✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: soldier boy never liked soft things, until he met you. suddenly, there's nothing more important in the world✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), angst, switching pov between ben and reader, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (dirty talk, posessiveness, teasing, praise and degredation kink, size kink, dry humping, body worship, dom!Ben, nipple play, finger sucking, begging, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god fr fr, edging, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: request! i love that old man✦
Butcher said he knew a librarian, and Soldier Boy snorted.
“You think some moldy, four-eyed broad is going to help us fix this? Some gal who’s never gotten her hands dirty in her life?”
“I think we’re runnin’ outta options,” Butcher said, shooting Soldier Boy a look of challenge. “You got better ideas, I’m all ears. ‘Till then, we’re goin’ to see my girl.”
Soldier Boy had opened his mouth, ready to suggest many better ideas—he was full of them, a real strategic genius—when Hughie cleared his throat from his side. He had a hand up, like he was going to touch Soldier Boy’s shoulder, but thought better at the last second.
“She’s- You’ll like her, I think,” Hughie twitched, struggling to hold Soldier Boy’s gaze, but still trying. He’d never say it, but Soldier Boy admired the weed, twitchy kid’s tiny balls, for not giving up and running to the hills. Bravery wasn’t exactly in the cocksucker’s favor. “You’ll like her a lot more than us.”
That almost made Soldier Boy laugh. “That ain’t gonna be hard, kid.”
But screw him north, south, and to Tinseltown, the cocksucker was right.
They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.
“Be right there!”
Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.
Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off.
Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.
They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.
You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.
But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.
“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.
“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“
“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”
Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”
“But- I got work I needed ya for-“
“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.
Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.
“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.
Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.
“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“
“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”
Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”
Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”
Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.
He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.
“You’re good at punching?”
“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”
“Hm.”
You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.
“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.
“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.
You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.
“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”
Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were skimming through them. Through him.
“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”
Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.
You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.
Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.
Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.
“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.
Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.
“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.
“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“
“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”
Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.
“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.
Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”
That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”
“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”
You shrugged. “Hero worship.”
Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”
That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.
“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”
You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.
“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”
He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.
But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”
Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.
“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”
“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.
If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.
“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.
“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”
Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.
You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.
This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.
It wouldn’t fuck off.
Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.
You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.
But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.
“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”
He grunted. “Obviously.”
“Do you need help with another-“
“No.”
You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in.
“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.
But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.
And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.
“What book?”
“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”
He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”
Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”
“Fiction or Nonfiction?”
Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”
That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.
“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.
You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.
“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”
Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.
“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.
“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”
“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”
You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”
Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”
He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.
But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.
“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”
You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.
Then we’ll talk, you’d said.
You’d talk to him, if he read this.
Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.
It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.
“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.
“None of your fucking business.”
Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“
“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”
Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.
“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”
“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.
No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-
“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.
“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.
“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”
Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.
“I read most things multiple times.”
He snorted. “Jesus.”
That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.
Interesting.
“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.
Your heart did the little stumble again.
Jackpot.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”
Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”
You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.
“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.
But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.
“What kind of books do I like?”
“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”
You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.
“Why?”
And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.
“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.
“Because why?”
“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.
“No one ever just wants to know.”
Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”
You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.
“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.
“Everything, huh.”
You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.
“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”
And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.
Since when had he not wanted easy.
Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.
He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.
“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.
“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered.
Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.
“I have something for you, next.”
Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.
“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.
He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.
Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”
You blinked, and he sighed.
“My name is Ben.”
“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“
“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.
“Right. I- I knew that.”
He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.
“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.
Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.
You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-
He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.
Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes.
Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer.
He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.
He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.
“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.
“My thing?”
“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”
A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.
“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.
Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.
You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.
He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.
You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.
Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.
“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”
Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.
“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”
Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.
You.
He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-
“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.
“Do what? Fight?”
You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.
“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.
“You want me to leave, doll?”
“No.”
You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.
“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.
“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“
“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”
He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.
But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.
“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”
“What does better look like?”
You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.
Better looked like you.
“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.
“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.
He did too.
You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.
Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.
And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.
Ben was surprisingly endearing.
It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.
“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.
So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.
Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.
You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.
Not yours.
No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.
He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.
You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.
Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.
“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”
You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.
“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”
Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“
“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”
You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.
You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.
But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.
He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.
He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.
Obsessed.
Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.
But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.
You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.
He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.
“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”
Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”
“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”
“When.”
“In the future.”
“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”
You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”
“You?”
He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.
That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.
“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.
“Doll-“
“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“
Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.
“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“
Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.
“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.
But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.
“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”
Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“
“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“
You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.
“You want it to be you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.
“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”
You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.
“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”
Ben frowns. “Doll-“
“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“
He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.
You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.
“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”
“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.
“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”
You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.
And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.
“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”
You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”
Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“
“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”
Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.
“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”
“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“
“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”
“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.
“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”
He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.
“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”
You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.
But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.
Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.
“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”
You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.
“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”
“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.
“Yeah?”
You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.
His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.
“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”
Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you.
You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.
So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.
It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.
“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”
Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”
“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”
“And you- You never-“
“You’re the one who said to be sure.”
His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”
You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.
He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.
“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”
“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“
“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.
He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.
“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.
Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.
“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”
You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.
Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”
You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.
“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.
But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.
“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”
“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“
He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.
“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”
You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.
“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”
God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.
“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”
You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.
“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”
You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.
“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”
You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.
Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.
“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.
You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.
But he does’t make it fucking easy.
Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.
“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“
He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.
Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.
He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.
Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.
“The fuck did I say about moving?”
“I- I didn’t-“
“You did.”
He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.
“You wanna cum, doll?”
“Yes- Yes, please-“
“Then be fuckin’ good.”
He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.
This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.
You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.
Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.
He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.
Then it stops.
Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.
“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”
You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.
“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”
He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.
“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.
You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.
“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”
You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.
Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“
Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.
Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.
But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”
He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.
He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.
“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“
“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“
The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.
“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“
Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.
“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“
Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.
It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.
He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.
“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.
You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.
You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.
“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.
So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.
Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.
How he really does feel the exact same way.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”
And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.
“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.
“Date me first, smart guy.”
He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.
✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: ben starts acting rather strange. being quiet. hitting on you less. making sure you eat. you're worried, even though he doesn't want you to be. you never could've guessed the reason why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), light angst, softer!ben in a way (as soft as he can get lmao), canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (panty stealing/kink, posessiveness, teasing, messy sex, size kink, dry humping, sex pollen, stripping, body worship, dom!Ben, blowjobs, finger sucking, masturbation, fingering, begging, nipple play, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, praise and degredation kink, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god, just so many orgasms, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: request! i dare to ask the question. can this man get hornier✦
Ben is being quiet. It’s incredibly worrying.
You’d been waiting for them to get back from the mission on the couch, and he’d stormed into the room like the world outside was on fire. You’d sat up with wide eyes, and he’d gone perfectly still. His face had been red, his eyes blown out, his attention almost burning through you.
“Ben?” You’d whispered, unsure if you should be running to him, or as far away as you could get. “Are you- Is there something wrong-“
He’d lurched back, blinking wildly. You’d sat up on your knees, ready to reach for him, and he’d taken a staggered step back.
“Ben-“
He’d marched into the meeting room like something was dragging him there. You’d sat on the couch for another minute, staring blankly after him until the rest of the team came up.
You sat next to him for the debrief. You always sat next to him, no matter how you protested. It didn’t matter how many times you asked not to play babysitter, you were the best at it.
It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.
“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.
He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.
That’s what makes you freeze.
Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.
But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.
There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.
Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.
But this.
This feels like a fever.
Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.
You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.
Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions. Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.
You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.
“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.
Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“
“What happened?”
“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“
“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“
“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“
“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”
Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”
“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”
“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“
“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“
“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”
You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“
“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“
“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“
“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“
You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“
“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“
The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.
You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.
A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.
You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.
It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.
And you never fear Ben.
Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.
Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.
“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“
He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.
Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.
In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.
“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”
“Eating your- What?”
“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“
“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.
“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”
“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“
“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”
“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.
“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”
Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”
“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”
“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”
Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.
“What-“
“You’re not eating.”
You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“
“Why.”
“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“
He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.
“Um- The dryer-“
“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.
“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“
“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“
“But- Ben-“
He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.
You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.
If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.
Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”
“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.
“You got something you wanna say to me?”
“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.
“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”
Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“
Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”
“You were sweating, Benjamin-“
“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”
You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“
You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.
“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”
“I- That’s not what I said-“
“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”
You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.
“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”
He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“
“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”
Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”
Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”
Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.
“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.
“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”
You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”
Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.
“Wha- What-“
He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.
You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.
“Ben, what’s- Shit-“
He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.
“I- Um-“
“Eat that,” he grunts.
You blink. “What?”
“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”
You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.
Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.
He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.
“Ben, what the fuck-“
He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.
At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.
And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.
“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.
“Jesus fucking- Ben-“
You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.
“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.
“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”
“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.
He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.
“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.
“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”
He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.
“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”
Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.
Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.
Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.
“What- What the hell was that?”
You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”
Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“
“Hughie-“
“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“
You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.
“Please don’t-“
“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.
“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“
“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”
Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.
It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.
“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.
You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.
He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.
“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.
He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.
Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.
He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.
You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.
“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“
“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.
“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“
“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”
You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.
“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”
And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.
“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.
“Moment it hit the fucker.”
“Where you there-“
“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”
You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.
“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”
You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“
“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.
“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.
It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.
“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.
“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”
You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“
“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“
“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”
You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“
“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”
And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.
“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.
“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”
“Butcher-“
“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”
You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.
A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.
Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.
If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.
If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.
“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”
He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.
You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.
The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.
Your panties.
Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.
Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed.
You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.
“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.
“I’ll give ‘em back later.”
You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.
“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”
You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.
You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.
Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”
You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.
“Go.”
There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.
“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.
“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“
“Why are they mine?”
The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.
“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.
“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“
“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”
Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”
Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.
“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“
“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.
No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.
“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.
“It doesn’t want hookers.”
You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”
He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“
“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”
What do you want.
He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.
“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.
“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”
Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.
A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”
You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.
He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.
“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“
“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”
Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.
“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”
You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.
It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.
“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“
He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.
You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.
“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“
He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.
“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”
You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else.
He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“
He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.
“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”
“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”
Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.
You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.
“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.
Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.
“Something fuckin’ funny?”
“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”
“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“
You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.
“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“
You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.
You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.
“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“
His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.
“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”
You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.
“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”
You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.
You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.
“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“
You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.
It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.
“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”
You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.
“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”
“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.
“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”
“It needs me?”
You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.
But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.
He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.
Worth it.
“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”
He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.
Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.
You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.
“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“
“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”
Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.
He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.
“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”
You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.
“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”
Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.
“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“
He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.
He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.
“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”
You shake your head, and Ben leans back with narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.
“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.
“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“
He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“
You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.
Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.
You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.
“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”
You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.
You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.
Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.
He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.
Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.
You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.
Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.
“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.
“Too- Too much-“
“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”
Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.
But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.
“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”
Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”
You nod, and Ben smirks.
“Yeah. I know.”
He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.
Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll.
“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”
Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.
“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”
Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.
Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.
“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“
You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.
He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.
“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“
You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.
You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.
He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.
“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“
You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.
Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.
He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.
You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.
“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”
You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.
“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.
You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.
The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.
At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”
He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.
Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.
“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“
He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.
Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.
“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”
It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.
He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands.
This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.
You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.
He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”
You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.
“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”
His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.
Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.
He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.
You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.
And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.
He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.
You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.
“Marry me.”
You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”
“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”
“Of- Of course I meant it-“
“You sure?”
“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”
That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”
“Because I’m not crazy.”
“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“
“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”
“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”
Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.
“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”
You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“
“It is not bad-“
“It’s horrible-“
“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.
There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.
But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.
“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.
“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“
“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”
Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.
“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.
You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.
Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.
✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
every time i see brennan lee mulligan eating anything i think "i wish he would eat me like that" because he's just always so passionate with it. brennan between my legs when
(sorry I'm sure a lot of people have talked about brennan already but i am such a fucking freak about him AUGHHH chubby hairy kind father figure who loves food save me)
Summary: After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like ‘well, yes’. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of your…difference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasn’t said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you ‘an interesting yet quiet young lady’ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to ‘put yourself out there’. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didn’t like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.
“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”
She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift.
“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.
“You set?”
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…
“Please, I’ll do anything please-“
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”
This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more… five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadn’t decided which.
