to cut off the spiteful waste of water but he stills when he registers your frame sprawled on the floor. Without even thinking he steps inside and yanks the curtain closed behind him.
The action is tied to his first thought which is Richards-there's an element of possessiveness that Will has with you. It's the reason he gave you one of his shirts to sleep in. While it was the right thing to do- Will also enjoyed the way Richards avoided you once he saw you wearing it.
Will's captivated by the sight before him. The image of you lost in your pleasure has his fist tightening around the towel at his waist, a quiet curse leaving his lips before he can stop it.
"Christ."
Your eyes snap open in shock where your head is thrown back- hangs off your shoulders in a picture of spread fucking beauty. There's the moan of his name before it cuts off on a squeak of embarrassment before you scramble to move- to get out of the obvious position you've placed yourself. A litany of curses and his name said in flustered admonishment to disguise the way it just sounded like trickle in your mouth.
But it's too late.
Your movements are awkward and hindered with your embarrassment and Will takes advantage. Drops to his knees behind you and walks forward until his thighs are pressed against your shoulders, caging you into the position further. His fingers wrap around each of your ankles- keeps them pinned to the wall and he drops his shoulders. Let's his lips fall to your ear and his voice has dropped low- a rumble drawn up from his chest and it vibrates through your entire being.
"Oh, sweetheart don't stop for my sake," he says, voice dragging across the roar in his gut that begs him to spin you around and make you feel so much fucking better than the faucet can.
"Is this why there's never any hot water left for me, hmm?" Will says, breath ragged in your ear. He waits for your response; registers the way you swallow hard and gasp for an answer. The way you squirm against his legs and try to avoid his gaze makes him doubt what he'd suspected for the past few weeks.
Maybe you didn't want him. Not truly. Sure, you moaned his name in your sleep- dreams that made your hips dip against the thin mattress of your bunk- over and over until you made a particularly pretty series of sounds that made him want to puncture every other man's eardrums in the barracks- especially Richards.
A terrible thought rips through Will's head like a bullet- maybe you didn't want him for real. Maybe it was only the forced proximity that spurred your subconscious to choose him in your dreams.
But then in your waking hours Will would always catch you staring at him. Your gaze heavy over his hands as he cleaned his weapons or when one wrapped around your thigh to boost you over a wall. Will's grip loosens on your legs now- as though he's about to let go and he starts to disengage when you push back- your shoulder blades digging into his thighs.
"No," you say, unsure where this boldness as come from but fuck it- you're here, Will's here and you would give anything to keep his hands on you- to have him touch you more. Will processes your words as refusal, ripping his hands and frame away from yours like you'd burned him before he gathers his discarded items in a rush.
"Shit-I'm sorry I thought you-," he starts but you cut him off.
"Please don't go."
It's barely a whisper. Will think he's almost imagined it the way it weaves through the sound of splashing water until you repeat it- your voice louder- the words echoing off the walls and it's stated like an order by the end.
Daring a look towards you, Will spots plea in your eyes where you gaze over your shoulder at him like he finds a target. Narrows his gaze and holds a breath while he ascertains his aim is true.
"I want you. I want this," you affirm. Adding on the last part in a rush as though to disguise the first statement. But Will heard you.
You want him.
Will hesitates, searches your face the way he does a mark until he sees the earnest there and then his stoic facade crumbles. Replaced with a grin that's a mixture of warm giddiness and wild relief.
He resumes the earlier position from when he'd first found you. Enjoys the way you scramble to sit further upright to dig your hands into his thighs and rest your head back onto his shoulder while he collects your legs with his large hands.
Will smiles down at you. Grins like the cat that got the cream as his fingers wrap more firmly around your ankles. Pressing them back to the tiles and you shiver in his grip- eyes blown dark and a shy curve tugging at your lips.
Darkened blue eyes trail down your body- appreciating you in a way that Will couldn't before- your uniform and his shirt covering all your gorgeous skin and shapes. Will takes his time- likes the way you writhe and squirm in his grasp- beneath the heat of his gaze and the torrent of water between your thighs until he lets himself look at where it meets your body.
"This is why there's never any hot water left for me, isn't it sweetheart?" he repeats, and you nod, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as the pleasure of the water and the change in company threatens to overtake you.
"This greedy cunt is responsible, huh?" he asks you, drops his mouth back to your ear.
"It must fucking ache," he says, eyes locked between your thighs before he finds your face again, "Just wants to be filled. Wants to feel so fucking good, yeah?"
You nod fervishly against him while your hands leave the hard expanse of his thighs to reach up, wrap around his head, fingers curling into the short crop of his hair before you haul him into a fierce, desperate kiss.
"Please, Will," you beg against his teeth and tongue, needing him to help you over the edge. To shift where he holds your legs and let you really feel the stream. But Will's not so eager- wants to see you held out like this for hours if he could- all tense and tight and needy for him. Fucked and wrecked and desperate.
You look so fucking good below him. Those little muffled noises from your sleep fed into his mouth now. He swallows them- hopes the water covers up your soft cries.
They're addicting.
Just like the smell of your soap. The one he'd borrowed from you even though he didn't need to. Sweet and soft- makes his head spin and his cock harden.
"Is this why I have to bathe under ice? Can only fuck my fist until the water turns cold? Don't even get to cum," Will tells you, part of the query serious- he'd been left unsatisfied for weeks- unable to chase his release before the shower temperature became unbearable.
Now he knows it wasn't only Richards responsible. That the reason you always returned to the bunks with a flustered look and a happy smile wasn't just for the candy you purchased.
He should punish you. Hold you beneath the stream until you scream. Until the water goes cold and you go slack in his arms from the amount of orgasms he'd put you through before spinning you around and fucking you right here on the tiles.
Maybe he will.
For now he punishes you with his words- with what he suspects has been swarming round your pretty head when you stare at him at night. When you think he's sleeping.
"That's what you want isn't it? So you can listen to me fuck my fist in my bunk beside you?" he asks and you moan into his neck, hips bucking and ankles tugging in his hands.
"Quiet, sweet girl," Will rumbles, "Can you do that for me?" he asks and you nod, biting your lip once more to prevent the sounds threatening to burst from them.
"Fuck," Will says at how quickly you agree. How responsive you are even when you're trying to restrain yourself.
"I want to hear all the pretty fucking noises you make but we have to be quiet. Don't want Richards to come investigating," Will says with a cheeky smirk.
"Don't want him to see you like this," Will continues, almost absently- like he says it more to himself, fingers trailing down your calves until they dig into the meat of your thighs, spreading them wider.
"You're all mine, sweetheart," Will growls as he arranges his hands beneath your legs, hauls them up and you further into his lap. The water pressure increases over your clit- white hot heat bursts across your nerves. You flail in Will's grip, small keening whines pressed into his damp skin as your orgasm rips through you.
Your core clenches around nothing and Will sets up to fix that. He shimmies backwards, pulls you with him and your legs fall limp and shakey onto the floor before he helps you sit up and turn around.
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You didn't think you'd be sitting astride Will's thighs, grinding into the hard length of him as you kiss him fiercly tonight- or ever. Sure, you'd fantasized about this. Dreamt about him sliding into your bunk and pinning you to it while he fucked you from behind. A slow and devastating rolling of his hips against your ass with his large hand wrapped around your mouth to hide your moans from the rest of the barracks.
Will's shoulders swivel- tight and trembling with his need when he collects you in his arms, hauling you further into him. His mouth slots over yours- claiming it with the insistent press of his lips and tongue. His hands tug at your waist and hips- his touch decidedly tame for the filth he just spoke to you while he was helping you get off.
Your fingers card through the short crop of his hair- just long enough to tug on and you do. Your hips grinding harder against him when he groans.
You want him inside you. Even if it has to be quick. Even if you have to be quiet.
Will holds you to him like he's afraid you'll slip away. You can tell he'd take his time with you if he could- his kisses slow and drawn out- pulling you right back onto the pulse of your pleasure with the flash of his tongue and teeth.
When you draw back for air he smiles at you- soft and slow- blue eyes blown out dark- flickering bright with pleasure as he looks at you.
The kiss he presses to your nose is surprisingly soft.
"You should go get your candy before Richards empties the entire machine," Will says- biting his lip and letting his gaze fall to where you perch on him- looking like he'd rather not stop.
"You think I want to stop?" you ask, accenting the question with another firm grind of your hips that makes his mouth stutter open on a moan.
Will clenches his jaw and tries to steady his breathing.
"You don't want to stop?" he grits out, hands dipping below your hips to grope at your ass.
He hums appreciatively when you wiggle into his grip.
"No," you say as you mouth at his throat.
"Good." Will nearly growls before something seems to snap in him. All his restraint released at your word and he rises, moves until your back is pressed against the cold tiles. Whatever he'd been holding back moments ago appears now. His gaze is heavy upon yours- his hands grabbing at you with fervour.
You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders as his hands hold your ass. The head of his cock moves from where it was pressed into your thigh to against your core. It slides through your folds and over your clit with every calculated snap of his hips.
"Please, Will," you beg while he breathes harsh at your throat.
"You think you can be quiet?" Will asks and you whisper affirmatively in his ear. A string of yes's that makes his lips quirk.
"We'll see about that," Will says before his hand dips between you- guides himself to your entrance.
With one thrust he fills you. There's a gasp and a groan while he waits- enjoys the tight clench of you around him before he draws back only to snap back with a sharp thrust.
You keen in his ear and he huffs a laugh.
"Come on, sweetheart. If you're not able to keep quiet then I'll have to pull out. Find another way to keep your pretty mouth quiet," Will says and groans at the way your walls clamp down at him with every word he speaks.
"Don't you want me right here- filling this cunt up nice and deep?" Will asks as he thrusts into you- stretching you over his cock perfectly.
When you don't reply beyond the air that he keeps knocking out with every thrust he smiles into your skin. Your hands scramble over his shoulders, fingers trailing over his skin and nails leaving red marks as you try to convey your enjoyment via other methods than your voice.
"Good girl," he says, increasing his pace as a reward, noting the way you breath hitches at the praise.
It takes everything in you not to whine when Will hits a spot that's particularly good. When he finds it, he continues to strike it with a purpose that you've witnessed in the field.
Will's determined when he's got a mark in his sights.
"You like that? Is it there?" he asks like he's not grinning like he knows that he's hitting something devastating within you.
You couldn't answer if you tried. All words have disappeared from your mind. You're reduced to restrained whines and groans and Will smirks when he feels you clench around him.
Another orgasm slams through you.
Pleasure bursts fierce and hard and Will growls into your throat when your head falls back against the wall.
"That's it, sweetheart. Cum all over my cock. You feel so fucking good," Will says, eyes flicking bright with his own pleasure at the liquid heat of you around him.
"Where-" Will slurs into your throat, his hips stuttering against yours.
"Inside," you tell him and Will's hands tighten, holding you against him so his thrusts don't ruck you further up the wall while he chases his release. He cums with a strained groan- a withheld roar- his eyes cutting away from yours and down as he fucks his cum into your cunt.
"Fuck," Will heaves out on a breath, his words clipped with the rise and fall of his chest, "Fucking thought of you like this all the time."
Your body feels like slack rope- every ounce of tension and ache from all the tactical drills dissolved from your releases- but something in your chest wrenches at Will’s words. To know that you weren’t the only one feeling a type of way. It confirmed when Will pulls out- a chaste kiss pressed to your shoulder as he disengages from you- the coarse rub of his stubble grazing over your nerves- the swoop in your stomach at the loss of him surrounding you.