“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.
“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”
A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.
“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”
“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
“You should take better care of your things.”
The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”
‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”
You blinked, “Oh, okay.”
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.
“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”
You blinked at him again, “Okay?”
“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didn’t show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.
You didn’t even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”
“No.”
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”
Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the food…
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“
The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”
You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.
You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”
“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.
“You’re not bothered by that?”
You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
“Sit back.”
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”
“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, don’t let him get to you.
“I’m just going to do my job.”
His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
He’d probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”
He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.
You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”
Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”
“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”
“Explain what happened.”
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”
He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.
You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
“An officer.”
“Like, a police officer?”
“No. Not exactly.”
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”
You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”
He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”
“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”
It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”
A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”
Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.
He wouldn’t just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”
“Not Jesus, just me.”
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”
You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
“Ben, it’s okay.”
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.
You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
“I do.”
“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.
“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didn’t want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
“So do them.”
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.
“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
“Yours.”
“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
“Me.”
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didn’t.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”
“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”
He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
“Hey Dex?”
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
“I’m with you.”
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if there’s any typos or inconsistencies… sorry. It’s minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
Summary: Dinner should have been safer. There were plates. Speeches. Assigned seats. Structure. Unfortunately, your family has decided John belongs beside you, Kasey has appointed herself emotional surveillance, and John keeps looking at you like your happiness is something he gets to be grateful for. By the time the speeches end and the music slows, pretending this is just friendship starts to feel a lot harder than telling the truth.
Warnings: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, wedding date/plus-one situation, meddling family, slow dancing, emotional confession, first kiss, John Shen being quietly devastating, Kasey being a menace, lots of soft tension, no smut, no use of Y/N.
Author's Note: This became three parts because the slow dance got out of hand, emotionally and otherwise. Part Two has dinner, speeches, Kasey meddling, John being quietly devastating, and the slow dance/confession/first kiss we’ve been building toward. Part Three will be the hotel room and the soft aftermath.
Xoxo, Del
| Part 1 |
Dinner, as it turned out, was not safer.
You had hoped it might be. Naively, maybe. But you had thought sitting down would help. There would be plates. Napkins. Silverware. Speeches. A seating chart. Structure. John loved structure. You could survive structure. Except table seven had still been designed by people who wanted you dead. Not literally, probably.
Emotionally, yes.
Aunt Lisa had seated you directly beside John, which meant you had John on your right, warm and calm and still wearing the tie that had caused half your problems, and an empty chair on your left occupied by a cousin’s husband who kept leaving to find the bar.
Your mother was two tables away, pretending not to look over every thirty seconds. Your grandmother had already waved at John twice. And Kasey, despite being seated with the wedding party, had somehow found time to walk past your table three separate times with the subtlety of a fire alarm.
John, unfortunately, was handling all of this with the composed patience of a man who had never once considered that your family might be the thing that finally killed him.
You sat down and looked at your place setting. “This is hostile architecture.”
John unfolded his napkin beside you. “The chair?”
“The seating chart,” you said.
He glanced down at the table number. “Seven?”
“Don’t say it like a number,” you said.
John looked at you. “It is a number.”
“It is a trap,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “Dual purpose.”
You looked at the place cards in front of you. Your name. John Shen. Side by side. Like a threat.
You picked up your water glass. “Aunt Lisa believes in psychological warfare.”
John adjusted his silverware by half an inch. “The table is well organized.”
You closed your eyes. “Of course that’s your takeaway.”
From behind your chair, Kasey’s voice appeared like a curse. “Do you see why we like him?”
You startled and twisted around. “Why are you here?”
Kasey smiled sweetly, holding a champagne flute in one hand and a stack of folded place cards in the other. “Wedding-party duties.”
“You are haunting me,” you said.
“I contain multitudes,” Kasey said.
John glanced at the place cards. “Important contribution.”
You pointed at him without looking. “Do not validate her.”
“I’m acknowledging labor,” John said.
Kasey pressed a hand to her chest. “Thank you, John.”
You looked between them. “Absolutely not. I’m separating you two.”
John looked down at the table. “That may be difficult.”
You followed his gaze to your place cards. Your stomach did something deeply inconvenient.
Kasey took a very satisfied sip of champagne. “Mom believes in assigned seating.”
“Your mom believes in war crimes,” you said.
Kasey leaned closer to John. “She gets dramatic when she’s happy.”
You snapped, “I am not happy.”
John’s gaze slid to your face. For one small second, the noise of the reception softened around you. Then he said, “Current evidence is inconclusive.”
Kasey made a tiny noise. You turned on her immediately. “No.”
Kasey lifted both hands, careful not to drop the place cards. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a sound,” you said.
“A supportive sound,” Kasey said.
John reached for his water. “There are worse sounds.”
You pointed at him again. “You are not helping.”
His mouth twitched. Kasey’s eyes bounced between you and John, delighted. Then someone at the head table called her name.
Kasey sighed. “Duty calls.”
You gave her a bright, false smile. “Go do it.”
Kasey pointed between you. “This is not over.”
John nodded gravely. “Understood.”
You stared at him. “Do not help her.”
Kasey grinned as she backed away. “See? He respects my work.”
Then she disappeared toward the head table, leaving you alone beside John and the terrible knowledge that even assigned seating could not protect you. Aunt Lisa passed behind John’s chair on her way to the head table, moving with purpose, clipboard now tucked under one arm like a retired weapon she could redeploy at any moment.
She paused just long enough to touch the back of your chair. “Eat something before the speeches.”
You looked up at her. “Aunt Lisa.”
Her eyes moved to John. “John.”
John nodded once. “Understood.”
You stared at him. “Do not say understood like you’ve received orders.”
“I did receive orders,” John said.
Aunt Lisa looked pleased. “Thank you.”
“She is not your commanding officer,” you said.
John glanced at Aunt Lisa’s clipboard. “Debatable.”
Aunt Lisa patted your shoulder. “Bread is a good start.”
Then she continued toward Natalie’s table, leaving you with the awful knowledge that John had already reached for the bread basket. You watched him place a roll on your bread plate. Slowly. Deliberately. You stared at it. Then you stared at him.
John adjusted the plate by a fraction of an inch. “Reasonable assignment.”
You leaned closer and lowered your voice. “I cannot believe you are using your medical degree to enforce dinner rolls.”
“Food is medically relevant,” John said.
“You’re enjoying the power,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Moderately.”
A voice behind you whispered, “That was flirting.”
You turned so fast your neck almost cracked. Kasey was standing behind your chair again.
You stared at her. “How are you everywhere?”
Kasey lifted both hands. “Maid of honor.”
“That is not an explanation,” you said.
“It’s a title with broad authority,” Kasey said.
John looked at her. “Historically?”
Kasey nodded. “Very.”
You looked at him. “Do not ask clarifying questions when she’s lurking.”
Kasey smiled. “I love that you’re learning.”
Someone called her name again. Kasey sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’m going.”
“You keep saying that,” you said.
Kasey pointed at John. “Make sure she eats the bread.”
John nodded. “Already in progress.”
You closed your eyes. “This is a nightmare.”
Kasey disappeared again, laughing. You picked up the roll and took a bite purely out of spite. John looked satisfied. That was the worst part.
Dinner passed in a blur of clinking glasses, soft laughter, and John somehow becoming the safest person at a table full of people actively trying to make you insane. He did not talk too much. That was part of the problem. He listened. He answered questions when asked. He nodded when your grandmother launched into another deeply detailed story about someone’s gallbladder. He leaned closer when you needed to mutter something under your breath and, every single time, he heard you.
At one point, one of your cousin’s husbands, who had finally returned from the bar, asked him how he was enjoying the wedding.
John looked around the room, then back at you.
“It’s well executed,” he said.
You choked on your water. Across the room, Kasey appeared to sense praise of the wedding logistics like a disturbance in the force. Her head snapped toward your table.
“Do not tell Aunt Lisa you said that,” you said.
John picked up his fork. “It’s a strong system.”
“I’m disowning you,” you said.
His eyes warmed, just a little. “That implies prior ownership.”
You froze. John looked down at his plate like he had just discovered the mashed potatoes were medically fascinating. You stared at him. He did not look back.
Coward.
Then the speeches started, and the room softened around you.
Natalie’s father went first. He made everyone laugh within thirty seconds, then made half the room tear up before anyone had emotionally prepared for it. He talked about Natalie as a little girl, about the way she used to make blanket forts in the living room and insist everyone knock before entering because it was “a home, not a hallway.” He talked about the groom showing up to every family cookout with flowers for Natalie and a toolbox for whatever Aunt Lisa had casually mentioned was broken.
Aunt Lisa dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and pretended she was fine. She was not fine. Then Kasey stood as maid of honor, champagne glass in one hand, note cards in the other, and the entire room made a fond, nervous sound.
You leaned toward John. “This could go anywhere.”
John’s gaze stayed on Kasey. “I gathered that.”
Kasey tapped the microphone once. It screeched. She winced. “Aggressive. Okay.”
The room laughed. Kasey looked at Natalie and immediately softened.
“Oh, no,” you whispered.
John glanced at you. “What?”
“She’s going to cry,” you said.
Kasey looked down at her note cards. “I promised myself I would not cry because I have very expensive mascara on, and Natalie already stole all the emotional drama for today by being the bride.”
Natalie laughed and covered her face. Kasey’s voice wobbled anyway. “But she is my sister, so unfortunately, I have loved her my whole life, which is very inconvenient for my cool girl image.”
Your throat tightened. Beside you, John went still. Not rigid. Just quieter somehow. Kasey talked about growing up with Natalie, about shared bedrooms and stolen sweaters and whispered conversations after lights-out. She talked about watching her sister become someone’s safest place, and then finding someone who wanted to be that for her too.
Then Kasey looked at the groom.
“The thing about finding your person,” Kasey said, voice softer now, “is that everyone else usually sees it before you do.”
Your fingers stilled around the stem of your water glass. John’s gaze flicked to you. It was quick. So quick, anyone else might have missed it.
You did not. You looked at him. He looked away one second too late.
Your heartbeat changed.
Kasey kept talking, smiling through tears now. “Because when it’s right, it shows up in all the little places first. In who saves you a seat. Who notices when you’re tired. Who brings you water before you ask. Who looks at you like your happiness is something they get to be grateful for.”
John looked at you again. This time, he did not catch himself fast enough. Your breath caught. He looked away, jaw shifting once, his attention returning to the head table with too much precision.
Oh. Oh, that was not nothing.
You tried to focus on Kasey. You really did. But the rest of her speech blurred around the edges, because John’s hand was resting on the table beside his water glass, close enough that if you moved your fingers half an inch, you would touch him.
You did not. He did not. The space between your hands felt louder than the microphone.
Kasey lifted her glass toward Natalie and her husband. “So here’s to my sister and the person who makes her feel like home. May you always have someone who saves you a seat, steals the covers, and loves you loudly enough that the rest of us can point at it and say, finally.”
Everyone laughed through the softness. Glasses lifted. You lifted yours too. John did the same beside you. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.
After the speeches, the DJ invited Natalie and her husband to the dance floor for their first dance. The room shifted into that tender, watchful quiet that only weddings seemed to manage. Natalie stepped into her husband’s arms beneath the warm lights, her dress sweeping softly around her feet, and the whole reception seemed to exhale.
You watched them move together, awkward for half a second before they laughed and found their rhythm. Your chest ached. Not badly. Just enough to be annoying.
John’s voice came quietly beside you. “You okay?”
You looked down at your lap. “You really need a new question.”
“It keeps being relevant,” John said.
You looked up at him. His eyes were on your face, not the dance floor. Of course they were.
You forced a small smile. “I’m okay.”
John held your gaze for one second longer. Then he nodded.
Natalie danced with her father next. Aunt Lisa cried openly this time and stopped pretending. Kasey recorded part of it on her phone while crying hard enough that your mother handed her a tissue from the next table.
You leaned toward John. “Maid of honor down.”
John looked at Kasey, who was wiping under both eyes with a napkin. “Recoverable.”
The mother-son dance followed, soft and sweet, and by the time it ended, the whole room felt warmer and looser around the edges.
The DJ’s voice came through the speakers. “All right, everyone, let’s open up this dance floor.”
Kasey’s head snapped toward you with immediate purpose. You pointed at her before she could even stand. “No.”
Kasey wiped under one eye. “Yes.”
“I have been through enough,” you said.
Kasey crossed the room with frightening speed. “You have been sitting.”
John looked at your hand when Kasey grabbed it, then at you. “Good luck.”
You stared at him. “That’s all you have to say?”
His mouth barely moved. “Hydrate.”
Kasey tugged you out of your chair. “I love him.”
“You are not allowed,” you said as she dragged you toward the dance floor.
John stayed at the table, one hand around his water glass, watching you go with an expression so calm that anyone else might have believed it. You knew better now. Or you were starting to. Kasey dragged you onto the dance floor as if she had been personally assigned to keep you from thinking too hard.
Honestly, it was almost effective.
The first song was loud and familiar, the kind of early-2000s song that made half the room scream before the beat even dropped. Kasey threw both arms into the air with the abandon of a woman who had already survived her maid-of-honor speech and therefore feared nothing. You laughed despite yourself.
“You are unwell,” you shouted over the music.
Kasey grabbed both your hands and spun you once. “I am free.”
“You cried into a napkin ten minutes ago,” you said.
Kasey pointed at you. “Freedom has layers.”
You laughed again, breathless this time, and let her pull you deeper into the crowd. The dance floor filled quickly. Cousins, friends, aunts who had abandoned their shoes, uncles with questionable rhythm, Natalie’s college friends screaming lyrics into each other’s faces. The lights moved over everyone in soft, colorful sweeps, catching on sequins and champagne glasses and the bright, messy joy of people who had decided to stop caring how they looked.
For a few minutes, you let yourself be part of it.
You danced with Kasey until your cheeks hurt from laughing. You danced with Natalie when she appeared beside you, flushed and glowing, her hair slightly less perfect than it had been during the ceremony and her smile twice as real. You let your mother pull you into a quick, ridiculous spin that nearly took out one of your cousins. You laughed so hard you had to bend over with your hands on your knees when your uncle tried to do a body roll and immediately regretted it.
And every now and then, without meaning to, you looked back at table seven.
John was still there.
Not hiding exactly.
John did not do much accidentally, and he was very good at looking like he was simply observing the room. He sat with one arm resting near his water glass, jacket still buttoned, tie still neat, posture relaxed enough to pass for casual if someone did not know him.
You knew him. You knew the difference between John watching a room and John watching you. He was watching you. Not constantly. Not in a way anyone else would clock right away. He looked away when someone spoke to him. He answered a question from the cousin’s husband beside him. He took a slow sip of water. He glanced toward the DJ when the music shifted.
But his eyes kept finding you again.
Every time they did, something warm and unsteady moved through your chest. Kasey noticed on the third look. Of course she did. She followed your gaze across the room, then turned back to you with a grin so delighted it bordered on illegal.
You pointed at her before she could speak. “No.”
Kasey leaned close so you could hear her over the music. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You inhaled like you were about to,” you said.
Kasey’s smile widened. “He is watching you.”
You looked away from John so quickly it was embarrassing. “He’s sitting at our table.”
“He is not watching the table,” Kasey said.
You grabbed her wrist and pulled her into another spin. “Dance.”
Kasey let herself be spun, laughing. “Avoidance.”
“Movement,” you corrected.
“Romantic avoidance with choreography,” Kasey said.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard for it to have any real effect. Another song started. Faster this time. Kasey shrieked because, apparently, it was her song, though, based on her reaction, every song played at this wedding had become hers. Natalie appeared again, dragging two other bridesmaids with her, and suddenly you were folded into a loud, laughing circle of women who all seemed determined to make the dance floor everyone else’s problem.
You danced until your feet started to ache, even in your flats. You danced until your hair stuck slightly to the back of your neck. You danced until the weight in your chest loosened and turned into something bright and breathless.
And through all of it, John kept looking.
Once, when you caught him, he did not look away fast enough. You were mid-laugh, one hand lifted as Kasey shouted lyrics dramatically at you, and John was watching from across the room with that same small, private expression from the photo. Not smiling fully. Not guarded enough. Just warm.
Like seeing you happy had done something to him again.
Your laughter softened. For one second, everything else blurred. Then Kasey bumped her hip into yours. “You’re doing the thing.”
You blinked and looked at her. “What thing?”
Kasey’s eyes sparkled. “Looking at him like you forgot there are witnesses.”
Heat rushed up your neck. “I am sweaty and dehydrated.”
“Very romantic,” Kasey said.
“I’m getting water,” you said.
Kasey lifted both hands. “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I am.”
“I believe in hydration,” Kasey said solemnly.
Your eyes narrowed. “You believe in being a menace.”
“I contain multitudes,” Kasey said.
You left her on the dance floor before she could make it worse.
Crossing back to table seven felt stranger than it should have. Maybe because you were flushed from dancing. Maybe because the music was still loud behind you, but the space near the tables felt dimmer and quieter. Maybe because John watched you approach with the same focused attention he gave everything he cared about and absolutely nothing casual.
You slid into your chair beside him and reached for your water glass. “Do not say anything.”
John looked at you. “About?”
You took a long drink. “Whatever you were about to say.”
“I was going to ask if you were okay,” John said.
You lowered the glass and gave him a look. “You need new material.”
“Possibly,” John said.
You drank more water, grateful for the cold and the excuse not to look at him for a second. John’s gaze moved over your face, quick and assessing. “You’re warm.”
“I was dancing,” you said.
“Yes,” John said.
Something about the way he said it made your fingers tighten around the glass. You looked at him. “What?”
His eyes held yours for half a second too long. “Nothing.”
“No,” you said. “That was a loaded yes.”
John picked up his own water glass. “Can a yes be loaded?”
“Yours can,” you said.
His mouth barely curved. “That sounds like a personal bias.”
“It is,” you said.
The admission came out too quickly. Both of you went still for a second. Then the cousin’s husband dropped into the chair on your other side with two drinks and a loud sigh, completely unaware that he had just saved you from whatever your face was about to do.
“The dance floor is a war zone,” he announced.
You looked down at your water. “It is.”
John’s gaze stayed on you. You could feel it. The cousin’s husband took a sip of his drink and pointed toward the floor. “Your cousin’s terrifying.”
“Kasey?” you asked.
“All of them,” he said.
John nodded once. “Broad but supportable.”
You laughed, and John looked briefly pleased with himself. The cousin’s husband squinted at him. “You dance?”
John’s expression did not change. “In emergencies.”
You nearly choked on your water. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer,” John said.
“It is not a good one,” you said.
The cousin’s husband pointed between you. “You should dance with her.”
Your glass paused halfway to the table. John looked at him. You looked at him.
The cousin’s husband lifted one shoulder, already distracted by someone calling his name from the bar. “Just saying. Wedding.”
Then he got up again and wandered off with one of his drinks, leaving the suggestion behind him like a lit match.
You stared after him. “He has terrible timing.”
John looked toward the dance floor. The music shifted. Not slow yet, but softer at the edges, the kind of song people used to catch their breath without leaving the floor. John turned back to you.
“You want to go back out there?” he asked.
You looked at him. “With Kasey?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
Oh.
The room seemed to tilt slightly. You set your water glass down with more care than necessary.
“John,” you said, because apparently that was all your brain had left.
John pushed his chair back and stood. Then he offered you his hand. Not his arm this time. His hand. Your heart did something stupid. John’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes did not quite manage it.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked.
The dance floor glowed behind him. Your family moved around the room in flashes of laughter and color and champagne. Kasey was absolutely watching from somewhere. Your mother probably was too. You looked at John’s hand. Then at his face.
“You know,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be, “this is not helping the rumors.”
John’s gaze held yours. “I know,” he said.
The answer was too simple. Too honest. Your pulse gave one hard kick.
“And you’re still asking?” you asked.
His hand stayed between you, steady and patient. “Yes.”
There were several smart things you could have said. Several safe things.
Instead, you put your hand in his.
John’s fingers closed around yours, warm and careful, and he led you toward the dance floor like this was simple. Like he had not just made your heart try to climb out of your chest. The DJ had shifted into a slow song while you were talking, something warm and romantic with a soft guitar line and lyrics about wanting someone close. The kind of song that changed the shape of the room as soon as it started.
Couples were already drifting together across the dance floor, hands sliding to waists, heads bending close, laughter quieting into murmurs. The faster chaos from a few minutes ago softened around the edges, replaced by swaying bodies and low light. This was not Kasey dragging you into a screaming circle of cousins. This was a slow dance.
With John.
Kasey saw you immediately. She stood near Natalie, still flushed from dancing, a champagne flute in one hand and her heels dangling from the other. Her eyes dropped to your hand in John’s, then snapped back to your face. Her mouth opened.
You pointed at her with your free hand. “No.”
Kasey pressed her lips together, eyes wide with the heroic effort of staying silent. Natalie leaned close to her, said something you could not hear, and then looked toward you and John. Her smile went soft.
You looked away immediately. John noticed. “Kasey?”
“And Natalie,” you said.
His gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder. “Wedding-party surveillance.”
“Family-wide surveillance,” you said.
“Strong infrastructure,” John said.
You shot him a look. “Do not admire them.”
His mouth barely moved. “Too late.”
Then he turned toward you near the edge of the dance floor and released your hand only long enough to settle one palm at your waist. Your breath caught before you could stop it.
John’s gaze lifted immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His hand stayed exactly where it was, light enough to let you move away and steady enough to make you want to lean in. That was becoming a theme. You placed your hand on his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was smooth beneath your fingers, warm from him beneath it. His other hand found yours again, and then the two of you were moving.
Slowly. Carefully. Not because he was bad at it.
That was the horrible discovery.
John could dance.
Not showy. Not dramatic. Nothing that would draw attention. He just knew where to put his feet. He knew how to lead without pushing. He knew how to adjust to you, how to guide you around another couple without making you feel steered.
You stared at him.
John noticed immediately. “What?”
“You can dance,” you said.
His brows lifted slightly. “This is a low bar.”
You lifted your brows. “You said you only dance in emergencies.”
John’s mouth barely moved. “This may qualify.”
You laughed, and his hand at your waist shifted slightly, not tighter exactly, but more present. Like the sound had moved through him before he could stop it. You felt that. Every tiny thing, apparently.
The two of you drifted in a slow circle, your dress brushing against his suit pants, your hand still held in his. Around you, couples swayed close, the room quieter now in that strange way wedding receptions got when the music gave everyone permission to be sentimental.
Somewhere near the bar, Kasey was probably fighting for her life. Somewhere across the room, your mother was probably pretending not to watch. You could not make yourself care.
Not right then.
Not with John looking at you like this. Not smiling exactly, but close. His face calm, his eyes warm, his attention so complete it felt like being the only thing in the room he had decided mattered.
“You’re very good at this,” you said.
“Emergency dancing?” John asked.
“Being my date,” you said.
His hand stilled slightly at your waist.
You smiled because it was easier than admitting how much you meant it. “Honestly, it’s alarming. My family loves you. You remembered my coffee order. You brought breakfast. You matched my dress. You survived Aunt Lisa. You made my grandmother blush. And now you can dance?”
John looked down at you. “Your grandmother was already blushing.”
“John,” you said.
“Possible baseline condition,” John said.
You laughed and shook your head. “I’m serious. You’re making it very hard to convince everyone we’re just friends.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
For half a second, the humor faded.
“Do you want us to be?” John asked.
Your steps faltered. John adjusted immediately, catching the rhythm for both of you without letting it look like anything had happened.
“What?” you asked.
His jaw shifted once, and for the first time all night, he looked like he regretted a sentence before it had fully cooled in the air.
“Nothing,” John said.
“No,” you said softly. “That was not nothing.”
His thumb moved once against your hand. Barely there. Almost nothing. The air between you changed anyway. You became aware of everything at once. The heat of his palm at your waist. The brush of your dress against his legs. The music folding around you. The faint scent of his cologne, clean and subtle under the flowers and champagne and warm reception air.
John’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Only long enough to ruin you.
Your breath caught.
His eyes came back to yours, and whatever careful distance he had been keeping all night seemed suddenly thinner. Not gone. John was too controlled for that. But thinner. Fraying at the edges.
“John,” you said.