Will hands you your towel- a shy look in his eyes that you never would have guessed would ever take residency on his features with all the wonderful things he’d just husked into your ear. As you clean up and gather your things Will keeps his eyes carefully averted as though to give you privacy- like he’d only been invited to share this intimate knowledge of you for a short time and he didn’t intend to take liberties with you.
It doesn’t help that a voice hollers from the bunk space about lights out- and you’re just on the other side of entering a reality where’d you’d had the best sex of your life with William fucking Miller to register that it sounds like Richards voice.
“Don’t go full boy scout on me, Miller,” you say before you open the shower curtain- the tease strong in your voice and Will’s gaze snaps to yours- face serious before your smile reflects in the quirk of his lips.
“Not when you can get that dirty in a shower,” you joke with a wink before your padding over to the vending machine, Will’s “Roger that, sweetheart,” and affectionate chuckle echoing in the thud of the candy as it falls.
After collecting your chosen snack, you slip into Will’s oversized shirt and your sleeping pants before heading back to the bunks. Behind you, Will follows. Its dark in the bunk area save for a few night owls with their lamps on- but even they are not far from succumbing to exhaustion.
When you reach Richards bunk- suspiciously empty- you trip over a pair of boots- Will’s hand shoots out before you even register the impact of gravity- his fist collecting your shirt- his shirt- before he pulls you back to center. There’s the warm puff of air over your ear before the low rumble of his voice.
“Careful,” he says, and you’d roll your eyes if he could see it- knowing his older brother energy has him fussing over everyone like a mother hen.
“Not my fault Richards a gremlin,” you grouch back, kicking Richards boots away before Will’s hand on your shirt slides down your back and urges you forwards- his breathy laughter bursting over your neck.
Your bunk area is dark when you reach it- enough that you don’t notice Richards perched on Will’s bunk and you startle when he abruptly stands up- flashlight blinding you until Will steps forward- placing himself between you and Richards.
“Up past lights out huh, Miller?” Richards barks, the beam of his flashlight descending to your form before he sneers your name too.
“And what’s that?” Richards asks, the packaging of the candy in your grip crinkles- and it sounds so loud in the otherwise quiet bunk area. There’s some shuffling beyond you- beyond the interrogation that Richards is bent on performing- confused murmuring and a few curses arise from your neighbors.
“It’s none of your goddamn business Richards,” Will all but growls, shoulders swivelling when he straightens his spine- makes Richards feel every last inch of height that Will has over him and from where you stand- behind Will because he’s made it so- you feel like you register Will’s size for what feels like the first time. Even with having all of it held against you just moments ago- but that had been Will directing himself for pleasure’s sake- and right now he’s positioned himself as threat towards Richards.
Everything about Will’s stance screams Fuck around and find out and you can’t even see his face- only Richard’s. And what you see makes it difficult to hold back a burst of laughter.
Richards has gone impossible pale under the already bright white of his tactical light. Regret drips from his face- fear in his eyes as they flit from Will to your bunk.
That’s when you notice it.
Littered over your bunk is what must be the entire barrack’s worth of garbage for the past week. Anger alights in your veins, and you lift a hand towards Will’s arm- intent to push past him and wrangle Richards neck but Will moves faster.
Whatever ideas you had of Will Miller being a boy scout regarding you vanishes as he launches towards Richards. The jealous bastard barely has time to yelp in surprise before his flashlight clatters to the ground- a flurry of movement and sound in front of you as it spins on the cement before it illuminates the scene.
Richards is bent over your bunk- Will a seething mass of rage over him- hand clasped at the back of his neck and around Richards’ arms twisted at a painful angle behind him.
“Apologize,” Will orders- spits the word out like fire lashing over his tongue.
Richards whines before it cuts off on a pained squeak followed by a series of pops from where Will’s hands meet his.
“Okayokayokay- I’m sorry,” Richards gives but Will isn’t satisfied.
“You make a mess Richards-“ Will growls- “You clean it up-“ Will says- shoving Richards into your bunk where he collapses in a breathless heap before he scrambles to right himself.
“Yes, sir,” Richards is quick to reply- gathering the garbage up in his arms before he’s even upright and Will turns on him again- pushes him back into the bunk.
“It’s lights out, Richards,” Will says on a laugh that sounds hollow- reverberates with his anger for your sake.
“You can deal with it in the morning,” Will says- something about the phrase deal with sounds like he isn’t entirely done with hashing out Richards consequences.
Richards hovers- face still planted in the trash- afraid to move- confusion written all over his face- the flashlight deepening the shadows, so he looks like some pantomime of ill fate until realization dawns- and then horror takes it place.
“This is where you bunk tonight, Richards” Will says- every word drawn over his tongue like he’s sharpening a blade.
“Y-yes, sir” Richards replies- clipped and quiet.
“I can’t hear you.” Will says like he’ll cross the distance between them if Richards lets one more heartbeat pass between them without proper acknowledgement of the order Will has set forth.
“Yes, sir.” Richards says more firmly.
It’s only once Richards is tucked into the garbage to Will’s approval that he pulls you aside- out of the barracks and into the cool night air. As soon as you’re clear of the door Will’s menacing persona drops away- blue eyes swimming with concern.
“Are you okay?” Will asks- hands rubbing down your arms until the crinkle of your candy wrapper as his fingers search for yours remind you of your plans for this evening- how everything had changed but in a good way and then a not so good way- but you wouldn’t change it for anything.
Not when Will hauls you into his arms and gives you a hug that knocks the air out of you like when you’d fallen off the 10-foot climbing wall the first day of this course. How could you not be okay when Will always has your back?
I blame period hormones and the surrounding gif(t)s of Charlie for this fic
Pairing: dom!William Ironhead Miller x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Words: 2.8k
Summary: The aftermath of a night of rough sex has Will struggling- with his past and his presence and how it all appears when it comes to you.
Warnings: Heavy angst, dom!Will experiencing dom drop, PTSD, OCD, panic, anxiety, mentions of rough sex including restraining reader, dom/sub aspects, swearing, crying, mentions of violence and the grocery store incident, Will's traumatic past, smut, use of pet names (sweetheart), description of bruises, marking, Will's POV for the most part (so much pain)
A/N: okay for safety's sake- this isn't a perfect or even ideal dom/sub experience/ relationship and you shouldn't be looking to learn from fanfic anyways- rough play to the point of bruising/marking is obviously dangerous and can have serious consequences. be safe frens 💖
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Will's not stupid. The fact that you tried to hide the bruises in the first place was laughable. Sure- you wore Will's hoodies a lot- but all the time? And with the sleeves drawn down to your wrists and then further, the fabric fisted in your hands to avoid it pulling up- was silly considering Will's hoodie swallowed you up inside it. It was a useless protective measure- one that only served to amp up Will's suspicions.
Still- he lets you get away with it for twelve hours. He goes to work and comes back- eats dinner with his eyes politely yet unmistakably narrowed on your covered arms- silently asking you what's wrong and when you dodge his concern- he corners you while you do the dishes.
It's not that there's anything wrong in your mind- a part of you actually enjoys the marks he's left on you- but you know how Will can get- and you don't want him to feel bad. He's sensitive as much as he tries to hide behind the stoic façade. His friends call him Ironhead- and you inwardly call him Softheart- wondering how much of the shield that surrounds him is meant to protect himself- and how much he views it as protecting others from him.
Will keeps a close reign on himself. You don't know how long he'd been doing it- you suspected long before he met you. Part of him being your dom had to do with that control. The handing over of trust between you two.
At his approach, you've settled your arms deep below the surface of the water but Will sighs behind you, chin tucked on your shoulder, hands tugging at your elbows.
"You gonna show me them or can I have my hoodie back? M'cold," he asks and you laugh, bright but tinged with nerves- the sponge in your hand feeling like your body in Will's grip. Soft and squishy, a thrill running through you at his touch but Will registers it differently- the worry in his head reading your reaction as a potential shiver of fear.
Are you scared he'll be upset with you? he wonders, keeps his voice and eyes soft on you.
Reluctantly, you pull your arms from the water, revealing the bruises smattered over your forearms. There's a sharp inhale at your ear, before Will gently pulls you away from the sink and spins you around in his arms- blue gaze never leaving the marks on your skin.
"Christ," Will whispers, thumbs grazing over the imprints that match the width of his fingers.
"Sweetheart-" Will says, the word muddled up with his affection for you, on something in him that he runs over in his mind constantly like tracing the raised edge of a scar. His thoughts grate over it now. The violence. The pain he's inflicted. The way his hands have curled around metal and flesh and how he's never wanted what they've done to be directed at you.
Pulling your arms away from him because the switch in him has you wanting to make the marks disappear just so that the devastation on his face will too- Will flinches while you extract yourself from his grip. He swallows hard- gaze ripping away from your arms to meet yours. There's fear within his blue eyes- had been there all along just carefully concealed behind his stoic walls- his avoidance all day a symptom of how scared he is that you'll hold this against him.
There's a subtle shake of his head before he husks out a fractured I'm sorry. Guilt and shame and pain layering over the two words, and they taste like salt. So sharply coated with pain that they cut over his tongue.
Before he can continue you wrap your arms around him, pull him into a hug that he stutters into like he doesn't deserve it. Something in him restrained- hauled back and away like his spine is made of iron and he will not let himself be moved.
He has responsibilities- he's supposed to take care of you- he'd never want to hurt you- hadn't meant to-
"You don't have to apologize," you say, "I asked you to- I wanted this-" but Will shakes his head fiercely- pulls away from you, his face scrunching up like he's touched something hot.
"I was too rough- I shouldn't be leaving marks like this-" he counters, voice clinical. Cold and distant like he's listing off the ways he's failed a mission and he can't let his personal shit get caught up in the fallout. There's no time for feelings- there's just the set course and any necessary corrections- and he's not the one that has final say in any of it. It's you- it's you and always will be you and if you tell him to never touch you again he'll listen.
"I asked you, Will," you gently remind him and his jaw tenses around a few steadying breaths before he speaks.
"I shouldn't have done it," he says, something in the way he says it verging on dismissive and it's your turn to flinch. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth- what he really meant was he should have been more careful in his handling of you.
"Do you not trust me to use the safe word?" you ask, hurt lacing your words and Will shakes his head.
"No, I'm sorry-of course not- but your pain threshold isn't the same when you're in that space- and my strength- I shouldn't have hurt you," he says, hands clenching into fists before he stares at them with distrust. Gently, slowly like you're afraid he'll cut and run- you weave your fingers between his and squeeze.
"If you hurt me and I don't like it, I would tell you," you insist and Will lists in the silence that follows like he's a man drowning at sea and has accepted what the crushing waves will bring. Like he's rolling towards an inevitability and he's only just realized- has just enough time to steel himself for when it hits. One last lungful of air before he'll plunge his head beneath the waves and just let it take him. The swell of his emotions is immense and he's been thrust deep.
His mind tracking back to the previous night- of your wrists gathered up in his hands, your legs straining against his chest as his hips snapped into you. The sounds you made- ripped from your pleasure slackened jaw- how he struggled to contain you as you came- so fucking hard that his hips sheened with your release when he disengaged.
Was it then? Had he held on a little too tightly when your entire body tensed against him? Just enough to have those marks be pressed into your flesh by his fingers.
"Will," you voice weaves through his thoughts, pierces the path of rumination that's begun to spiral.
The way you say his name is different than when you'd said it last night- screamed it- soundless through gritted teeth as your second orgasm struck. Breathless and punched out with the thrust of his cock inside you.
Had he missed it then? Had you said the word and he'd missed it? Had it gotten lost in the near-silent, gasped out string of his name?
No, you wouldn't have not said anything afterwards- not unless you thought he didn't care. Did you think that? That he'd just use you- that he didn't care if he hurt you? Horror dumps down Will's spine and he tenses up in front of you- his Captain persona snapping into place as he tries to calm the oncoming storm of his emotions.