His name came out quiet. Too quiet for the dance floor. His hand at your waist flexed once. The two of you were still moving, but barely now, swaying more than dancing, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through his suit. Your hand had slipped a little higher on his shoulder. His fingers had spread slightly at your waist.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth.
It was quick.
It was stupid.
It was also not quick enough.
John’s steps slowed.
Your heart kicked hard once in your chest.
For one suspended second, you thought he was going to lean in.
Then you stopped waiting for him to.
You leaned in first.
Barely.
Just enough for the space between you to change. Just enough that your hand shifted higher on his shoulder and your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and his mouth.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
For one devastating second, he looked like he was going to meet you there.
Then his hand left your waist. Slowly. Carefully. Like it cost him something.
“We should get some air,” John said.
The words landed like cold water.
You blinked. “What?”
His face had gone calm again, but not completely. Not to you.
“Air,” John said.
You stared at him. “Right now?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”
Your cheeks burned, embarrassment rushing in so fast it almost knocked the breath out of you.
Of course. Of course you had misread it. Of course the wedding and the music and your family’s relentless commentary had gotten into your head. Of course you had leaned too close to your friend on a dance floor because everyone had been treating him like something more all day, and for one humiliating second, you had let yourself believe it.
You pulled your hand from his. “Sure.”
John’s jaw tightened. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly.
His eyes sharpened. “It’s not fine.”
You laughed once, brittle and awful. “Okay, then it’s air. Let’s get air.”
You turned before he could answer, already moving toward the edge of the dance floor because standing there with his hand no longer at your waist felt unbearable.
John followed immediately. Not too close. Never too close.
That somehow made it worse. At the edge of the dance floor, Kasey caught your eye from near the bar. Her eyebrows rose. You widened your eyes in warning. Kasey lifted both hands like she had been caught doing nothing wrong, even though she absolutely had been watching the whole time.
You pushed through the patio doors before she could decide to be helpful. The night air met you cool and soft. Behind you, the reception kept going. Music, laughter, glassware, all of it muffled when the door fell shut behind John.
Outside, everything felt too quiet. Too open. Too embarrassing.
You walked a few steps onto the patio and stopped near the low stone wall, arms wrapping around yourself before you could think better of it. John did not speak immediately. That was worse too.
You looked out at the dark lawn. “You don’t have to do the whole post-incident debrief.”
His voice came from behind you, steady but lower than before. “Post-incident.”
You closed your eyes. “John.”
“Were you going to kiss me?” John asked.
Your eyes opened. You turned around. He stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture controlled in a way you suddenly recognized as restraint.
Not distance. Not rejection. Restraint.
Your face went hot all over again. “That’s a terrible question.”
“It’s a relevant one,” John said.
You stared at him. “You pulled away.”
“I know,” John said.
“So why are you asking?” you said.
His jaw moved once. For the first time all night, he looked almost frustrated. Not with you. With himself.
“Because if I was wrong, I need to know,” John said.
Your breath caught. The patio lights warmed one side of his face. Behind the glass doors, shadows moved across the reception hall, blurred and golden. You looked at him more carefully.
He was not unbothered. He was not calm. Not really. He was holding himself still because that was what John did when everything in him wanted to move.
“You weren’t wrong,” you said.
His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, something in them had changed. Not relief exactly. Something more dangerous.
“Okay,” John said quietly.
You swallowed. “Okay?”
He looked at you. “I had to ask.”
“Why?” you asked.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Because I wanted you to.”
The words hit so directly that you forgot how to breathe. John looked down at the stone beneath his shoes, then back at you.
“And that is exactly why I pulled away,” he said.
Your chest tightened. You let your arms fall from around yourself. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do,” John said.
You shook your head. “No, I really don’t.”
John exhaled once through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Your family has been treating me like I’m your boyfriend for six hours.”
“They have,” you said.
“It’s a wedding,” John said.
You sighed, “I noticed.”
“There’s music,” John said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
“Soft lighting,” John continued.
You stared at him. “Are you listing environmental factors?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Oh my God,” you said.
His mouth barely moved, but his eyes were serious. “I’m making a point.”
“You’re making a chart,” you said.
“I’m avoiding a bad decision,” John said.
The words stung before you could stop them. You stepped back half a pace. “Kissing me would be a bad decision?”
John’s expression changed immediately. “No,” he said.
The answer came fast. Too fast to be casual.
“No,” John said again, quieter. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” you asked.
For a second, he said nothing. The reception music thumped softly behind the doors. Somewhere inside, people cheered at the end of a song. John looked at you like the answer was going to cost him.
“I meant that kissing you because of tonight would be a bad decision,” John said.
Your breath caught. He held your gaze.
“Kissing you because your family likes me, because the dress and tie matched, because we’ve been standing too close in every photo, because this is romantic and temporary and outside normal life,” John said. “That would be a bad decision.”
You stared at him, heart hammering.
“And kissing me for any other reason?” you asked.
His hands stayed in his pockets. For one second, he said nothing. Then his voice went quieter.
“That’s something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met you,” John said.
The night air moved over your bare shoulders, but you barely felt it. You looked at him, at the careful line of his body, at the restraint he was wearing like armor. All day, your family had called him calm. Unflappable. Sensible. Steady.
They had not seen this. They had not seen how much effort his stillness took.
Your breath left you in something that was almost a laugh.
“You never said anything,” you said.
“I know,” John said.
“Why?” you asked.
His answer came quietly. “Because you’re my friend.”
That hurt more than you expected. Not because it was wrong. Because it was him. Careful. Practical. Controlled. Even with his own heart.
John looked past you for half a second, then back at your face. “You trust me. I didn’t want you wondering if every coffee, every ride home, every time I checked on you after a bad scan had a price attached to it.”
Your throat tightened.
“They didn’t,” John said. “For the record.”
You swallowed. “I know.”
“I wanted you,” John said, voice lower now. “But I wasn’t doing those things to get you.”
The words landed with terrifying precision. You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. John’s gaze dropped briefly to the space between you.
“You’re worried I’m only feeling this because of tonight,” you said.
“Yes,” John said.
You nodded slowly. “And if I am?”
His face stayed calm, but his voice roughened at the edge. “Then I’d rather not be the thing you regret tomorrow.”
There it was. Not rejection. Fear. Careful, controlled, deeply John fear. Your throat tightened.
“John,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah?”
You looked at him. “You are very stupid for someone this smart.”
He blinked. Then his brows lifted. “That is not where I thought this was going.”
You stepped closer again. “I have wanted to kiss you in significantly less romantic conditions than this.”
John went still. Completely still. You kept going before you could lose your nerve.
“I wanted to kiss you in your car two months ago when you drove me home after that awful OB call and let me pick the music even though you hate when people mess with your playlists,” you said.
His lips parted slightly. You took another step.
“I wanted to kiss you in the ultrasound hallway when you brought me coffee and pretended you were already going that way, even though Dunkin’ is fully in the opposite direction,” you said.
John’s expression shifted. Barely. But you saw it.
“I wanted to kiss you in the hotel room when you clasped my necklace,” you said. “And I wanted to kiss you during pictures when you made me laugh. And I wanted to kiss you on the dance floor because it was you. Not because of the wedding.”
The quiet after that felt enormous. John stared at you. For once, he did not have an answer ready.
You folded your arms again, mostly to keep your hands from shaking. “So, for the record, this is not an acute onset wedding-related condition.”
His mouth moved. Nothing came out. A strange, giddy thrill moved through you.
“Oh my God,” you said. “Did I break you?”
John blinked once. Then he said, “Temporarily.”
You laughed, nervous and breathless and wildly relieved. His expression softened at the sound, and there it was again: the look from the photo, the one you had not been able to stop thinking about. Warm. Private. Like your happiness had done something to him.
John stepped closer this time. Not all the way. Still careful. Always careful.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
You shook your head, smiling. “John.”
“I have to ask,” John said.
“I know,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “Are you sure?”
You reached for his tie, fingers brushing the little rose-colored flowers that matched your dress, and tugged him just one careful inch closer.
“I’m sure,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not pull away.
“Good,” John said.
It was barely a word.
Then his hand came to your jaw, warm and careful and no longer distant, and he kissed you.
Softly, at first. So softly that for one impossible second, you could feel all the waiting inside it. Every coffee left beside your machine. Every ride home after a bad shift. Every dry comment made because sympathy would have been too much. Every song on a playlist he had pretended was only for driving. Every time he had asked if you were okay and meant something more than the words could hold.
It was all there.
In the careful press of his mouth to yours. In the way his thumb brushed your cheek. In the way he held still long enough to let you choose it too.
And you did.
You stepped closer, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket, and the kiss changed. Not rough. Not rushed.
Certain.
Like something had finally clicked into place after years of being one breath, one bad shift, one almost-too-long look away from happening. John made a quiet sound against your mouth, low enough that you felt it more than heard it, and his hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck. His other hand found your waist again, right where it had been on the dance floor, but this time there was no pretending it was for a picture. No family around you. No photographer. No matching-tie excuse.
Just him. Just you. Just the sudden, dizzying truth that kissing John did not feel new.
It felt inevitable.
Like your body had been learning the shape of him in pieces all day: his arm under your hand, his fingers at your necklace, his palm at your waist, his shoulder beneath your touch. Like every small contact had been a sentence you were only now reading all the way through.
The patio lights blurred warm behind your closed eyes. The music inside softened to a pulse through the doors. Somewhere beyond the glass, your family was still laughing, still dancing, still convinced they knew something before you did.
For once, they were right.
John kissed you deeper, still controlled, still careful, but no longer distant. The kind of kiss that did not ask for attention because it had yours completely. The kind that made the world narrow to his hand at your neck, your fingers in his jacket, the brush of his breath when he tilted his head and kissed you again.
You forgot to be embarrassed. You forgot the dance floor. You forgot the open bar, the soft lighting, the environmental factors he had been so determined to list like evidence.
There was no evidence. There was only John.
And then, impossibly, the quiet man who had spent years not asking for more kissed you like he understood exactly what he had been given.
Your chest ached with it.
You rose onto your toes without thinking, and John’s arm came around your waist, steadying you, drawing you in that last impossible inch until there was no space left to misunderstand.
The kiss slowed before it ended. That was the thing that ruined you. He did not pull away all at once. He eased back like leaving was something he had to make himself do. His mouth brushed yours once more, softer than before, and then his forehead hovered close to yours, his breath unsteady against your cheek.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
You were not sure either of you could.
Inside, the reception cheered at something you could not see.
You laughed under your breath, dazed and shaky. “They’re going to think they were right.”
John’s thumb moved once along your jaw. His eyes opened. They were close enough that you could see exactly how warm they were.
“They were,” John said.
The words settled between you, simple and devastating. Your heart turned over. Then you laughed again, softer this time, and John’s mouth curved like the sound had done something to him. He looked at you like he had looked at you in the photo. Like your happiness was something he got to be grateful for.
Only this time, when he leaned in again, you met him halfway.
The second kiss was shorter.
Not because either of you wanted it to be. Because at some point, oxygen became a practical concern. John eased back with his hand still at your jaw, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he had forgotten it was allowed to leave. His forehead hovered near yours, close enough that you could feel the unevenness of his breath.
That did something to you. John Shen, unsteady. Because of you.
“Oh,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, small and almost helpless. “Yeah.”
You laughed softly, mostly because there was nowhere else for the feeling to go.
John’s eyes moved over your face. “You okay?”
The question was so familiar that it should not have made your chest ache. It did anyway.
You looked up at him. “You really need a new question.”
John’s thumb brushed once beneath your cheekbone. “I’ll workshop it.”
You stared at him. “You just kissed me like that and you want to workshop?”
His voice dropped. “I can multitask.”
Your stomach dipped. You stared at him. “That was flirting.”
John’s mouth barely moved. “Primarily.”
A laugh broke out of you, too bright and too giddy for the quiet patio, and John looked at you like the sound landed somewhere he had no defense against.
Then the patio door opened. Of course it did. Warm light and music spilled out behind you, and Kasey poked her head through the doorway with the cautious expression of someone who had already decided to be intrusive and was only pretending to regret it.
Her eyes found you first. Then John. Then John’s hand still resting at your jaw. Then your hand still fisted in the front of his jacket. Kasey’s mouth fell open.