"Will," your voice comes a little more insistent this time and he tears his gaze away from the blooming marks over your arm but his head doesn't follow. Trips and slams into the darkness that always seems to hover at the peripheral of his mind. A shadow that chases him from his years spent in the heart cracking pulse of violence.
You take a deep breath- gathering the words that you wish to speak carefully and Will panics- thinks this is it- you're going to tell him this is the end- that he's been reckless. That you want nothing to do with him. Flashes of the cereal aisle- of Leslie looking distraught and embarrassed as she spoke to the cops and then the man's recovery photos overtake Will's vision. Superimpose themselves onto your frame and he can't breathe-
He can feel Leslie's nails digging into his back- hear the shredded quality of his name as she shrieked it out in her desperate attempts to loosen the chokehold he had on the man. His swollen neck covered in deep, dark bruises- so viscerally contrasted by the bright white of the neck brace that Will flinches even now- as though a laser sight flashes into his vision.
"My father warned me about violent men," Leslie had told him before she left a week later. The engagement ring digging into Will's palm but not hard enough to remove the feeling of the man's muscles- the give of skin and corded tension within his grip.
Will's reserve cracks when your lips curve at the edges- the smallest smile offered to him and he can't look at it- not when he thinks it'll be the last.
Leslie smiled right before she slid the ring from her finger. Like she was removing a burden- like it was a relief to be rid of him and all that he had to offer which was nothing but the chaos in his head and how it shoved to the surface of his skin- driven up from his palms. He was captive to it then. A puppet on a string- barbed wire and his joints full of sand- sharpened to serrated glass in an instant and he couldn't keep it inside. Couldn't predict the triggers until he entered therapy. Couldn't put space between them and his reactions for a long, long fucking time.
Leslie'd been right to do it.
To leave him to sort out the mess of his mind alone.
And you're right to do the same- Will can only hope you'll let him down easy although he doesn't feel like he deserves it.
The tiles of the kitchen floor blur, the rock in his throat jumps and his hands are skittering up and down your arms like he's trying to soothe you and himself by some extension.
"I like them," you admit quietly- a secret you'd kept to yourself until now- and Will laughs through the first sob- the wrecked sound startling you both. Your smile disappears in an instant- wild concern filling your face and you reach for him but Will can't accept your touch. Straightens so that your hand falters- hovers between him while you wait for permission to hold him.
"Please-" he begs and he doesn't know what for. He thinks if you touch him- with your softness and sweetness- he might crack and fall apart. That all of Delta Forces men could come and never put him back together again.
He's fallen so hard for you and he's so afraid he's fucked it up.
"I enjoyed what we did yesterday," you tell Will and he sinks to his knees- arms wrapping around you before he buries his face in your waist. His shoulders jump beneath your hands- his breath more out of control than he's allowed it to be in years. Relief is pulled through his frame like an anchor finding it's way to the bottom of the ocean. Your confession a form of permission for you both. It settles in his chest when you follow Will to the ground, hold him in your arms until he settles. The sand that he'd dredged up- that had fogged the clarity he'd had from last night- finally sinks- only a fine dusting covers him now.
His usual grit is back and he can feel it between his teeth. Sinks them in just so he doesn't lose it again.
"Did you feel this way last night?" you ask and he shakes his head. No- he'd felt good last night. Afterwards too. It'd only been this morning that the doubt crept in- the disgust following shortly. How could he have treated you like that? The drop taking hold when he saw the evidence of his actions and it'd dragged him to the deep, dark bottom before letting go. Your words of reassurance helping him come back to the surface.
"That's good," you say, "Because if I'd had missed that I'd be a mess right now," you admit with a half hearted laugh, but something serious grips your features and Will lifts a thumb to brush away the wet over your cheeks. The warmth of his hand drops into your bones- you'd never seen Will so upset.
"I trust you," you breathe out into the space between you. Will's gaze flits between your mouth and your eyes- his hands on you held so lightly- like he's afraid to make full contact.
"I'm glad you didn't feel like this last night- because you don't have anything to feel bad about," you say and Will closes his eyes, drags air into his lungs but his lip trembles beneath your fingers as his hands come up to rub gentle circles into your arms. Like the movement of his thumbs can remove the marks he's left.
"I'm glad I can be here for you when you feel like this," you say, "You were there for me when I needed you last night."
Will smiles even as a tear traces a path down his cheek when his eyes lift to yours.
"I trust you too."
A half hour later and Will's gym bag is strewn open beside you- his usual care and order broken for digging out the arnica cream he uses on Benny after his fights and applying it to your arms in soothing sweeps of his hands.
By the time the bruises are barely visible- Will has stopped treating you like glass in bed. A few conversations, a lot of check ins happening in and out of the bedroom so that two weeks later, when he hauls you into the same position as that night- he's grinning. A pleased smile gracing his features as he rises to his knees, lifts your ankles to his shoulder and lines himself up with your aching center.
"See somethin-nnghh-" your question is lost to a long, low moan at the thrust of his length inside you before you stammer out a cheeky "you like, Miller?"
Will's hands tighten around the padded cuffs over your wrists- his gaze breaking away from where he's connected to you to find your pleasure filled face. He sinks into you like he's coming home, settled into himself in a way that he hasn't felt these last few weeks.
"Enjoying that pretty smile of yours every time you come," he says, his grin wolfish as you shudder through another orgasm, his hips not halting their brutal snap against you while he fucks you through it. Will groans, shuddering while he gathers you to him more firmly, your legs caught between his chest and the cage of his arms before he drags you over his length. It isn't long before you're reduced to a mess of moans and the prettiest noises he's ever heard.
He thinks he's accomplished the goal you'd established- making you forget everything except the stretch of you around his cock- the pulse of pleasure that he's relentlessly hauled you over for hours now- but you heave out something that surprises him.
"Thank you," you repeat like a prayer and Will's grip tightens further on you as his release slams through him. Enough that you can feel the pressure around the cuffs- the leather creaking in his grip. His heart strikes upon his ribs harder- matching the pace the words leave your mouth until you both settle into a comfortable silence. Sweaty skin pressed together while your breathing evens out- Will's nose nuzzling into your throat. He's left a few marks across your chest with his mouth, and he traces them now with a few kisses.
A compromise.
His hands have known the kiss of violence but his mouth has only known the receiving of the sort of damage his fists have dealt- the taste of metal over his tongue and teeth. What he does with his lips against you is closer to worship. It's a violence against himself the way you writhe and moan and press into his touch, how sweetly you answer when he asks, "Do you know why I mark you like this?"
"Because I'm yours, Will. Always, yours."
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Triple Frontier Masterlist | Main Masterlist
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Pairing: King Arthur x F!Reader
Summary: You’re on the King’s land when you shouldn’t be.
Rating: Explicit. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Words: ~1.8k
Warnings: Anxiety, fear, ??meet ugly??, animal death but not explicit, eventual warnings: swearing, angst, slow burn, smut
A/N: very rough but gotta get it outta mah brain :)
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Chapter 1: the pact
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There’s a trespasser in the field in front of you. A thief that comes at night and ruins all your day’s efforts.
She’s a small thing. Thin and haggard from the winter. The warm spring air ruffles her fur where she rests in the morning sunshine- nibbling on the elvium seedlings you’d planted the day before. They’re bitter more than anyone can stand- she must be desperate- but so are you.
The light falls from the moody clouds and into the white orb of her eye- pale and unseeing as the moon where it stares at your approach. But her hearing’s sharp- and her ears lift before she does- hopping away and into the copse of trees on the other side of the clearing.
With a sigh, you regard the seedlings- bitten down to stubs aside from a few.
You’ll have to start over.
Set some snares.
Gather some clover clumps and hope she’ll go for them instead of the elvium.
One can hope. But hope won’t save the seedlings- or the children that you’re growing them for.
And so you get to work.
The King’s forests are large- sprawling acres full of unkempt growth. Neglected by the previous King and while you don’t know a lot about the new King, you know he neglects the forests just the same. It suits your habits. The soil is fertile and the paths are abandoned except for your use of them. The little cottage you inhabit at the edge of his land has kept you warm and well for two years. You do your best to maintain what you can- not let every inch of the forest be given over to wild and weed.
You’re quite proud of last year’s harvest. It’s helped establish your presence as the city herbalist in the south end. It allows you to help many folk. The previous King didn’t neglect only his land- but his people too.
It takes a while to gather what you need- carefully maneuvering the large trees that have fallen and never been cleared. Some of their trunks are wider than you are tall.
It’s the slumbering mass of an ancient oak- the one that you never thought would fall until last summer- during the wicked storm that heralded the new King’s arrival- that stops you from seeing the second trespasser.
It’s only when you’ve rounded the mass of roots and dirt- wide like the base of a goblet for a giant- and you’ve stepped into the clearing that you notice him.
He’s stood in your clearing- the golden hair of his crown tipped towards you as he examines the seedlings in front of him- and you freeze like the rabbit from this morning. Rooted in place, heart beating in your ears and mouth- unsure if the man’s noticed you until his head lifts and his eyes meet yours like they’re drawn together by a string. Like he’d find you in a storm. Bring the calm of the center of it to surround you just so he could regard you better.
The man doesn’t move- most importantly his hand doesn’t twitch to the bow at his back- his gaze only dropping to the basket of clover in your grip before he quirks a brow and bends down. One of his hands grazes over the seedlings, pulling a nibbled leaf away with a snap and lifts it to his mouth.
Chewing thoughtfully, the man’s lips quirk over the taste.
“Elvium,” he says, eyes cutting to you and you nod just once. Not willing to give anything else. Concession is dangerous and he bears the King’s emblem on his shoulder. His jacket looks warm. Lined with sheep's skin. It's a finely made piece. Worthy of a King.
“Couldn’t tell by the state of them,” he says, tipping his chin towards the sorry state of plant matter at his boots. Those are nice too- not as nice as his coat though. They're newer but well worn- maybe a season old. He must have a preference for them- and based on the mud that he's tread through- he's not afraid to get them dirtied.
“Rabbits,” you say, your voice brittle with anxiety because he’s dressed too well. Like a king’s guard- not that you’d ever seen one out here before. Not in many years at least- and never this close. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to have let them see you the last time.
“Is that what the snares are for?” the man asks, head swiveling away from you to the forest he must have come by- the traps he’s obviously discovered. He remains crouched, fingers twiddling the stalks of pitiful seedlings, shoulders relaxed and voice warm. It’s casual- the way he regards you- and if you weren’t so nervous you’d think him handsome.
He’s trying to appear small- unassuming, keeps his gaze from remaining locked on your form- considerate of the situation. A lone woman and strange man meeting in the forest- the startled look in your eyes at his presence.
He’s seen that fear before. All too aware of his frame, the weapon at his back- bow untethered and the clatter of arrows in their quiver every time he moves. The violence that he represents even without it. He hasn’t missed the dagger at your waist- the shears in your basket- nor the way your eyes flit from the distance between them to the path to the North. Assessing, legs swaying in your boots as you attempt to calculate your options.
Arthur hadn’t meant to stumble upon your illustrious garden. Had only been trying to clear his head. Round table talk of wars and trade and expectations lost to the fresh air of the forest. He'd only meant to step out for a while. But the spring weather had made him realize he was restless, and he'd tracked a rabbit to this clearing. One pale, shining eye seemed like an easy hunt but she'd given him the slip just a moment before you'd appeared.
And then he'd been captivated by the odd little set up he’d found- seedlings he couldn’t recognize at first glance due to their shabby state. But they’d obviously been cared for- fresh trenches dug around them. The air was stained with the smell of freshly stirred soil when he’d arrived.