You dropped your hand from John’s jacket. “No.”
Kasey pointed at you. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You breathed.”
Kasey pressed one hand to her chest. “I need to do that to live.”
John’s hand slipped from your jaw, but his fingers found yours immediately, like he had no interest in pretending anymore. Kasey’s eyes dropped to your joined hands. Her face changed. Not just triumphant. Softer than that.
“Oh,” Kasey said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not make that sound.”
Kasey pressed one hand to her chest. “I am being so normal.”
You looked pointedly at her face. “You are absolutely not.”
Kasey looked at John. “Was she threatening you again?”
John’s expression had returned to something close to normal, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours. “Yes.”
You turned to him. “Do not help her.”
John glanced at you. “I’m answering accurately.”
Kasey made a delighted noise. You pointed at her with your free hand. “No noises either.”
Kasey nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “Understood.”
John glanced at her. “Questionable.”
You looked at him. “You are not allowed to team up with my maid-of-honor cousin immediately after kissing me.”
Kasey’s face lit up. You froze. John looked at you. Your whole body went hot.
Kasey whispered, “After kissing you?”
You closed your eyes. “I hate myself.”
John’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t,” he said.
Your eyes opened. Kasey’s face went through approximately seven emotions.
“Oh my God,” Kasey said.
You looked at her. “Kasey.”
She lifted both hands. “Right. Sorry. Normal. I am normal. I just came out here because my mom is asking where you are, and I did not want her to come investigate because she has mom eyes and no boundaries.”
John nodded once. “Appreciated.”
Kasey pointed at him. “You. I like you.”
You sighed. “Yes. We’ve established that.”
Kasey looked between you again, her smile going wicked around the edges. “So are we going back inside, or are you two going to keep having a cinematic patio moment?”
You stared at her. “You are the worst.”
Kasey lifted her chin. “I’m the maid of honor. I contain logistical authority.”
John looked at you. “She does seem to have broad authority.”
You tugged lightly on his hand. “Do not encourage governmental overreach.”
His mouth twitched. “Noted.”
Kasey backed toward the doorway, still grinning. “Take your time. But not too much time. Mom is emotionally unstable, Natalie wants a group picture later, and if you come back in looking like that, everyone is going to know.”
You lifted your chin. “Looking like what?”
Kasey’s grin softened.
“Happy,” she said.
The word landed harder than you expected. Then she disappeared back inside, leaving the door to fall shut behind her. For a second, neither of you moved. The music thumped softly through the glass. Your hand was still in John’s.
You looked down at your joined fingers, then up at him. “Everyone is going to know.”
John’s gaze stayed on your face. “Probably.”
You searched his expression. “You’re very calm about that.”
“I’m not,” John said.
Your breath caught. His thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“I’m just done pretending that I want them to be wrong,” John said.
Your chest went soft and bright and ridiculous.
“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered.
John looked at you, eyes warm. “Still true.”
You laughed under your breath. “You are such a problem.”
His mouth curved. “Emerging pattern.”
You looked back toward the reception doors. “Do we have to go back in?”
John followed your gaze. “Eventually.”
You looked back at him. “Eventually as in now?”
He glanced toward the door, then back at you.
“No,” John said.
Then he leaned in and kissed you again. Just once. Slow and sweet and devastatingly gentle. When he pulled back, your fingers had tightened around his.
You blinked up at him. “Now?”
John’s eyes stayed on your mouth for half a second before returning to yours. “Now.”
You took a breath. Then another.
Going back inside should not have felt like reentering a different wedding.
It was the same room.
Same music. Same lights. Same tables half-abandoned now that most of the guests had found the dance floor. Same Aunt Lisa near the head table with her shoes off and her clipboard nowhere in sight, which should have been more alarming than it was.
But John’s hand was in yours.
So nothing felt the same.
You made it three steps before Kasey saw you.
Obviously.
Her entire face lit up from across the room.
You pointed at her immediately. Kasey turned to Natalie and whispered something. Natalie looked over. Your mother looked over. Aunt Lisa looked over.
You closed your eyes. “That lasted four seconds.”
John’s voice was low beside you. “Generous estimate.”
You laughed despite yourself, and his hand squeezed yours once.
Not hidden. Not performative. Just there. That made it worse.
Or better.
Possibly both.
You opened your eyes and kept walking because stopping would only make your family more powerful. John stayed beside you, calm and warm and infuriatingly steady, like he had not just kissed you on a patio and rearranged several major facts about your life.
Near the edge of the dance floor, Kasey intercepted you with the focused urgency of a woman abandoning multiple maid-of-honor responsibilities.
You looked at her. “No.”
Kasey held up both hands. “I have not said a word.”
“You left your sister,” you said.
Kasey glanced over her shoulder. “Natalie is dancing with her husband. She’ll survive.”
Natalie waved from the dance floor without looking particularly concerned. Kasey turned back to you and John. Her eyes dropped to your joined hands. Her mouth pressed together.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Kasey made a small, strangled sound.
John looked at her. “That seems medically concerning.”
Kasey pointed at him. “Do not be funny right now. I cannot handle liking you more.”
You looked at John. “See what you’ve done?”
John’s mouth barely moved. “I’ve created a difficult situation.”
“For me,” you said.
“For all of us,” Kasey said, still staring at your hands.
You sighed. “Kasey.”
Her expression softened so suddenly that it caught you off guard. “I’m happy for you.”
The words landed gentler than you expected. You blinked. “Oh.”
Kasey’s smile wobbled around the edges. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird,” you said, but your voice had gone softer too.
Kasey looked at John. “You better be good to her.”
John’s face changed. Barely. But enough.
His hand tightened around yours. “I intend to be.”
Your chest went painfully warm. Kasey stared at him for half a second.
Then she pointed at you. “Okay. Keep him.”
You laughed. “Thank you for your blessing.”
Kasey nodded solemnly. “It was earned.”
Someone shouted Kasey’s name from near the dance floor.
Kasey closed her eyes. “Maid of honor is a prison.”
John nodded once. “Broad authority. Significant burden.”
Kasey opened her eyes and pointed at him again. “Exactly.”
You tugged lightly on John’s hand. “Stop bonding with her.”
“Too late,” Kasey said.
Then she backed away, still smiling like she was going to explode if left unsupervised for too long. You watched her disappear into the crowd before you exhaled.
John looked down at you. “You okay?”
You gave him a look.
His mouth twitched. “Right. New question.”
You nodded once. “Please.”
John’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles. “Do you want water?”
You stared at him. He stared calmly back.
“That is your new romantic question?” you asked.
“Hydration remains relevant,” John said.
You laughed, and his eyes warmed at the sound.
“Fine,” you said. “Water.”
He led you back toward table seven, still holding your hand, and the simplicity of it made your chest ache more than the kiss had.
At the table, your water glass was exactly where you had left it. Your napkin was crumpled beside your plate. The bread roll you had spite-eaten was gone. John’s jacket sleeve brushed yours as you sat.
He did not let go of your hand right away.
Neither did you.
For a minute, you just sat there with your fingers threaded together under the edge of the table, hidden from most of the room but not from yourselves.
The DJ shifted into another upbeat song. People cheered. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. Natalie spun past in a flash of white and joy.
You looked down at your joined hands. Then you looked at John.
“So,” you said.
John looked at you. “So.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too hard. “That happened.”
“Yes,” John said.
Your eyes narrowed slightly, “You’re very calm.”
“No,” John said.
Your smile faltered.
His gaze stayed on yours, steady and warm. “I’m just very motivated not to embarrass myself in front of your family.”
You laughed quietly. “How’s that going?”
John glanced toward Kasey, who was absolutely pretending not to watch from the dance floor.
“Poorly,” he said.
You laughed again, and he looked down at your mouth before he could stop himself. Your whole body noticed. His thumb moved once over the back of your hand.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You know, you can look at me now.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“I was looking at you before,” John said.
Your breath caught. The music, the room, the reception noise all seemed to soften around the edges.
You swallowed. “I know.”
His gaze held yours.
Then your mother appeared beside the table with the expression of a woman trying very hard to be casual and failing beautifully.
You straightened. “Mom.”
Your mother looked at your joined hands under the table. Then she looked at your face. Then at John.
Her smile went soft. “Hi.”
You closed your eyes. “Please don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” your mother said.
“That’s what everyone keeps saying right before they say something,” you said.
John stood politely. “Can I get you anything?”
Your mother looked immediately delighted. “Oh, no, honey, sit.”
You looked at him. “Do not honey him. He’ll think he’s safe here.”
John sat back down, mouth twitching.
Your mother touched your shoulder. “Natalie wants a few group photos before too many people disappear.”
You looked toward the dance floor. “Now?”
“In a little bit,” your mother said. Her eyes flicked to your hand in John’s. “No rush.”
You stared at her. She smiled. Then she walked away.
You turned to John. “This family is going to kill me.”
John looked after your mother, then back at you. “They seem pleased.”
“That’s the dangerous part,” you said.
His hand squeezed yours once. “I’m not opposed.”
You looked at him quickly. His expression stayed calm. But his ears were just slightly pink..
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
John noticed and looked away toward his water glass like it was suddenly urgent.
You leaned closer. “Are you blushing?”
“No,” John said.
You leaned closer. “You are.”
“I’m warm,” John said.
You smiled. “John.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“You don’t get to kiss me like that and then lie badly,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Fair.”
A giddy little laugh escaped you.
John looked back at you, and the warmth in his eyes made your chest go soft all over again. The DJ shifted to a slower song, but not as intimate as the first. Couples started pulling each other back toward the floor.
You glanced toward the music.
John followed your gaze. “Again?”
You looked at him. “You want to?”
“Yes,” John said.
The answer was immediate. Simple. Your fingers tightened around his.
“Okay,” you said.
This time, when he led you back to the dance floor, you did not look at Kasey.
Frank, with little convincing required, takes you in after night of bar crawling takes its toll. Fighting a battle of resolve versus craving, he struggles to handle a version of you that doesn’t keep her distance.
notes; honey im home!!! we’re done with the hiatus and In the home stretch of this series it’s getting serious ppl, thank you all for so much support and kindness about my little passion project that I didn’t expect so many people to gaf about! anyway this one includes a Frank pov, mentions of alcohol / r is drunk, Frank does not like himself whatsoever ig
part 7 of just across the hall
word count; 4k
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You would think a man would get sick of the same view after an hour. But he’s more disciplined than most. A stone faced soldier. In any case, he’s got plenty in his own head to keep himself entertained.
Yeah. The ceiling is fine entertainment for Frank. Or, distraction, more like.
It gives him a physical reaction, every minute recollection of a few nights ago. He has to rub a calloused palm over his bearded jaw, almond eyes screwing up as if trying to block out the brute shame of it.
He felt like a real asshole. He was a real asshole. Hardly any news.
The cold in New York is slowly passing through. Frost is biting at his window panes, the frames outfitted with three different locks. His joints are aching from the weather, but he can’t bring himself to throw on some layers just to walk around the apartment. He does fine with a pair of sweatpants and some old blanket draped over the back of his couch.
Standing in the kitchenette makes him feel.. some vicious breed of awkward. There isn’t a strong reason to be. He’s alone, nobody bugging him and nobody watching. But even having his socks on the same tile, the specifics come back to him and he feels god awful all over again. He was never great at forgetting. Especially nothing pertaining to you.
That thought brings fresh disgust to the surface of his skin, and Frank shoves it back down with a rough drag of his hand down his face. Not the image of you, per se, though your expression hangs perpetually over him like a rosary over a cot. The question of why he couldn’t just leave you in peace.
He guesses that he’ll never come to an answer if he keeps ignoring it like he is. He only has a vague interest in the colors moving across his TV screen, as he shifts for the first time in about half an hour to look down from his ceiling. It’s beat up, some garage sale junk made in 2013. Cable wasn’t great. But he had no idea how to get anything else on there, and Curt could never figure it out either.
So, Frank Castle, ex-marine, Kandahar-vet, partly-retired-vigilante, is reduced to watching the food network on a Friday night. And he hates to admit that it’s pretty entertaining.
He’s deep in a feature about ratatouille when the shoddy intercom by the door buzzes. And in an instant, Frank is transformed— from a man truly showing his age, considering whether the recipe on TV is worth scratching down on a notepad he keeps on the coffee table— to a man who has earned his paranoia from a laundry list of shameful deeds.