The culverts dug for the clover you’ve gathered.
You remain silent.
Obviously aware of what this all looks like. Not willing to incriminate yourself over a few pathetic seedlings. It’d be easier to cut and run.
You still have a few seeds left- enough to get by for the season if they all sprout. There’s still enough time to nurse them to grow. You could find a better plot to put them in during the time it takes for the seeds to burst and the green to appear. The first leaves to unravel and smooth out their creases before they need the true touch of sun and soil.
You’d find a good spot. A safe one.
One with fewer rabbits. Less strange men to stumble upon them.
Snares set up on the king’s land?
Even Arthur knew the punishment.
It’s why he doesn’t follow when you drop the basket and bolt. Disappear into the trees in a flurry of skirts and desperation.
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You return the same night.
It’s stupid but it’s necessary.
A calculated risk. There’s too much on the line to leave the seedlings behind.
If the seeds you’d germinated this afternoon don’t sprout-
If not enough of them do-
Too many risks. The beat in your head on repeat. Softly but insistently.
Like a child’s heart.
If there’s a chance the man hadn’t stomped your basket of clover and the seedlings into splinters and paste- then you needed to collect them.
Before the rabbit came back too.
The moon’s high in the sky- helps you navigate the dark forest to reach the clearing.
Your heart beats in your mouth the entire journey- ears attuned to every snap and crackle of twig and leaf litter beneath your boots. All too aware of how every step places you in greater peril.
What if the man anticipates your return? What if he’s waiting for you to appear?
Would you sleep in the king’s dungeon tonight?
Treasoned for the theft of the king in the morn?
You push the fear from your mind to focus on the task of quieting your breathing as you stand at the edge of the clearing. Straining your ears in the shadows- eyes squinting into the moonlit dark to ensure you’re alone.
It’s only a few minutes but it feels like hours as you deliberate between turning back and returning home or recklessly running forward and ripping the seedlings from the ground.
Eventually, your boot steps out of the line of the trees almost without your permission- nerves jumping over themselves to push you forward and before you realize you’re running into the clearing. In your haste your foot lands in the trenches you’d dug this morning- forgotten about with all the anxiety of the day- and you cry out as a sharp pain lances through your ankle. Landing with an agitated huff next to your seedlings as tears burn behind your eyes.
Your hand wraps around your foot on instinct- another gasping cry strangled into silence as you try to breathe through the pain.
You have to be quiet.
Tears streaming down your face, you shuffle towards the seedlings on your hands and bottom- confused when your hands search out for the seedlings and find plush, full leaves before you reach them.
The clover.
Planted in the trenches you’d dug.
And the seedling’s soil is damp. Wet with more than the drizzle of the afternoon.
You sit, stunned for a long time. Realizing that your basket has been left neatly beside your watering can.
A full watering can at that.
The only thing missing are your shears.
Is this permission? you wonder.
Had the man taken your shears as payment for his silence?
They were an ornate pair. Silver plated. Well maintained. They’d fetch a handsome price.
They were your mothers too.
Grief and annoyance storm up your chest.
Should you risk transplanting the seedlings?
You hadn’t even time to search for a new plot- so scared were you to step back into the king’s forest until dark fell.
And now your ankle- it would take a long time to return home. An hour more than usual at least. You were unsure the seedlings would survive even that let alone the wait for a new home.
Slowly, you rise to stand, favoring your good leg as you stare at your garden and your options.
You could still hedge your bets on the germinating seeds. Bending to collect your basket, you lift it only to nearly topple with the weight of it and without the balance of your bad foot.
Reaching inside, you find a paper wrapped package. Beneath the crinkly exterior there is a soft, familiar give as you wrap your fingers around and trace the string that wraps it.
Meat.
You can’t help the smile that lifts your lips, knowing without even needing to look that it's a rabbit.
A half cut by the weight.
This is permission.
A pact.
If you’re in for it then so is he.
A generous king’s guard and a trespassing herbalist.
The hobble back home is long, but the stew you eat in the morning is worth it.
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Pairing : King Arthur x F!Reader
Summary: Arthur has a lot to think about.
Rating: M. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Words: ~almost 2k
Warnings: Arthur’s POV, Angst (it me, i can’t avoid it lol), Arthur’s feeling insecure in his new role, swearing, mentions of illness, death and grief- a traumatic experience in Arthur's past, a rude royal advisor that drinks too much wine, Arthur being sassy
A/N: we love some set up besties
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The bite of elvium clung to Arthur’s teeth the entire walk back to the castle. The bitter taste kept him company when he arrived in the kitchen- stained the smile he gave to one of the cooks as he laid down the hunted rabbit and requested it be halved and for one side to be packaged. By the time he returned to the clearing- his tongue was nearly clear of the flavor. If he tastes the air he can grasp a hint of it still- alongside the smell of earth and green.Spring is abundant in these forests- gone wild with neglect aside from this patch of soil you’ve wrangled into a pathetic sort of submission.
Arthur laid the basket down and bent beside the seedlings- half sure they’d be ripped from the earth by the time he returned. An odd sort of relief that they hadn’t- their measly stems poking up at him like a witch’s accusatory finger, worn and haggard- nearly defeated in their abandonment- you did this, for shame they seem to say. They hadn’t been collected- at least not yet- you’d been smart to stay away for the time being at least. Arthur knows the sort of guards that used to frequent these woods during Vortigern’s rule- uncaring for their duties in ways that make Arthur wary of them and it seems you as well.
You’d been spooked.
Possibly for good.
But Arthur grabs the watering can nonetheless and wanders down to the stream he’d noticed earlier. By late afternoon the clover you’d discarded to make haste away from him has been planted and Arthur can’t justify his absence for much longer.
There’s another round of table talk to be had this evening and he’d only just managed to escape Goosefat’s keen eye the second time he’d left the castle. The whole walk back to his new home, Arthur loathes to rub the grit from beneath his nails. It felt good to kneel in the grass- to put his hands to use in a way that felt more familiar than wrapping them around a sword or a scroll for a new trade agreement. Something about digging his fingers into the moist ground felt like returning to his roots.
Handfuls of hair, of flesh- fucking or fighting he made his home wherever he was planted. Provide, protect- it was all the same but so simple. And his responsibilities now are much the same but so far outside his realm of expertise that when he’d knelt in the dirt he’d almost wished it would swallow him up. Devour him whole and cover him in the sun warmed darkness- so that he might take his restless energy and turn it into growth. That he’d sprout from the ground renewed and refreshed- ready and reborn like when he’d woken from the Badlands.
When he’d felt powerful- capable. Covered in grit and grime and he’d made his home in it. And now he’s thrust into the opposite- silks and soaps and while he’s used to having eyes on him- he’s not used to this. Of every eye. Of every person waiting on his every word. Of the weight that his voice now carries- the power to help and hurt more than just his own. The family that was ripped away from him and while he’s tried his best to patch one back together- he’s been pulled in so many directions that he’s never felt so utterly alone in all of it. Never enough time to devote his attention in the way he desires- in the way that fuels him.
Before he’d had Maggie, Back Lack, Wet Stick, George. And while he’s tried to take care of the one’s still alive- the new friends he’s made- the act of ruling a country is entirely different from the journey to claim the throne.
By the time Arthur’s made his way to the round table, the candles give more light than the sun and alongside their flickering regard is Goosefat’s. Observant as ever- maybe sharper to Arthur’s state than when they’d first met- his gaze descends Arthur’s form like the cut of a blade- lands on the dirt over his trousers and boots with a derisive sound but beyond that there’s no lecture.
Arthur throws himself into his chair- meets his gaze with equal challenge- never one to shy away from conflict.
Say something about it, I dare you, Arthur offers with the arch of a brow.
But Goosefat doesn’t.
There’s far more pressing matters to discuss.
But another voice pipes up- shrill and grating over Arthur’s nerves. The Havenport official- Cecil- is quick to draw attention to all of Arthur’s faults as has been his modicum of operandi these last few weeks.
Only a few more weeks and Havenport would stop their unwelcome invasion of Arthur’s new home. Just a few more weeks…
“You’re late!” Cecil remarks, tongue barely clear of his last swig of wine before it’s curling over the words. “And what sort of King gets covered in mud before coming to court?”
Arthur listens- eyes leveled on Goosefat before his lips quirk and Goosefat only just manages a sigh and a slight shake of his head before Arthur swivels his focus.
“The kind that enjoys long walks in the woods and fucking on the forest floor,” Arthur says through a wide grin. Sure- some of how he’s spent his day is an outright lie- but Havenport doesn’t care to figure out truth from fiction when it comes to Arthur being the new King.
He'll forever be the brothel boy- raised on the streets- not to be a King and he’d never be anything more to them.
It doesn’t hurt to embellish- in fact, Arthur’s amused.
Cecil gasps into his goblet- jaw gone slack with outrage before he sputters through his next sip of wine. Collecting himself over the burgundy liquid that dribbles down his shirt.
“You’re intolerably crass!” Cecil shouts, grunting when Arthur only smiles wider.
“I’m glad you noticed,” Arthur replies, before Goosefat shuffles in his seat and Arthur knows he’s drawn out his entertainment for the day a touch too long. He’s skirting by on Goosefat’s good nature- the level head that’s now tipped to his chest- watching Arthur from the bottom of his brow as though in warning.
“Now let’s get to fucking business, shall we?” Arthur says and Goosefat leans forward- a strained smile dragging over his features as he sighs.
“Let’s,” he grouches before he gives Arthur a pointed look. It’s one that Arthur’s become familiar with- in a way that makes him grit his teeth.
“While I’m glad that all of us here are becoming familiar with Arthur and his… habits,” Goosefat says and Cecil hurumphs under the sound of more wine being poured, “There’s one person here that has yet to be acquainted with their potential future husband.” Goosefat says- and while he seems to loathe to say it as much as Arthur does to hear the reminder- there’s a plea in his gray eyes.
“The princess of Havenport has requested your presence at a social event this evening,” Goosefat says- finger sliding over a stack of letters towards Arthur. The ones that he’d conveniently forgotten to notice piling up in his room.
“And you’ve yet to respond!” Cecil shrieks when Arthur merely looks upon the offensive paper, jaw ticking over his irritation.
“A King should have manners! A King should have etiquette! A King should not leave a guest of his home unanswered- unattended to!” Cecil rants from across the table and all Arthur can think about is the little plot of elvium tucked into the middle of the forest that now belongs to him.
Unattended to.
Would you come back for the elvium seedlings?
There’s so many things that Arthur has fucked up since becoming King- has he just invariably added another to the list?
“You’re not even listening!” Cecil’s high strung voice cuts through Arthur’s thoughts- sharp as the shears in his pocket.
Silver plated. Ornate.
If you were trading elvium you’d surely be able to afford a pair like them every other week.
But Arthur recalls your dress- the thread worn state- boots on the verge of falling apart and the gauntness of your features. It’d been a long winter by the look of you.
If you weren’t trading them- then what were you doing? To risk being caught on the King’s land- with King Vortigern’s reputation still cemented in most of the people’s minds- only someone absolutely desperate would do that.
Arthur’s chair scrapes across the stone when he stands abruptly. Cecil gapes at the action- goblet swaying in his fist as he shoves a finger towards Arthur.
“You can’t leave! You must give us an answer!”
Ahh- all the bloody answers to be given, Arthur sighs but it’s clipped. He pauses- gaze cutting to Goosefat for help- temporarily lost in his sense of duty and his place in the conversation.
What were they even talking about before?
Oh.
Her.
For God’s sake he’d nearly forgotten about the Havenport princess. It might very well be the first time in her royal life that she’s never been considered for such an extended period of time. Lord knows how she’s survived it, Arthur thinks with a shake of his head.