Before he knows he is doing it, he’s checking off security measures. Windows, locked. The door is locked too, twice over. Alarms are set. Or did he forget? Maybe he should’ve checked another time, before his particularly rough shift at the job site caught up to him like it now had. Frank isn’t a jittery man; the only clear difference in his gait as he traipses to the buzzer is the new hardness of his shoulders, and the movement of his eyes landing on the kitchen cabinet he designated for his SIG Sauer.
He presses the calloused tip of an index onto the button. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to; a woman’s voice bursts over the intercom system, static-fuzzed. “—llo? Helloo! You up there? Frrr-aaa-nnnk.”
Frank’s shoulders fall, a weighted breath collapsing from his nostrils. Christ. It sounded like you had been talking to the intercom box long before the static emanated from the speaker, like he had caught onto the tail end of your ramble. “Yeah.” He says, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m here. What’d’you need? You okay?”
He hates the relief that floods his system. Even worse is the readiness he speaks with; as though he had been waiting for you to ask anything of him. But, he doesn’t think of this instantly. At the moment, he is just a man in pajama pants, relieved that his neighbor is willing to speak to him at all, brushing his knuckles across his bearded jaw. Your reply dampens the relief. “I think I forgot my keys, can you, like, let me up? I reeeeally would really appreciate it, y’know. It’s cold. Pretty cold for spring.”
You don’t sound distressed, per se. More talkative than normal if that was possible, a certain drag hanging the syllables of your words. Drunk. Very, drunk. “M’ comin’ down. Stay put.”
He can’t let himself just buzz you in, let you hike up all those stairs to your floor. The decision doesn’t take much thinking. Any thinking, really. “Oh, thaaankk you, Frank! So, so much!”
He throws on the first shirt he can find (which happens to be a navy graphic-token from boot camp, more than well-worn) and is at the ground level within minutes. Frank finds you, leaning against the brick wall beside the outdoor intercom, looking out across the street as cars pass. Your face is turned away, but you’re easy for him to make out. It’s well past 11 PM, the night saturated with lamplight, red brake lights and neon signs suffusing color into the breeze. It’s only as he opens the lobby door that your attention turns to him, and he truly sees you.
The fluorescent light shining down from the concrete awning washes over your features in a way that would be unflattering for any other woman. But you aren’t any other woman, he knows. What might’ve been shimmer on your eyelids a few hours ago is now smudged around your eyes. Your hair looked a bit like it had been in an updo, and ripped free at a whim. He doesn’t smile, but some kind of lightness fills his chest.
“Awh, Frank.” You say, and he sighs through his nostrils, dips his chin imperceptibly. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t know about that.” He holds the door open as you walk— only stumbling once— into the lobby. It takes discipline not to watch you walk, not to look at the dress you wear; backless, black, short. He keeps his eyes up.
Elevators finally fixed, and so he bumps a knuckle into the button and watches the way you lean against the metal door jamb like your legs are decoration. “.. Had a good night?” Frank brings himself to ask.
The doors slide open, and he decides that a strong hand on your shoulder is a good fall-deterrent. “Oh, yeah. So fun. So, so.. uh, no. Actually. Not that fun.” Your line of reasoning crumbles before it was laid down. “Really cheap liquor. And I, like, couldn’t find any of my friends towards the end, so I just left, y’know?”
“Left?” The elevator hauls upward.
“It’s like, four blocks away.”
Something in Frank’s stomach churns, like a hard sock to the gut. He’s fairly good at concealing the feeling through a rough grunt, “You walked here?”
“Yeah!” The lightness of your reply elicits a half-groan, half-sigh. His roughened fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then to drag down his face, to his beard.
He wants to be angry with you; he can’t be. “Christ.” When he opens his eyes, you’re watching him with this sweet little furrow to your brow. Shaking his head and averting his look to the upward tick of floor levels, he grumbles, “Don’t do that again. You need t’get home, y’call me. From anywhere.”
The elevator dings, and the doors peel open. You nod slowly, eyes squinting as if you were thinking hard. “.. Thanks, Frank,” you murmur after a moment. He shrugs. It’s nothing. When will you get that it’s nothing, not since it’s you?
The quiet hangs as you step into the hall, one that’s comfortable considering the smell of alcohol lingering on you and the duty of caretaking wafting off Frank. You go the wrong way, first, he uses a guiding hand on your back to turn you. You laugh. He shakes his head.
Upon reaching his door, Frank watches you rifle through a purse that couldn’t possibly fit more than your phone and theoretically, keys. But, what did he know. He lets you dig around for a bit, amused, until you make a frustrated sound.
He interjects, “You lost your keys.” Saying it himself makes him nervous all over again. The kind of nervous that Frank tends to encounter often; not effectively worried, or paralyzed, but the kind that shakes him into running down a bullet pointed list. He guesses that it’s the marines that turned him into a man that converts threat into fuel. Already, he knows that he’ll have to check that club for your keys, change your locks, get you a new one. He grabs his own keys from a pocket. “.. This isn’t your door, anyway.”
“Oh, right. Fuck.” A smile crosses his features at your expression, he shakes his head. As if you had a thing to worry about.
With a jut of Frank’s chin— “C’mon.”
—
By the time he’s done setting the extra locks back into place, you’ve kicked off your heels haphazardly. Looking over his shoulder, he watches you stumble-to and slump-down-on the couch less like you were attempting to sit and more like your feet gave out.
Springing into action, Frank finds it easier to focus on the tangible task at hand than the prospect of you, drunk on his couch. He grabs a bottle of cold water, not without checking your state over his shoulder.
You aren’t black out drunk. He shouldn’t be so focused on propping you up. He shouldn’t think he’s propping you up, in any capacity. You’re not his to take care of.
The reminder is a whip to beat back the part of him that relishes in your smile, when he hands you the bottle and says with the intention of a command but the tone of a too-gentle murmur, “Drink.”
A mild sip delves into a chug. Haphazardly, you lean over to the coffee table and set down what two or three ounces is left of the bottle. Frank raises his brows at you. Okay? You nod back. Okay.
He watches you lay back and sort of sprawl over the couch, arms wayward. Your legs leave just enough room for Frank to sit on the edge of the couch. Absent-mindedly, he tugs down the bottom hem of your dress for your own sake.
“Your apartment is so bare,” your eyes are moving, tracing the walls. He shrugs. He never expected this place to be permanent. Or, atleast, to last long enough under his name (Pete’s name, he amends) to justify buying more furniture than was necessary. You smile, a little more open, a little more honest than your sober face would break open to reveal. “You need like, a painting.”
“I’m not a painting guy.” Frank squints, averts his eye. He hates how awkward he feels, seeing you again. Some vulnerability settles twixt his third and fourth rib. Some kind of fear, fear of mishandling something delicate that he’d already dropped once, and he didn’t at all expect to be handed glue to mend it. You seem none the wiser.
“There’s too many paintings for you not to like atleast one. Like, atleast a hundred thousand.”
“Yeah?”
“Because, think of it, like, people have been painting since, what, the year 500. So imagine how many there are.”
“You’re right.”
That satisfies you. Atleast, you smile and settle more into the couch cushions. “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” you chirp.
He huffs through the nostrils, lip twisting with humor. “You’re not gettin’ me anything, sweetheart.” He wishes he regretted the pet name. “If I really want a painting I can buy a painting.”
“So you really don’t want a painting?”
“Enough with the damn painting.” Frank grunts. You laugh. Loud, unabashed. Not forced to last longer to make someone feel better about a lame joke. He doesn’t think he’s a funny man, hasn’t been for a few years. He thinks he could be, if he tried.
Maybe he wants to start trying. Or maybe he’s already started, months ago.
You’re smiling at him. And he doesn’t have a clue why, can’t explain the mild upward curl to his own lips. Then you’re reaching out. To him.
“What?” Frank mutters, hating the sweetness to his tone. You’re just smiling. A little lopsidedly, and though the overhead light is off, the dim floor lamp beside the couch illuminates your features in warm yellow. Just enough that he can see the faint smudge of your eyeshadow. And, against his better judgement, he leans to you. Gives up, just in that one foot of space bridged.
It’s close enough for you to curl your fingers into his beard, not tugging, but feeling. The backs of your fingers brushing his jaw. He feels sick. “Did you trim?”
“..What?” Frank repeats. Idiocy keeps his eyes glued to yours, squinted, his voice just above a whisper, and his brow faintly drawn. He can smell your perfume, under the liquor. From here, a little mark that might’ve once been a scabbed scar from youth is visible on your chin.
“You trimmed your beard.” You say it so casually. He trimmed his beard. It’s purely observation. If anything, it’s funny to you. This isn’t difficult for you. The firm gentleness of your fingers is nauseating. Frank closes his eyes.
“Yeah.” A lame response. He barely took half an inch off, just enough to distance himself from a fictional hobo.
Where’s his resolve? He rips his eyes open, and through pure discipline, moves away. Your expression is unchanged as you drop your hand. He can’t explain the craving for distance and closeness, culminating in the same breath, in the same man, and he almost wishes he didn’t let you in, didn’t let you crash onto his couch, didn’t let you remind him.
It was hardly your fault, he reminds himself. You were drunk; he was taking you too serious. You break the silence, as if you are oblivious to the weight pressing on all sides into Frank. “Has anyone told you that you could be a good Hagrid?”
He doesn’t have to think about the chuckle that comes out from his chest. It’s something like relief from the unintentional torture you don’t realize you’re inflicting. “Christ, no. I, uh, haven’t gotten that one yet.” It feels good to smile with teeth bared, as he is now. Unplaceably good. “That’s, what, Lord of the Rings?”
“What? What’s wrong with you?” You laugh, again, features breaking into mirth. It’s easy for you, he knows. “It’s Harry Potter.”
Frank bows his head, grinning still like a boy. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” His eyes flick up to you, through his lashes. “Y’know, my boy loved those movies.”
“Yeah?” You rub a knuckle into your eye, further smudging your makeup.
Frank screws his face up, lifting his shoulders and nodding in emphasis. “Oh yeah. Got him the box set one year for his birthday. Back when we had the DVD player.” He’s not sure when the words to describe his son came so easily to him. Maybe he just needs him to be known to you. Maybe he just needs to say the memory aloud, for his own sanity.
You don’t seem perturbed by it. He tries not to examine the smile playing on your features too closely. You mumble under your breath, brows raising, “Harry Potter.” Conclusive.
A quiet passes. He, with a grunt, rises to his feet. As if pulled by string you lift your head up, beginning to push yourself onto your shoulders. “Are you—“ you begin, but he waves his hand. The worry on your face is not too sweet for him to immediately want to shoo away.
“Not leavin’.” A soft sound of recognition leaves your lips. Frank can feel your eyes burn into him as he moves to the kitchenette. It wasn’t like he kept makeup remover around. Maybe he should start— just in case. He finds a chance to rebuild some resolve, in the simple routine; in wetting a clean wash rag from the kitchen cabinet, wringing out the warm water over the sink.
“I haven’t seen you in forever. Soo long.” He can hear rustling over his shoulder. A quick glance finds you kicking a old throw pillow at your feet onto the floor; stretching your legs out fully. Getting comfortable, he guesses. “Where’ve you been, Frank?”
He chuckles, a brief, easy sound. “Here.” He turns, bearing the wet rag in one hand. His shoulders raise to his ears, curling his lip with humor. “It’s been, what, a week?”
“A week?” You repeat. He watches you comb your tresses with painted fingernails, a faint grimace playing at your lips. An affirmative grunt from him, followed by his weight dipping the couch cushion beside your leg. You sit up, hands in your lap. “So, so weird.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, only since he doesn’t think he should. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything right. He offers the rag to you, with lips pressed and eyes squinting.
“What’s that for?” You sit up.
He waves the rag in a small circle, the movement more of a result from the shrug of his shoulder than anything. He grumbles, near awkward, “.. Y’know. Your makeup.”
Understanding washes over your face in nearly the same moment as giggles open it up. Frank doesn’t mean to stare. Truly, doesn’t. But does it count, when your own eyes screw shut with laughter for the sake of nothing but laughter? Can’t he steep his mind in the warm water of your presence a little, as long as you never notice, and never cast him away?