Arthur raps his knuckles on the wood of the table.
“Oh that, yes. I’ll be there,” he says before he takes his leave- his step slightly more hasty than Goosefat’s ever known it when there isn’t a bow drawn upon him as Cecil cries out “He bloody well doesn't even know where it is that he’s going!”
Nevermind that, Arthur thinks as he takes the stairs three at a time to reach the suite that houses the castle doctor. His tongue had rolled over the elvium all day- the bite of it familiar somewhere in the back of his mind. He blames the stress as of late for the way the memory slams back to him. Like a dream he'd forgot but remembers in achingly horrific detail.
There's water spilled over the ground. It's starting to tinge pink where he stands. The jug he'd brought to Ellie's room shattered on the floor in front of him. Jagged pieces of ceramic cutting into his feet and the weight of her over his shoulders. Her breathing's uneven but his is worse- he's frantic- screaming in panic. He's small- barely able to stand under her collapsed form.
He'd learned to recognize the signs- as hard as they were to distinguish. A fever was lost to the constant sheen of sex warmed skin but he could pick up the breathy shake in their voices when he delivered fresh sheets and food.
"Thank you, Arthur," drawn thin, sending shivers down his spine and then when they moved to stand- the collapse. The hollow clunk of knees against board. The desperate attempt to cushion the impact before their heads echoed the same. As he got older his reaction time improved but his fear never did. The light in their eyes blown out like a candle flame never failed to rattle him to his center.
The elvium tincture stained the air of the brothel for days after. A solemn stillness amongst them while the girls recovered- but Ellie had been the first. The only one that didn't- they didn't know what it was- what would help. The first doctor had been cruel. Arthur had no qualms about pilfering his medicine bag. Not when the doctor looked at Ellie like a waste of treatment.
But nothing his little hands snatched helped- not until that old woman arrived and provided the medicine. But it was too late.
Arthur swore he'd never forget the smell- the kiss he'd placed to Ellie's cheek before the coroner took her to Potter's Field. Grief and confusion storming through him while Maggie whispered behind.
Something about their hearts.
The elvium helped.
Maybe Arthur could too.
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Comments, reblogs and likes help me know what you like and want to see and are immensely appreciated!! :D Your support is everything!! ಥ_ಥ 💖💖💖
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | UPDATE TO SERIES RATING/ WARNINGS |
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Triple Frontier Masterlist | Next Chapter
Pairing: TF!Boys x F!Reader
Summary: Dating series/ slice of life snippets. Date one: You go bowling with the TF boys.
Rating: Mature. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Words: 2.25k
Warnings: Swearing, consumption of alcohol, established relationships, TF poly!vibes, F!reader is described as being shorter than Benny (he’s a tall boi), FishBen bickering, slight angst, Benny being competitive, Will being a sweetie pie, Santi being the mediator, grumpy!fish, so many thots, allusions to sexiness/ smut
A/N: Garrett and his insta stories finally gave me the kick in the butt for this series.
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“Stiiiirike!!” Benny rejoices as the clatter of pins echoes off the wide plane of his back. He’s glowing under the black lights- his white t-shirt alight- reflecting in the flash of his teeth. His grin wide as the cocky swivel of his shoulders- his eyes glinting with smugness before he twirls- regards the scores on the TV before his smile falls.
“What?!” Benny says- eyes cutting down with accusation to the lone pin that remains at the end of the lane. His jaw ticks- clenching and unclenching with subdued rage- he looks damn near ready to stalk down the lane and kick the pin over himself especially with the riffing from the couches.
“Spoke too soon, Benny. Jinxed it,” Will offers with a faint quirk of his lips- Benny’s huff and readjustment of his cap when he meets his brother’s gaze evident of the way that sliver of mirth has wedged under his skin. Burrowed in the way only a brother’s jibe can.
“I’ll get the spare,” Benny insists more to himself as he lifts a ball, his long arm flexing as he hoists its weight before he posts up.
Benny stands- still as death as he glares at the lone pin- like he wills it to fall from his spite alone.
His form is excellent on the approach- every muscle attuned to the task in front of him. The fifteen minutes he spent warming up when you arrived is helping his game. The ball careens down the lane- the spin he’s set on it effortlessly on the release and Benny turns before it makes impact with the pin. Strides down the lane- eyes dancing upon your form as his ears strain for the tell tale clatter.
His smile is jovial- if only a hint bitter when it comes.
“Ayyye Benny!” Santi exclaims as he rounds the couch- two pitchers of beer in his hands which he sets down beside the glasses he brought over a moment before.
Benny pours and lifts a glass in thanks before he takes a long sip- his eyes pleased for a moment before his brow pinches and he swivels- searching the bowling alley. Sharp eyes scanning the crowd before they land on his target.
“Fish!” Benny shouts across the space to where Frankie anguishes at the rack of bowling balls- attention given to the youngest Miller for a brief moment before he’s back scowling at the balls.
“It’s your turn, Fish!” Benny hurls to him, eager as a kid to keep the flow of the game going so he can get to his turn sooner.
Fish sighs- the slope of his shoulders collapsing before they hinge back up to his ears. Only Fish could get so stressed over date night.
“I know, Benjamin!” he says, shoving his hand into the rack and palming a bowling ball before he makes his way back towards the lane.
“Come on, man- lighten up!” Benny says around the rim of his pint.
“That’s the problem- all the balls at the lighter weight that I like don’t have holes drilled large enough for my fingers,” Fish says, brushing past the younger Miller, the air of annoyance that surrounds him only growing when he gets a gutter ball on his throw.
Fish returns to the rack, ignoring the restless energy of Benny hovering next to the ball return.
“It’s still your turn, Fish!” Benny shouts and Fish snaps back a sharp “I know!”. It’s gruff, carried over from the barracks and directed at Benny with a sniper’s aim. Benny doesn’t flinch- in fact he grins- he’s spent too many years being an annoying younger brother to let Frankie’s tone settle. Instead, it slides off his shoulders- the weight of them jumping beneath his shirt while he chuckles- amused as ever.
“Find me a hole that I can get my fingers inside of and maybe I’ll take it,” Fish growls and you and Will can’t help snickering. Will hids his amusement with the dip of his head, the flare of his nostrils and quirk of his lips lost beneath his hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose in put upon irritation.
Will’s more than amused- he’s pleased like a cat in a sunbeam beneath the purple glow of the UV lights. His arm is slung over the back of the couch- his fingers grazing your shoulder, the heat of his body against your side. Denim clad legs splayed wide, thigh knocking into your knee every time he leans forward to have a sip of his beer. Patient as ever to wait his turn, especially when he’s got you sat beside him.
Will’s already asked you about your day, helped you find a ball that isn’t too heavy, his warm hands guiding you through the best way to hold it. The sleeves of his green henley are rucked up to his elbows- the veins of his arms and the ink of his tattoos on full display while he demonstrates how to place your fingers in the holes to avoid injury and help your game.
“Like this, sweetheart.”
His voice sweet, encouraging- if only to the many thoughts in your head about where you’d like his hands instead.
It was damn near sinful watching his fingers disappear into the drilled spaces on his chosen ball. The flex and bunch of the muscles in his arm as he stacked the weight of the ball over his wrist. The ease in which he holds it- twice as heavy as the ball you’ve chosen- his shoulders jumping only slightly when he lets the ball fall and rest at his side.
Where Benny’s wound up and intense in the way he is before a fight- Will’s all calm and casual.
The exact opposite to the bickering men at the lane in front of you.
“So what? It’s a little tight? Never heard you complain about that before!” Benny argues and Fish huffs, passes the ball he’s selected between his hands- weighing something in his mind that’s more than how heavy it is- before he attempts to work his fingers into the holes again.
“Some of us have to use our hands for more than fucking or fighting, Benjamin,” Fish sighs before he opts to palm the ball down the lane again.
“Whatever, man,” Benny says- tossing his hands up in mock defeat before he throws himself into the couch beside the one that you and Will occupy.
Santi slides the platter of nachos towards Benny and he digs in with gusto.
Will’s shoulder bumps yours when he rises to stand. Will’s all collected focus as he procures a ball and lines up his approach. His form is less dramatic than Benny’s- more controlled and tight. Eight pins fall to Benny’s pleasure and Will’s unruffled regard.
“Five bucks he chokes,” Benny says before he chomps another chip loaded with jalapenos and sour cream.
Will’s responding chuckle is dry before he sends the ball down the lane with practiced ease. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he strides back towards the couch- the same Miller cockiness when he doesn’t wait for the ball to make impact.
Benny watches with a pinched face as the pins fall before he dives back into the nachos.
Will joins him while you stand for your turn.
The weight of the ball is unfamiliar and you carry it the way Will taught you- listening to the brothers behind you while you decide on your approach.
“That was my chip,” Benny snaps.
“It’s mine now,” Will returns coolly.
You miss the end of their bickering as your focus is drawn to the pins all clattering down.
“That’s my girl!” Santi shouts from the couch, lifting his beer in celebration and your excitement becomes a fluttering in your gut and then lower with the smile Santi gives as he leans forward- gaze fierce with affection upon you.
Benny beams around a mouthful of nachos and Will claps his hands together- his proud smile playing over his features.
Fish manages a smile even from the bowling ball rack- his misery lifted for your sake.
Your next turn is a gutter ball but the wink that Will gives you when you turn around is worth it. His blue eyes sparkling like you’ve knocked down all the pins in the entire alley.
Santi goes next and although he plays his measly 4 pins off with casual disinterest- the way he carries himself betrays a vested interest in his game. Benny leaps to his feet as soon as Pope is done- his competitive nature activated. Eyes bright with adrenaline and eagerness to impress.
Benny surveys the balls, giving you the opportunity to leap forward and join him.
“That one got you the strike last turn. It must be lucky,” you say, watching as Benny’s hands sweep over the balls- realizing that they’ve received more attention from him than you have tonight.
Benny nods thoughtfully while he collects it- something serious glinting in his face.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says with a smile, his entire body turned towards you as he rises to his full height.
Benny stares down his nose at you- smile building until it bursts on a soft chuckle before he bends slightly.
“A kiss for good luck?” he queries, enjoys the way your brows lift and your eyes sparkle before you smile- wide and eager with a nod.
Benny bends forward- enough for your face to reach his- and you start with a peck until Benny smiles against your lips and then your hands are pulling him by his belt loops towards you. Deepening the kiss, Benny’s free hand returns your gesture- hauling you into him before the clunk of his bowling ball hits the cradle and then both of his hands are at your waist- his fingers digging into your sides with hunger.
“Keep it PG, Benjamin!” Santi scolds from the couch but there’s a hint of laughter in the order.
Benny rips his mouth away from yours to slur a short “Fuck off”, before he presses a few lighter pecks to your cheeks. Behind you there’s Frankie’s curt “Watch your fucking language” before Benny’s hands squeeze you gently- an apology as he straightens his spine- his 6’4 frame removing your lips from his.
“We should continue this later,” Benny says- eyebrows wiggling before he swaggers backwards- “You know- get lucky in a different way,” he adds with a wink that scrunches up his entire face. The man can’t wink worth shit but the fact that he tries is terribly endearing.
You turn as Benny returns his focus to the lane- your legs feeling wobbly from Benny’s kisses- to Santi, Will and Frankie smiling at you while you seat yourself back beside Will.
“Beat that boys!” Benjamin hollers from the lane and Frankie rises from the couch with a heavy sigh.
“Whose idea was it to go bowling?” he mutters before he collects his carefully selected ball.
“Your only input was beer and food,” Santi retorts- mildly offended about his choice for date night.
“Yeah- I thought we’d go to one of Ben’s fights-” Frankie says once he’s thrown his first turn. One pin goes down. He waits patiently for the ball to reappear in the cradle- not trusting any of the others not to rip his fingers off.
“So you don’t care if my hands get fucked up?” Benny says- a hint of offense leaking into his playful tone- waits for Frankie to turn before he flips him off.
“Are your hands insured by the government?” Frankie throws back before he sends the ball down the lane. Gutter ball. The score suits him- sniper’s promise.
They should be- you think- recalling all the wonderful ways that Benny has used his hands on you.
They should be insured for a lot.
It’s a pity they aren’t. A real shame that there’s no one looking after Benny’s hands. Keeping them safe, warm- you clench your thighs together, staring at Benny’s hands resting casually on his thighs- the perfect lap to sit in. His long fingers- all the places they can reach. The rough feel of his calloused palms sliding across your skin. The way he’s rough and soft and attentive with his touch- always knowing exactly what you need. Ever the aware soldier- Benny catches your gaze- his lips quirk up like he knows exactly where your mind has drifted.
An unspoken need passes between the two of you. It’s in the barely perceptible raise of Benny’s brow- your returning nod- barely a tip of your chin. There’s a long moment- Benny swallows hard and sets his beer down and you follow.
In a moment, Benny’s standing and collecting you from where you’re seated.
A series of groans lifts from Santi and Will’s couches as Benny nudges you away from them.
“Benny we’ve got two rounds left,” Santi protests, casting a hand towards the scores.
Benny laughs into your ear as he walks you forward, the deep drag of his voice tugging in your gut and lower.
“I’ve got three in me if we don’t get caught,” he husks into your ear, guiding you towards the utility close before he takes the lead. His tall frame cutting through the crowd- his large warm hand enveloping yours.
“Will can bowl for me,” Benny casts backwards and Will’s dismissive grunt answers.
“You’re only getting gutter balls for this, Benny!” Frankie calls towards your backs.
Benny speaks and you don’t have to see the grin that he says it through- it rings through his voice- bright and pleased.
“M’only getting lucky.”
|||
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A/N: if i have time/ energy i'll come back round to the benny smut :)
next chapter is camping/ hiking
Pairing: Benny Miller x F!Reader, and a smidge of William Ironhead Miller x F!Reader
Summary: Reader meets Benny during a training drill and a friendship forms.
Rating: T
Words: 7.3k
Warnings: Swearing, Sexism in the military including derogatory names used against Reader, protective!Benny, Fighting, Will's terrible fiancé, PTSD, Nightmares, Grief, comments around food issues in regards to reader
A/N: This has been rotting in my drafts forever. Not sure if it will go further than this but I really like some parts of it. I wrote it with the intention to study Benny. Please note that this F!Reader is described as being smaller than Benny in stature and the size of her hands.
The first one you meet is Benny.
The bottom of your ration pack wavers heavy in your grasp as you scrape at the gruel- fuel- whatever they're claiming counts as food- from its crinkling depths. The spork feels like a 20 lb weight in your shaking hand as you fight the urge to use the package as a pillow.
Sleep is a distant memory. Something you couldn't even think of until this moment as it digs its lush fingers into the spot where your skull meets your neck. The tingling buzz of it is almost lost to the scream of your overworked muscles- that is the ones that aren't numb from the exertion. Miles and miles and fucking miles of marching, running, climbing and dragging yourself over the dirt has brought you here- barely conscious at the end of the training drill nearly face planting into the campfire that your Sargent has resurrected as celebration.
The wavering light draws the rest in like moths to a flame as you sit perched on a log. They emerge from the dark like ghosts. Dropping their gear, they gather food and the last vestiges of their energy to settle beside the fire. It's perfect; warmth and rest and hypnotic entertainment for minds almost turned to mush from a training drill so exhausting most of them are like you- half asleep into their meals.
Benny rocks up to the camp with a smile that could rival the sun. Even as the light flickers over his features where he stands at the gear tent he is a thing to behold. Distance does nothing to dampen it even if his face is a blurry distorted mess to your sleep deprived mind- you're stunned by his handsomeness.
He tugs off his gear bag, rifle and tac vest with all the ceremony that his tall frame can muster under the ever watchful gaze of his superiors. Something in his movements says that he's used to it, like he's spent all his life aware of authority and something in you sparks in envy. Basic training hadn't been kind to your rebellious side. This man seemed like he'd made camp in it long before this moment- his cheerful disposition, the careful way he tests the limits of the Sargent's patience with his bountiful energy.
You can't help but stare. Eyes are drawn to movement and he is the most energetic of the lot as he strides towards the food tent. Your gaze traverses him, the food in your mouth becoming somehow even blander, and you're too tired to care if anyone else notices where your focus has been drawn. They're too preoccupied with the fire or falling asleep to notice anyways.
It's safe to indulge this- something you haven't let yourself have since you arrived here- so keen to prove yourself as a soldier that you've cast aside other aspects of yourself. Like the part of you that thinks this man might be the most beautiful one you've ever seen.
Long, dark locks hidden beneath a baseball cap that shadows his large eyes. High cheekbones and a smile that takes up the entire lower half of his face if he lets it. He's all lean, long lines and broad shoulders that swing with a weary confidence- you wonder if he's the sort of cocky that's off putting until he's crossing the distance towards you. His large smile turns conspirational as a few of the men around you call out his name in joyful yet exhausted recognition.
Benny.
You wonder if it's short for Benedict or Benjamin as he rips open a ration pack with calculated efficiency.
Someone offers him the kettle and as he adds the hot water his voice tumbles from his chest.
Oh no, you despair at the low drag of it. It sounds like he pulls it over gravel- the kind you'd only just scraped yourself across in the name of patriotism.
"We did it boys," he says triumphantly before his eyes catch yours and he adds, "Miss" with a considerate nod and wink- a fucking wink- that makes your jaw go horrifically slack. Snapping it shut, you fluster hard before returning to the diligent digging of your ration pack and try not to think about the slow, lazy drawl of his words.
You're just tired. Really fucking tired.
Enough that time seems to jump forward without your awareness and you catch yourself swaying dangerously in your seat as the buzz of sleep grows irresistibly loud. The empty space beside you is filled as a body drops into it with a soft laugh as you struggle to keep your eyes open.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" Benny asks you as you stare at his long legs. They must have eaten up the ground to get here, you marvel as you tuck your own into yourself, hoping to add some stability to your perch on the log now that you might fall on a person instead of the ground.
"S'okay," you slur because your brain has given up on speech after the first 36 hours of this trial. Now nearly 48 deep, your thoughts and coordination struggle to connect.
Benny accepts it like he feels it too even though he carries himself with barely a hint that he has just completed the same mission as you. Studying him, you try to find a tell other than the grime and sweat that coats both of you.
You think you spot it.
It's the way his brows furrow when he's not smiling- like he's considering something with a seriousness that betrays his years. He can't be much older than you although you get the sense he's lived maybe more than you have. It's the way he doesn't lose an opportunity to laugh- like he's known pain and he cherishes the moments that he's free of it- no matter how fleeting.
The other tell is the way he inhales his ration pack but that's near universal for what you've both been through these past few days.
He's pretty even covered in dirt and sweat and you think in another life you might approach him. But as it stands- or as you sit rather- covered in grime and sweat much like him- feeling not entirely present in your body for all its been through the last two days, you remain silent.
Benny doesn't to your amazement.
Everyone else that had arrived had their adrenaline break once the food hit their stomachs- you'd watched as they'd all given into quiet stillness just as you had. Like their bodies could meld into the dirt where they collapsed and they'd sleep for weeks.
But not Benny. Where your body feels loose, all your movements too big for your frame- his is tight and controlled as he folds up the empty package and shoves it into one of his many pockets.
He turns to you, catching your bewildered look with a knowing laugh.
"I'm Benny," he offers with a large hand thrust at you.
Slowly, you reach out and shake it, the firm grip of him enveloping yours and you wait for the inevitable as you tell him your name.
Every one fucking mentions it, especially here.
Oh your hands are sooo small. Sometimes you don't mind it as much, as long as they don't linger on it- pointing out the ways that you're different because you're a woman.
Other times you feel like a trapped animal under their scrutiny- when it's said with a suggestive smirk or derogatory emphasis. As though you can't fire a gun just as good- even better- than them.
It bothers you somehow more and less than when you first entered training. These hands helped you clamber over walls, climb ropes and clean weapons. They have helped you prove yourself and you love them for it even as you hate the necessity of needing to prove your inherent worth and capabilities.
Benny releases your hand without comment and you feel yourself relax a bit.
"Sargent Clicks told me you were the first one here," he says, and there's no suspicion in it unlike when Rodrick had said it- the bastard had it out for you from day one.
But Benny isn't Rodrick.
No, Benny looks at you like you're a god as he announces this fact with a reverence in his tone that makes it so you can't help the smile that quirks your lips.
"Yeah," you say simply, pride blooming in your chest the way it had when Sargent Clicks jaw unclasped when he spotted you sprinting towards the tents and Benny scoffs when you don't explain further.
He bumps his shoulder into yours to prompt you- gently because it barely reaches his where you're shrunk in on yourself- but it sends you sideways into the dirt with a surprised yelp.
Apologies flow from his lips as he hauls you back up beside him.
"Shit, I'm sorry," he says as you laugh off your embarrassment.
You feel the words spill from you before you can stop them- it's a brutal defense mechanism that has only seemed to twist and deepen since you came here.
"It's alright. Any other time I could have taken that. Just really tired, is all," you explain as though you have something to prove and Benny nods, looking a bit skeptical even as his hands lift in a reassuring gesture.
"Hey, no one's saying you can't take a hit. Especially not me. Especially since you're always the first one out the gate and at the finish," he says, honesty bleeding from his features, surprising you again.
You scoff softly as you register that he's kept tabs on you and your training.
"So how'd you do it?" he digs and even though he's grinning you can see the serious glint in his eyes, that edges his words- just a hair desperate and eager- like he needs to know your strategy or he won't be able to sleep.
Something in you bristles like a reflex as you turn away and find Rodrick's slumped form, remembering the way he'd charged up at you while you prepared your ration pack, spit flying as he interrogated you like he couldn't believe you'd finished before him. The bruises surrounding his eyes match the ones over your knuckles and you know somehow- even though you'd only known Benny for spare an hour- that you'd never have to do the same to him to make him back off.
Benny follows your gaze, considers Rodrick's sleeping face for a moment before he's turning back to you, large eyes hopeful, like he'd never find anything helpful from the man but he might from you.
"Clicks told me about that too," he says as he drags a large hand down his face with a heavy sigh and you wonder if he's finally starting to feel drained but he only looks upset for your sake. His eyebrow quirks as his gaze cuts down your form as though to assess if you're okay and you nod before you can stop yourself.
A sleepy sigh escapes you as the silence brings the buzz at the back of your head again. Louder this time. The call to sleep is a siren song and you're about to wreck on the shore of unconsciousness.
"You can sleep if you want," Benny says with a soft smile, looking slightly disappointed that you haven't divulged your secrets yet.
"Doesn't feel like a choice at this point," you murmur into your hands as you maneuver to lean against the log instead of repeating the fall from earlier. To your surprise Benny does the same, dropping into your space once more. The heat of his body against your side rivals the flames that warm your front.
You gaze beyond him to check that Rodrick hasn't moved and try to suppress the thought that you're grateful Benny sits between you and the aggressive idiot because Benny has no investment in you. But your tired brain indulges the thought nonetheless having noted the callouses over Benny's knuckles as he ate.
He's a fighter- not recently as the skin isn't split open- but it's a skill he possesses nonetheless and one that's he's obviously put to use for years.