“Okay. Okay, alright.” Frank mutters, half to himself. He lets exasperation color his tone, but in truth he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind leaning forward, raising the rag to your face all too gently. Your cheek pulls up in a smile under his hand, sputters of giggles leaving you. “That hurt at all?”
You hum, “No.” Carefully, he brings the cloth up to the skin under your eye, lifting some smudged shadow. “Thank you. So much.”
Frank huffs through the nostrils, dabbing too gently at your eyelid to be at all efficient in removing the makeup. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s really not nothing.”
Onto the other eye, with the same care. Some part of him is anxious to break you. He tries, really does try, to find some good way to wave you off. “come on. Don’t be like that.” You peek open the clean eye at him. He huffs again, and can’t resist the upward tick of his lips. “You know I’m here.”
Here. Where was here, exactly?
He doesn’t finish the thought. Does what is right by you, and nothing more.
Frank’s focus is concentrated on the rag and the thin skin of your eyelid, and it isn’t until he’s satisfied with the lack of shadow that he moves away, tosses the rag over the back of the couch. Isn’t until then, either, that he realizes how much silence has passed, and that your expression has turned some kind of melancholy.
“I’m sorry we haven’t talked.”
So am I.
Frank stays silent. You go on.
“And i’m more sorry about the other night. Really.”
Frank doesn’t mean to fail at holding your eye. He means, really, to take this conversation like a man. But his churning stomach betrays him, and his eye dart between the notepad on coffee table, the barren wall, you. You, frowning with guilt. Why should you be guilty? He moves to amend it, almost on instinct.
“Don’t say sorry.” He mutters, quieter than he means to. He pats a rough palm against your bare shin, the curve of your warm calf on his fingers. Despite his better judgement.
The rise of your protest is nearly tangible, alcohol having washed away any trace of a poker face. “Seriously, sweetheart.” There it is again. He squints briefly as if flinching from the craving thing inside of him.
“But I was wrong. So, so wrong.” Frank shakes his head at you. He leans over, grabbing the near empty water bottle, handing it to you with what he hopes is a firm, expectant expression.
“You gotta sober up.” He grunts. It’s an easy way out from under the wing of your pity. He can’t stand it— can’t stand the look on your face, like you owe him a fucking thing. Especially not some lame words for his sake. You take the water, delicately.
“I wish I didn’t.”
“.. Didn’t, what?”
“Didn’t leave, that night.”
He reminds himself to close his parted lips, to squeeze the hell out of his jaw, teeth-crushingly tight, in order to keep from saying anything from the chest. You frown at him, quiet, stone still until your head lolls to the side drowsily, ear finding the top of the couch back.
Frank turns his cheek with a weighty sigh through the nose. Hands splayed atop his thighs, and in a nervous tick, he curls his lip, looking to the far wall like it might give him a line. What else can he do? Warily, he glances at you in his peripheral. Sipping the water bottle until it's only hollow plastic. Like you’ve already forgotten this conversation, who last spoke, and said what.
There’s nothing to do. That’s the only right answer. Leave you be. Don’t search for meaning in words from a drunk woman. Even if that woman is you, and he wants to, worse than he’s wanted to find meaning in anything for fucking years.
“..S’my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed, y’know?” No response. He makes a lame, hesitating noise like his throat is a step ahead of his head, creating sound before his lips form words.
“Maybe you were right. I could’ve, uh, drunk too much.” A lie. He winces as the words pass his lips. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what man roundin’ on fifty gets, fuckin’— wine drunk.” Frank chuckles at himself, then, though it’s more of a grunt laced with weak humor.
Silence.
“..I just don’t you t’.. I don’t know. Think I’m some asshole.” He swipes his thumb against the crooked bridge of his nose, and can’t help the flit of his eyes from wall to wall. Another kind of humorless huff through the nostrils. “Maybe that ship has sailed. I just.. it’s good to have company. Y’know? I don’t want t’be the one that ruins that.”
He lets the quiet breathe a few seconds, until he gives himself the humility to look over his shoulder, see if he’s said something wrong. Instead, Frank hums a short, low note, in something close to amusement.
You’re all but knocked out cold. Maybe that’s for the better. He has a feeling your neck will hurt like hell tomorrow, craned like that. In his mind it’s hardly a decision; he’ll take the couch.
If you’re at all roused by Frank’s arms shifting under your knees and against your back to lift you, then you give him the kindness of not letting him know it.
He’s not a good man, he knows that; but if he’s anything, he’s dutiful. He doesn’t allow himself to appreciate your weight in his arms, as he moves to put his bedroom door open with his broad back; slow enough to not rock you. Neither does he give himself any credit, nor kindness to himself for pulling the comforter over you, closing the blinds so that you can sleep into the daylight.
Frank does, however, allowed himself to linger in the doorway. Callouses on the cool door handle, chest full and heavy with something familiar and suffocating. He does not try to name it. Does not try to recall the lifetime ago when this feeling was constant, surrounding him, woven into the fibers of his muscle and tendon.
He wants to be grateful to have been given another chance to feel it. But Frank is a man who puts a ravine between what is craving and what is deserved. And he does not deserve this.
He pulls the door closed against the jamb with a click.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.
word count : 7.6 k
warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language
a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !
Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.
But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.
In stupid little pieces.
The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.
And Frank— God.
Frank fell hard.
Karen noticed first.
“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.
Not once.
You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.
“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.
----------
You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.
God, you feel so stupid.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.
Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.
Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.
Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.
Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.
Not because you hated touch.
God, no.
You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.
But sex— Sex always felt different to you.
Too vulnerable.
Too permanent.
Too much.
And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?
And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.
A grown virgin.
In Frank’s apartment.
In Frank’s clothes.
Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.
“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Fuck it.
Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.
“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.
“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.
“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.
“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.
“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”
“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.
“This is humiliating.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.
“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”
“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”
“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”
“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.
“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”
“I do want it.”
“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.
“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.
“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.
“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:
“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.
“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”
“I ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.
“You never—?”
“No.”
“And nobody ever—?”
“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”
“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.
“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s true.”
“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.
“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“They sound annoyin’.”
“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.
“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.
“I know.”
“And I mean forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.
“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.
“What d’you mean?”
You stare down at your hands.
“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.
“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.
“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps.
“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.
“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened me with a mop.”
“You were bleeding everywhere.”
“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.
“This is awful.”
“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
“And if you change your mind at any point?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And then we stop."
“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.
“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter.
You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you.
He pulls back barely an inch.
“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse.
You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.
“You still good?” he rasps.
“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.
“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.
“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:
“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”
“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.
“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.
“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.
“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.
“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.
“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.”
Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.
“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.
“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,
“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.
“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.
“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.
He’s… god, he’s big.
You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.
“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.
“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.
“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.
“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.
“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,
“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.
“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.
“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.
So, so full.
Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.
“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.
“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.
You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.
“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.
“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.
“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.
"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.
"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.
"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.
The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.
Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.
“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.
You've only ever come on your own fingers.
This.. This feels different.
The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.
It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.
"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"
"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.
"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.
Your entire body is spasming in his grip.
Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.
Emotionally.
Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.
“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.
“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.
“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”
“You are such a pig,” you mumble.
“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.
“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.
“What?”
“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.
“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.
“There’s blood!”
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.
“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.
“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.
“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.
“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.
Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:
“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.
“Baby, you work in medicine.”
“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.
“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:
“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.
Regret him.
Your chest aches suddenly.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.
“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”
“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.
“You were scared.”
“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.
“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.
"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."
You freeze.
Then slowly turn your head to look at him.
“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”
Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.
A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”
“Yes you are.”
“A little,” he admits.
You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.
"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.
"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.
"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.
"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"
"Oh my god, Frank."
"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.
"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."
"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."
✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦Author's Note: should be illegal to for men to Be Like This. I need him carnally.✦
You have never been ruined the way Clark ruins you.
But you’ve never been loved and touched by anyone like him, either.
Probably because there isn’t anyone like him. He’s Clark. A massive, sweet, muscled puppy-dog of a man, who isn’t even a man at all. Who never gets tired.
Who loves to give, almost as much as he loves you.
And he loves you. Clark loves you so much that it’s all but immeasurable. He loves you in the coffee he makes you in the morning, and the kisses he plants on your cheek. He loves you in flowers on random days, and nights in when you’re too tired to do anything else. Random gifts, because he saw something and thought of you. Immediate responses to your texts, and cookies he can’t really bake, but tries to anyway.
And the sex.
Clark really loves you in the sex.
The worship. His strong, warm body turning into only an instrument to bring you pleasure. His hands map your body, his lips brand every inch of skin, his hips drive into your heat until you unravel below him. Your breath stolen and replaced with only weak gasps of his name. Your eyes glazed with drunken lust and relief, because Clark never withholds. He couldn’t.
Not from you.
And that’s how it always begins.
You start it. You always start it. Clark is a sweet man, who will kiss you deeply—until you’re dizzy and aching for him—then walk away like he didn’t just ruin you with so little effort. And then you chase after him, because he can’t just abandon you like that. Not after offering you such sweet, easy temptation.
All it takes is batting your eyelashes and whining his name. Grabbing his big hand, and pressing your chin to his chest.
“Please?” You murmur, playing with the collar of his shirt.
He sighs. “Baby, we went this morning-“
“Yeah, but I want you again.”
“I’m not sure it’s good for- You know. Your sexual health, to have such little rest?” He’s blushing, like he’s not the reason you’re already walking sideways. “How about just until tomorrow? Can you wait until- Tonight?” He drops tomorrow fast, from the pout on your face. “Or- Two hours? Just until your legs feel better, I- I don’t want to break you.”
You blink at him slowly. He’s adorable. Touching your face gently, like you’re some sweet, delicate thing that he—Clark, gentle and kind and lets turn around because I saw a pigeon limping and we should get it to the vet, Clark—is going to ruin you.
For a second, you consider agreeing to wait. Just to spare him the worry.
Then you tilt your head at him, running your hand up his thick arm, and you can feel it.
He’s hard again.
And you’re pretty sure he’ll get over the worry.
“Okay.” You shrug, and Clark blinks slowly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” You take a step back, smiling wickedly up at him. “I can take care of myself.”
His eyes flash. Darken, as his chest heaves.
And Clark folds.
Clark always folds.
And you end up bent over the couch, or pinned to the wall, or writhing on the bed. Clark gives. He gives and gives and gives. Offers you kisses that turn open-mouthed and sloppy, then his grip turns possessive, and his cock drives into you until your toes curl, and you see stars.
You cum with a broken call of his name. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, and your whole body shakes until it goes limp with release.
But Clark doesn’t stop.
He’s a giver.
And he has so much to give.
You’re already completely consumed by him, when the first orgasm hits. His thick cock, dragging along your walls and pounding into your most sensitive spots. His mouth has left searing marks all over your neck, and his hands will almost certainly be printed on your hips and ass when this is done.
He clings to you, when he fucks you. Trying to get you as close as possible. And it only adds to the intensity of it all, because you can’t even gasp for air without it smelling of Clark. His sweat, and faded, spicy cologne, and the deeper thing. The smell that’s just Clark. Pure fucking Clark. It fills the hot air around you, lingers on your tongue as you call his name.
Because it’s intoxicating. It might make you more sensitive. Your fingers dig into his scalp, because after that first orgasm, the smell of him becomes like a drug, and you can’t figure out how to come back down.
“Clark-“ You whine as he slams back into you, mouth attaching to a soft spot on your neck. “Clark-“
He groans against your skin, the cries only driving him on. His hips start to snap, the hot, wet sound filling the room as your eyes roll back in your head.
“Clark, Clark-“
You’re starting to chant it, as another orgasm builds tight in your gut. Clark’s thrusts become short and sharp, the pace punishing and perfect.
This time, you see white, your legs wrapping tight around his waist to try and either pull him closer, or push him away. You’re not really sure, in the haze of your release.
Clark still doesn’t stop. He works himself up, when he gets like this. His cock keeps slamming into you, his kisses growing rough and frantic. It’s still loving, though. The way he touches you. You’re clawing at his back and almost sobbing with overwhelming pleasure. Your mouth is open in a permanent moan, and your own arousal is running down your ass.