You wonder if he's protective as he shifts beside you, drawing a leg up that breaks your line of sight with Rodrick. It only takes a moment before yours eyes drift shut before you're even aware.
Benny clears his throat above you as your head lolls and you snap it forward when he speaks.
"You can- uhh-," he says, hesitant and soft to allow you the out of not having heard him in your tired state.
"You can rest your head on my shoulder if you want," he rumbles out and it's said so sweetly- the invitation held out so carefully that you can't help but sag into his side.
The sound of tires on gravel reaches the ear that isn't pressed into the muscle of Benny's shoulder and you'd lift your head if the weight of his wasn't holding you to him. His breathing is deep and even, the slow rise and fall of his chest captivating you before you see Rodrick's boots shuffle beyond him.
"Benny," you urge as the buses to cart you all back to your bunks arrive. He doesn't stir until your hand grazes his arm and then he's sat bolt upright, shucking you off him with a suddenness that sends you sideways again.
"Jesus, Benny," you say as his warm hands pull you to center before your head can strike the dirt, his apologies streaming forth once more as he helps you stand.
He doesn't laugh until you do as he dusts you off. His smile flashes through the dark and you feel yourself fall harder than the time you slipped off of the 10 foot wall as his bright laugh makes your chest tighten.
Someone approaches you, asks Benny how he got on with the navigation of the drill and you take the opportunity to escape his magnetic presence.
At the gear tables you collect your things when an elbow bumps into your back with a viciousness that could only be Rodrick.
"Cuddling up to a Miller, huh, you fucking slut?" he hisses as he snatches his gear from beside yours and you grit your teeth, refusing to engage until his mouth is at your ear. His breath is hot and foul as he snarls into the side of your head. You're about to turn, give him a bruise to match another set of balls on his body- this time lower- when he speaks, biting off the words with an anger that startles you- makes you freeze, reconsider because maybe getting mad will provoke him further. You share a bunk tent with this sorry excuse for a man- the remaining few weeks left of training staring you down like a threat.
"Gonna fuck your way to the-" he can't finish because Benny appears, his fist smashing through Rodrick's teeth, dropping him like a sixty pound gear bag to the ground.
"BENJAMIN!" Sargent Clicks voice barks from the back of the tent as you stand paralyzed, absorbing Benny as seethes over Rodrick's crumpled form.
His chest heaves beneath his t-shirt as he draws air past his clenched teeth, his gaze willing Rodrick to wake up and stand up for another go. Will's words flicker through his head Don't punch someone once they're down and Benny tries to grasp the edges of his restraint even as Rodrick's words superimpose themselves alongside his brothers.
How dare he talk to you that way?
Is this what you've had to deal with every damn day of basic?
Did he just inadvertently make your life harder?
Is this why you run yourself ragged with such determination- pushing the pace and your body with an intensity that's fucking terrifying to everyone that witnesses it- except for this shitbag?
Benny's hands are shaking as Sargent Clicks yanks him backwards and you snap out of your anxiety- your voice lifting in his defense.
"He was only defending-" you start, voice cutting off when Sargent Clicks fixes you with a harsh glare.
"Shut it, Light Years. Or do you want another suspension for the punch you threw earlier?"
Benny jerks under Clicks hold, mouth curling in disgust for your sake.
"He called her-" he begins and Clicks cuts him off too.
"I don't care, Miller. I can't have fighting on my watch and you're the worst offender from what your brother tells me. I gotta admit you've held out longer than I expected but Rod-dick has already taken a punch from your girlfriend and now the medic will have my head because not only is he setting a nose but probably a jaw."
"He fucking deserved it," Benny mutters under his breath and Clicks drops his head in a display of agreement but his face is stone when he raises it again.
"I'm not his-" you start up when Clicks shakes his head at you, the self defense mechanism activating, making you feel like a stubborn 8 year old child before Clicks thrusts a finger at the buses.
"Get on the fucking bus, Light Years. Show us how quick those feet can fucking move," he barks and your training kicks into gear, toppling the internal defenses to follow his order.
Keeping your eyes carefully removed from everyone else's you settle into a seat the back of the bus with a huff. They carry Rodrick's shuffling form onto the bus and settle him beside the medic near the front where he groans and whimpers through the treatments and you can't help the ghost of the smile as you listen.
It fades when you spot Clicks lecturing Benny outside the gear tent. Benny looks at him with quiet resolve, like he's heard all the things Clicks has to say a thousand times before.
You can't just fight your way through everything, Benjamin.
You need to be careful. You need to be smart. Use your fucking head. You're a soldier now. Don't you want to make your brother proud?
What will he think when he finds out you've been fighting?
It was one punch this time and based on what Ironhead tells me I should feel fucking fortunate this doesn't require hospitalization.
You need to leave that woman alone, she's had enough of a time out here without you complicating things.
Yes, he fucking deserved it but I can't write that up in my paperwork can I?
Promise me you'll fucking behave.
Benny climbs the steps of the bus, finds your apologetic eyes over the seats and makes a beeline for you that Clicks can only shake his head at as he settles behind the medic. Before Benny's fully settled in the space beside you the words are falling from your lips.
"I'm so sorry, Benny-" but the words die as Benny turns all the way towards you, pinning you under his gaze as his jaw ticks.
"You don't have to apologize to me for that shit stain. I'd do it again. Don't care what Clicks says," he says, the words smooth with certainty that makes you shiver for the cold tone that clips them.
"Or Will," he adds, just barely above a whisper and you don't know who that is but you know they make his jaw tick, his brows twist in concern like he does care and he holds their opinion of him in high regard.
He swivels to face the front as the bus lurches forward, not wanting the predatory shades of his anger to fall on you. He's wishing there was another open seat so you wouldn't have to deal with this side of him as you perch silently beside him.
His hands are fisted on his thighs, and he sips the air as the remnants of his rage cling to him like it does in the aftermath of his rounds in the ring.
Your voice is soft, lifting up to him and cracking open something in his chest.
"Thank you."
Two words. The same ones that Will had uttered when Benny had finally agreed to take his rage to the ring instead of the streets.
It startles him to hear them used like this. His knuckles smart in a way that he's known for what feels like his whole life- but they hurt in the way that this is the first time he's used his hands outside of a professional fight in years.
What will Will think when he finds out? Will he be understanding?
Benny doesn't care.
He meant it when he said he'd do it again.
"I am really sorry though," you say and Benny can't help the smile that lifts his lips as he breathes out a soft laugh. The rest of his anger releases as you smile hopefully up at him, hoping he'll accept your apology this time.
"If you want to make it up to me you can tell me how the fuck you managed to be first with your little shrimp legs," he says, mischief sneaking into his tone that makes your mouth gape in shock before you recover, quicker than he anticipates and he remembers Clicks nickname for you. Light Years.
"Why don't you explain to me how the fuck you weren't first given you have legs for fucking days?" you say, shooting a look at his own legs and Benny laughs.
It's loud and fills his entire chest before it fills the bus and a few men grunt out his name like a curse.
"Shut the fuck up, Benny."
But he doesn't. Between the flashes of his teeth and his sweet enthusiasm, he slides under your skin and takes up residence there and refuses to leave.
Fast friends from that day, you graduate from training and fall a little further in love with Benny every second you're around him.
You're like two sides of a coin.
He leans on you for strategy and smarts while you literally lean on him to be the boost you need over a wall or catch a nap between fire fights. He's comfortable, caring and sweet in a way that makes you soft in a way that surprises you because you didn't think you could be- especially not in the midst of violence and war.
Where you're quick witted and efficient, Benny is capable and supportive. He knows where you need him to fit, to leverage your mind against his strength, like he's used to being a sidekick even though he's built to be the hero.
It's Benny who bolsters the mood of the troops with his goofball antics, his smiles dolled out in spades when you're struggling and sweating in the dirt. It's Benny that pulls you up by your bootstraps when you're too tired to move, thrusts a warm ration pack into your grip and chucks a jacket at you when you're cold.
It was him that Clicks shoved into the office as you sat crumpled on the floor having just got off the comms with the hospital back home. Blackout communications from outside were never good and this was the one you'd been dreading since before the tour even began. The doctor's sympathetic voice announcing your grandmother's death- your last living family member- reverberating around your mind as you sobbed.
It was Benny's strong arms that hauled you up, carried you outside to stare at the stars because he knows you love them- need them to remember yourself sometimes- the press of his lips into your hair soft and reassuring as you cried at the sky.
Benny works himself into your heart like he belongs there, opens his life to you like you belong in his, and that's how you meet Will on a month long leave. He's wearing a polo shirt and cargo shorts that somehow makes him appear uniformed even in civilian clothing. His blonde hair glows white under the sun, his brow furrowed over serious eyes as he waits on the tarmac for you and Benny to depart the plane.
Even from a distance, he's gorgeous and you try to stifle the gasp that leaves you when he smiles. It's a shade of Benny's- doesn't quite fill his face the same way as Ben's does- like he's reserved and controlled but it builds in the same slow, lazy way.
Benny bounds forward and they embrace in a firm hug that Will holds just a little longer before he lets go and slaps the brim of Benny's cap down his face with a smug smile. The woman behind him greets Benny with a strained smile and you realize this is Will's fiancé that Benny had told you about as Will turns to you.
"I'm Will," he says and you're reminded of the day you met Benny as you shake his hand. Will shakes yours firmly before he hauls you into him, embracing you in a hug to rival the one he's just given his brother and you huff a surprised laugh into his chest.
"Thanks for keeping an eye on him," he says, the words rumbling through his chest and into your cheek and your face is in flames as he lets you go.
He's smiling but there's something meaningful behind his eyes that makes you nod in recognition.
You're about to tell him that Benny's looked out for you in equal measure- maybe even more based on how Rodrick never so much as looked in your direction unless absolutely necessary after that night- but his fiancé shoves herself into the space between you.
Her smile is terribly forced as she grabs your hand and says your name with an excitement that feels fake.
"So you're the one they call Light Years? Is that like a Star Wars reference?" she asks after she introduces herself and you stutter on a response, unsure how to answer for given nicknames to a civilian when you're trying to remember hers. She doesn't wait for your response as she gasps, holding your hand up for her inspection as she laughs bright and flustered before she looks at you like you should be embarrassed.
"Your hand is so small! Oh my god how do you even shoot a gun?" she asks before she titters a laugh and drops your arm dismissively.
"Leslie," Will grits out with a sigh, a warning that she's making you obviously uncomfortable but she swivels, shielding the sun from her eyes.
"How about some lunch, boys?" she asks before seeming to remember you, her eyes glazing over your uniform with a air of distaste before she apologizes. "And you, of course." But she says it like you're an annoying child trailing after the older kids and she has to include you to avoid looking cruel.
Irritation crawls up your throat but you don't want to make a scene. This is Benny's family. He's invited you into his home so you wouldn't have to be alone on leave again especially during the anniversary of your grandmother's passing.
Benny's jaw clenches behind Leslie and he throws Will a careful roll of his eyes before Leslie turns and he smiles at her- his mouth a tight grim line as he agrees to food. He lets Leslie pass, throwing Will another glare that makes the older brother sigh and shoot you an apologetic glance before he's trotting after the apparent love of his life.
Benny claps a hand on your shoulder in comradery as you try to breathe through your anger and hurt before you follow the couple.
"I should have warned you," he says in way of an apology that he can't give for her or Will's sake but you latch onto it regardless.
"In a way you did," you admit, remembering all the calls where he'd tried to encourage Will to leave Leslie. The bunk space was tiny at the base, and Benny's exasperated voice carried to you as much as you tried to tune it out for his and Will's privacy. The calls always ended in frustrated sighs and a new story of how Will had the worst taste in women.
Leslie was the most recent disaster of Will's affection and the furthest he'd reached in a relationship. At lunch she practically ignores you until you begin to speak or if you address Will in anyway.
You're halfway through your order of fries when she makes a comment on how much you've eaten like its a scandal and Benny snaps beside you.
"This is the first proper meal not covered in sand or dug out of a fucking shipment meant to be consumed during the second World War that we've had in months. Christ, let the woman eat. She fucking deserves it after what she's been through," he says before he takes a large bite of his third burger as Leslie gapes in front of him. His jaw snaps obnoxiously and you're reminded for the hundredth time why you never want to be on Benny's bad side. He's not afraid to redirect his usual neutral self into confrontation for the sake of conflict resolution.
Will crumples the napkin in his hand before taking a deep pull from his beer as Leslie turns to him appalled.
"Are you really going to let him speak to me like that?" she nearly shrieks and Will merely shrugs as he meets Benny's eye.
Leslie flounders before gathering her things and stepping out of the booth.
"I can't fucking believe you. You always take his side," she hisses as Will merely hangs his head, like he's had this hurled at him too many times before and he doesn't wish to fight it in the first place. It's always been him and Benny. Leslie knew where his loyalty lied before she'd accepted his proposal.
"Eat." Benny orders you, sliding your tray back to you from where you'd pushed it away, wondering if you should make a strategic exit to the washrooms. The muscles in his arm bunch and roll as he pulls out the ketchup and squirts it onto your fries, his focus on Leslie as she seethes between him and Will, as though he's daring her to say something else.
The air turns to paste and you rise, wishing to avoid the tension, not realizing that the action only draws her attention to you. The washroom door is within reach when fingers curl into your hair, tugging it out of the bun you'd carefully designed early that morning and your head snaps back as the entire diner gasps.
Leslie's fingers hover- tangled in your hair, nails digging into your scalp as she considers her disrespectful behavior for possibly the first time in her life. Turning your head, you see the realization dawn that she's a person attacking a uniformed soldier in a public place just as a few patrons raise their cell phones.
Yanking her hand back like you'd burned her, she runs from the restaurant and Will huffs a tired sigh as he stands. He looks remorsefully upon Benny's stern face before he looks to you as you frantically pull your hair back into place.
"I'm sorry," he offers but it's shadowed by his frame trotting after Leslie.
Benny stands and herds you to the washroom as your hands swipe at your face, too aware of the cameras still focused on you and your reaction. The tears fall fat and heavy on his arms as he pushes you by the shoulders as the door slams behind him and he feels his heart break for your sake.
This wasn't how he planned this to go.
It was supposed to be burgers and fries and family and smiles.
A break from all the stress as of late.
But instead you're here- shaking and crying in his arms as he hands you paper towels as he tries to formulate an apology that could make up for the shitstorm that just swept through your meal. You cling to him, wrapping an arm around the solid expanse of his waist as you try to calm your hiccupping sobs.
You shouldn't cry over Leslie. She's rude and not worth the effort.
But you know deep down that you're upset with Will.
And you hate it.
This is Benny's brother and as much as you know he's upset with him too you still feel guilt wrapping your hurt. Benny holds you, offering the comfort and understanding of his presence as you pull yourself together.
The bathroom door creaks and Benny's arm leaves you to slam and hold it shut until Will's voice rumbles through it.
"Benny. Let me in," he queries through the door and you hear the pain and regret in his voice but Benny's hand remains like he can shield you from your hurt if you just stay here in his embrace forever. Lifting your head, you watch the conflict roll through his features as you reassure him that you're okay, he can open the door. His large blue eyes find yours as he chews on his bottom lip before he let's you go and wrenches the door open, placing his frame in the space he creates so you can't see Will.
He hovers there, silent and stern as Will sighs heavily.
"Are you gonna let me in?" Will asks and it's only when your hand slides up Benny's shoulder blade and pulls at his jacket that he acquiesces, stepping aside to let Will in.
He shuffles inside as Benny leans his weight into the door, crossing his arms for the way his hands itch with his anger. Will is hunched over, hands shoved into his pockets as he takes up a spot beside you at the sink, and you know he's trying to appear small and safe.
You've seen Benny do the same thing.
Will's eyes are the same shade of regret as his brother's when he apologizes again for Leslie's treatment of you.
"What she said was unacceptable and her actions are completely inappropriate. I'm sorry you had to deal with that."
Before you can say thank you for the apology, Benny chimes up.
"So why'd you fucking chase after her?" he asks, voice dripping with disdain and Will flinches beneath it like he's been struck before he lifts a hand from his pocket and opens his fist.
The engagement ring that Leslie had flashed in your face earlier lays in his palm.
Benny swallows as he watches the pain flicker over Will's face, his rage dissipating as he considers Will's silent display of solidarity. It isn't complete though because Will disappears into a stall and a resounding plop echoes through the space before the toilet roars.
The solemn tone of the room as he reappears, eyebrows quirked as though to say Well, that's that is too much.
A bark of laughter bursts from you before you slap a hand over your mouth, mortified.
You're about to apologize when Benny's laughter trickles out of him until it's booming.
Will looks serious before a sharp puff of air leaves his nose and he gives in, relief breaking on his remorse as he grins.
"You think this is fucking funny, Benny?" he asks, ignoring the way your laughter has resumed in nervous giggles. Knowing that if he looks to you that you'll shrink and you've had more than enough of feeling small today. You deserve to take up space, even if Leslie thinks otherwise.
He doesn't. Never has. Not when you were the one keeping his brother safe overseas.
"Y-yes," Benny gasps out between laughs.
"Go ahead then, say I told you so. It's the only time I'm gonna let you have it," Will says as Benny swipes his eyes and shakes his head. Even though its a golden opportunity for a little brother, he can't be that cruel to Will, not when he knows the shame and hurt is eating him alive below his composed exterior.
He sobers up long enough to tell Will that he's too stubborn for his own good before he collapses in another fit of laughter as he spots you trying to control your own.
"Fish is gonna have a fucking field day with this," Benny heaves out and you still don't know what the fuck is going on but at least Will is smiling now. It's strained and doesn't reach his eyes all the way through but it's a start, like he believes there will be happiness after this that isn't bolstered by his shithead little brother.
He turns to you, eyes still apologetic as Benny tries to compose himself.
"I owe you some fries," Will says. "If you'll have me, that is," he adds, serious and resolute, like he expects you to reject him, lash out the way Leslie did based on Benny's stories.
Nodding your head in agreement, you watch Will's face and shoulders drop in relief and his eyes glint hopeful as a small smile graces his lips. Benny's now quiet observance is broken by his voice, edged with seriousness that forces you to look at him.
"No way, man," he says, shaking his head like he's offended for your sake and you're about to interject, reassure him that you don't hold Will accountable for Leslie's actions when he snarls.
"We deserve more than fries," he says indignantly and you recognize the playful-ness behind his stern look. Will sees it before you, his smile meeting his eyes for what feels like the first time in months, since he found out Leslie had been cheating on him.
"What do you want then?" he asks, looking to you as you grin but Benny's not finished.
"Fucking ice cream. And churros."
"Ohhh, churros," you say, mouth watering at the thought as Benny knew it would and his knowing smile could smite out all the pain you've ever felt if you could just look at it forever.
Will sighs heavily behind you.
"Well get a move on then. I've got a lot to make up for and the longer we stand here the longer his list is gonna get," he says to you as Benny opens the door and gestures like a gentleman for you to exit.
As you gather your things from the booth you hear a low exchange between the two men, Benny's face stone cold serious as Will listens thoughtfully. The deep nod of Will's head makes Benny grin again before he hauls his brother into a hug, a few affirmative slaps filling the air before they approach you.
Many sweets later and a stomach ache to rival the time you ate too many pasta ration packs in a row, you're lounging on Will's couch and staring at a picture of Leslie that hangs on his wall.
You wonder what drew him to her. Why he thought proposing was a good idea.
As though he can read your mind, Will appears from the kitchen and sighs at the picture before he yanks it off the wall and sets it on the ground near the garage door.
He collapses onto the couch opposite you, hand pinching the bridge of his nose in the same way that Benny does after a long day. Dragging the hand down his face, you hear the scrape of his stubble before his eyes find your form- seeming to startle like he's not used to existing in his house and not being alone.
You offer a small smile and he returns it.
"I'm sorry about Leslie," you say and Will sighs.
"Don't be. She's the one that should be sorry," he says.
Still. It's sort of a shitty way to meet your best friend's brother.
Will looks around the room.
"Where's Benny?" he asks, and it sounds awkward on his lips- like he's not used to asking the question out loud even though you're sure he's mentally asked it a billion times during the tour.
"Napping," you say simply and Will nods knowingly.
"Surprised you aren't," he says, knowing the time difference and jarring stress reduction typically has one laid out for a solid 48 hours once back on home soil.
"Stomach ache," you grumble and Will chuckles but something in his eyes lingers on you a little longer than necessary. Like he knows something he shouldn't.
"Ben told me about your nightmares," he says then, no hesitation in his voice as he sits up and leans his arms on his knees, waits for your confirmation.
You laugh nervously even as you curse Benny.
"Yeah," you say simply.
It's enough for Will.
He launches into a lecture about taking care of your physical and mental health and lists off a few veteran's group meetings that he thinks might be helpful. It sounds scripted, like he's said all this a thousand times, but his eyes are warm and filled with concern and you thank him genuinely when he finishes.
"I get them too," he offers.
"Does it ever stop?" you ask before you can stop the words.
It's a silly question.
But Will answers with the seriousness he knows is behind it.
"Not that I've known it," he says.
You nod solemnly.
"If you ever want to talk about them-" Will starts, looking apprehensive but earnest in his offer.
Something about his eyes reminds you of Benny.
Of course they do.
So maybe that's why it makes it easier to say to Will.
What you could never tell Benny.
"I dream about Benny," you admit and Will stiffens where he regards you before he nods tightly.
"It's always the same dream. It started after the op to Leonnes."
Will's gaze is patient on yours even as he shuffles where he perches. He doesn't know about Leonnes beyond the comm he'd received from a former teammate stationed at the med center nearby.
Benny'd been hurt.
He didn't know how bad.
Didn't know how or when or by what.
Didn't know if he should brace for the worst news but he did regardless.
A few agonizingly long days passed before another comm got through.
Benny was okay.
Well- enough to remain on tour.
Will didn't know relief could feel so limited and yet so overwhelming.
"One moment he's there- the next- he's gone. Just gone," you say, your voice bare above a whisper but Will catches every word. They curl around the stone in his throat as he hears you work your breath around the one in yours.
He laughs so he won't cry- voice cracking over his words because he's so fucking glad Benny isn't alone over there. That he has you. Someone that cares about him so much that he can read it all over your face.
All over Benny's too as he hovers in the doorway behind you, like the ghost of your dreams.
"Benny's a clingy little shit. Trust me. You can't get rid of him that easily," Will tells you, all his years since he was made an older brother coloring his voice. It bursts with his affection and Benny's caught between Will's shiny eyes and your sad ones and he can't decide who needs a hug first.
"Is this what y'all do when I'm not around? Fucking cry over me?" Benny jokes and you toss a pillow at him as he rounds the couch.
"Cry from relief. Finally get a break from your dumbass," you chirp at him, your words wobbly as Benny hauls you into a fierce hug with a rumbling laugh while Will regards you softly over his brother's shoulder.
Locked in Benny's embrace and held within Will's gentle regard- you feel like you belong. The same buzzing pull of sleep as that first day you met Ben sparks and fizzes in your mind- and before Benny can let you go- you're already fast asleep where you're pressed into his shoulder.