You press your face into his broad shoulder, just to have something to ground yourself in. Clark grabs one of your hands gently, tangling it in his own. He squeezes lightly, asking a silent question.
You squeeze back, three times, then hold on so tight you’re worried you’ll break your own fingers.
Clark groans against your skin, and the tight leash he keeps on himself snaps.
Nobody has, or ever will, fuck you like this. Like you’re just a ragdoll, and yet simultaneously the most precious thing on earth. Clark slams himself into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, all while his lips wander your skin, murmuring low praise.
“Take it.” He mutters in your ear, breath sending shivers up your spine. “Yeah, yeah, that’s so good, baby, so warm and tight, look so-“ He moans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “So pretty, you’re so tight and pretty-“
He moans again, and his deep voice rolls pleasure through your whole body. Another, tiny orgasm hits you, making your head spin and legs fall open, having lost all strength to hold on. Clark hauls them back up, and angles them carefully so he’s hitting deeper.
It’s not about chasing his own pleasure. It’s never about that. If anything, it’s a testament to his will, that he can stay buried so deep inside of you for so long. Can feel you clench and writhe below him, taste you whenever he swallows your cries of his name, and still not empty himself into your poor, soaked and abused cunt.
He almost loses it, though, when he rises over you. Keeps one hand wrapped over yours, and lets the other one wander your beautiful, limp body. You’re a vision. Eyes hooded and lips swollen, your tits bouncing as he rails you stupid and mouth open in a long, broken call of his name. You shake and swear breathily below him, the type of things that would normally make him stutter and blush, if he wasn’t so wholly focused on fucking you until you forgot your own name.
And you’re already there. You’re almost floating out of your body, by the time Clark’s thumb finds your clit. His tiny, deliberate rubs send an electric shock through your body, and it seems to set off every nerve in your body.
You don’t fully come down from this one. You just float through it, saying Clark over and over like a hymn. Distantly, you’re aware of him groaning your name and rutting into your fluttering pussy.
Heat floods through you, as he collapses over your body. You feel him mixing with you, smearing over your thighs and the curve of your ass. Clark drags himself through a few, last strokes.
And you come down, as he slides slowly out.
Taps your clit with the head of his cock, just to watch you spasm.
“Fuck-“ You roll into his chest with a whimper, and he chuckles.
“Sorry, baby.” He kisses your brow, wrapping massive, muscled arms around your body. “You just look so pretty.”
You hum, not really able to form full words. Clark rubs his hand up and down your spine, then pauses.
“Feel good? You-“
“I liked it.” You breathe out against his pecs. “Oh- Oh my god, it was so good. But next time, just- Tell me no.”
He laughs again, rising up. Probably to draw you a bath, because he’s perfect.
“I’ll try.” He says, tracing his hand lightly over your side. “But you can be pretty demanding, sweetheart. I just rise to the occasion, I guess.”
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: 4.2k (21+) Basically PwP. Bob's wanted you for ages and you want him too, so you ask him to take you home.
Warnings: Smut. PwP, Oral (male and female receiving), protected PnV, Bob has a big dick (as he should). I wrote this at 2am, so no edits.
A/N: I had a thought and decided to execute it. Enjoy!
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It’s been awhile. That was the only thing running through Bob’s head as you both stepped through the door into his apartment, wasting no time in reattaching your lips to his as soon as the door was locked. If this was his one chance at getting to take you to bed, he didn’t want to waste it.
He kissed you. Hard. Almost bruisingly, but you didn’t seem to mind. His glasses were fogging up a bit from your shared breath as he pressed you against the wall. Bob swallowed your moans as he pressed one thigh between your legs, allowing you to rub against his jeans with just the right amount of pressure.
And he was hard. So hard. The pressure behind his zipper was almost enough to have him whining along with you. It had been so long since he was with someone. So long since he’d even pulled himself off, though he’d considered it so many times in the last few months. Ever since you’d joined the team as Halo’s backseater, he’d wanted you. But wanting someone on the same team just didn’t seem right. So he watched you in that quiet way of his, always observant and keen to learn anything he could.
He learned your likes and dislikes. He knew you could take Hangman and Rooster’s shit and give it right back to them. He learned your coffee order and your favorite energy drink. And he also knew that you watched him right back with that smirk of yours that made him want to run away or jump out of a plane. He wanted to avoid your piercing gaze or be put under your thumb. He hadn’t really decided how he felt, but he knew he wanted you.
Bob definitely hadn’t expected to get you in his bed. Not tonight. Not ever. Because you were coworkers and you could have anyone, but you chose him. He hadn’t even realized you’d chosen him until you were at the Hard Deck and you’d sidled up next to him as he watched Nat beat Hangman at pool yet again while Jake tried to maintain his honor. You’d just sat next to him quietly. Comfortably. Like you belonged there. Two WSOs just watching the team you’d made a family battle it out over the pool table like they did every weekend. Then you’d nudged his arm.
“You wanna get out of here?” you asked quietly, not even looking at him.
Bob whipped his head towards you so fast he almost got whiplash and nearly dropped his cup of peanuts. If he were sipping on the coke sweating beside him, he would’ve done a spit take. You just gave him that slow smirk. He glanced around the room and noticed no one was watching them, so he turned back to you.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked slowly, disbelief still coloring every bit of his face.
“Oh, y’know,” your voice was nonchalant and Bob couldn’t understand how when you finished, “you, me, a bed? Your place?” Then you were taking a slow sip of your drink like you hadn’t just short-circuited his brain. Like you hadn’t just altered his brain chemistry and caused him to start stiffening in his jeans. You asked like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You mean that?” Bob asked, tone careful.
“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. Meet me outside in ten minutes?”
And Bob, helpless that he was when he was with you, nodded. You slipped away without anyone noticing in the direction of the bathrooms where Bob knew there was a side door and he counted down the minutes until he got up. He handed his glass back to Penny and threw his peanuts away and then he was ambling out the door. He knew no one would mind if he slipped away since he usually did pretty early, but he really wasn’t worried tonight.
He found you leaning against his car door, nonchalantly, just like when you’d asked him to bed. Your coolness was definitely affecting his ability to think straight. As soon as he was next to you, you reached up to catch the back of his head with your hand and leaned in to kiss him. And Bob fucking melted.
It was the type of kiss he imagined in a rom com. Where neither of you cared about anyone seeing you and your focus was on each other instead. You may have gotten your hand in the short hair on the back of his neck, but his hands were roaming respectfully up and down your back as you pressed your hips against the car door.
“Unlock the car, Floyd.” you laughed, breaking the kiss. He groaned, eyes fluttering back open. His glasses were askew, but he wasn’t sure he cared. However, he did as you asked and unlocked his beat up old truck. You slipped around the back and hopped in and he did as well, knuckles clenched against the steering wheel. But silence and sexual tension filled the air as he made the quick fifteen minute drive back to his apartment.
“Nice place,” you murmured when he parked in the lot. And really, Bob was pretty proud of the one bedroom apartment he’d somehow commandeered at a decent price. The building itself looked nice on the outside and he’d tried to make the inside as homey as possible. The elevator ride was torture as he struggled to keep his hands to himself, but he wanted you in his place first away from potentially wandering eyes.
But back to the present, Bob had his leg between your thighs and his mouth trailed away from your lips towards the soft skin of your throat. He was careful not to leave any marks, at least not yet and not where anyone would be able to see. He did have ideas about marking up your hip bone or maybe even your breasts. Somewhere he’d know it was there and so would you, but that no one else would see or know about. Something to prove he’d been there, especially if this was the only time he’d get to take you home.
You moaned, a little breathless, as Bob trailed a kiss at the juncture of your jaw and your neck, the skin sensitive and he smiled against your skin.
“Quit teasing, Floyd.” you groaned, hauled him back up for a kiss and giving a particularly solid press against his thigh.
“Mhhmm,” he hummed against your lips. “I believe you said something about you, me, and a bed?”
“Correct, so take me to bed, Bob.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He was setting you back against the wall before you could even take another breath and tugging you along to his bedroom near the back of his apartment, not even giving you any time to look around. Bob had one goal and one goal only right now; taking you however you’d let him right here and now.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, letting Bob settle between your thighs. That was when he realized that your mouth was right at the same level as his cock and by your smirk, he knew you were thinking the same thing. He didn’t stop you as your fingers trailed up his thighs, sending shivers down his spine and up and down his arms. Your hands didn’t stop there either. You were nimbly undoing his belt and pushing it to the sides. Then you were popping the button at the top and your fingertips brushed over the zipper. Bob groaned at the pressure.
It felt like an eternity passed as you slowly unzipped his jeans, millimeter by millimeter. But then your fingers reached the end of the zip and you were reaching over to shove his jeans down to his ankles. Finally, his cock was free of the confines of the jeans and he quickly stepped out of them, leaving himself in his grey boxers, the front of which were tenting spectacularly with a clear wet spot where the head was.
You didn’t look surprised. In fact, you looked quite smug as you stared at the bulge between his legs. And when you touched him through the thin fabric of his boxers, his hips jutted forward of their own accord. The smile stayed.
“I knew the boys’ locker room talk wasn’t false.” you murmured. Bob didn’t even have a chance to react to that particular statement before you were leaning forward and pressing an open mouthed kiss to that wet spot and right over the head. His eyes rolled back in his head. One finger trailed up his dick from the base to the tip and he jutted forward again. “So sensitive.”
“It’s been awhile.” Bob whispered, unsure of why he’d said it. Maybe you’d stop if you knew. He hoped you wouldn’t.
“Hmm, I can tell. You’re all jumpy.” Your voice was like honey as you repeated your actions and pressed another kiss through the material. He could feel your hot breath through the fabric. “You gonna let me suck you off? Been thinking about it for weeks.”
If Bob’s brain hadn’t broken already, this was going to be it. This was gonna be how he died.
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, I’ll let you.”
“Take these off. Wanna see you. You’ve been hiding from me.” you murmured, tapping his covered thigh and his stomach, indicating that you wanted his boxers and his t-shirt off. Bob did as you asked and you stood to take off your own shirt and pants. You were left in this simple set of black underwear that shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was, but it left Bob aching for more. The ache was obvious in the bob of his cock.
He’d always known you were beautiful. He’d seen it when you whipped off your shirt at the beach the one day Mav had taken you all down there for dogfight football at the start of their team’s bonding period. You’d been left in your sports bra and shorts and he’d nearly fallen over at the first glimpse of your stomach and breasts. He’d won the game for you, though he hadn’t said anything, and he’d been too shy to take off his own shirt to show off like the others had. But you weren’t with them tonight; you were with him.
Then you dropped to your knees. Bob’s eyes widened behind his glasses, his breath coming out in deep pants and you hadn’t even really touched him. He gulped as you shuffled forward and the back of his knees hit the wall beside his bed. You steadied him with your hands on his thighs and Bob struggled with where to put his hands. He wanted them in your hair, but he wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted and he was completely at your mercy at the moment.
Like you knew exactly what he was thinking, you guided one of his hands to the back of your head and he almost smiled. Almost. Because then you had your hands on his cock for real this time, your warm hands pumping the delicate skin up and down his shaft in alternating motions. Bob whined and immediately clapped his other hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.
“Don’t do that.” you whispered, breath reaching the sensitive skin you were working, “Wanna hear you. Wanna hear what I’m doing to you.”
Bob’s head hit the wall. Because as soon as you stopped talking, you ran your tongue up his length. From his balls to the tip of his cock that was now flushed and angry and weeping so much precum he wasn’t sure he hadn’t come yet. Either you were really good at this or it had been longer than he’d thought. You weren’t finished.
You popped the head of his cock into your mouth and swirled your tongue around the tip, pressure surrounding the sensitive skin of his cock. He was panting now, one hand loose in your hair and the other pressing against the wall beside him. One of your hands was still pumping him while the other held the tip steady so you could really take him. And take him you did.
Bob groaned, a guttural sound, as you leaned forward and took a few inches of him into the warm confines of your mouth. The slide of your tongue against the underside of his dick felt heavenly.
“Oh my god.” he groaned, focusing on the feeling of your mouth. This was the best blowjob of his life, by far. “Shit.”
You pulled off him for a moment and Bob almost whined at the loss of contact with your mouth until the most sinful of words was escaping your mouth.
“You can fuck my mouth, Floyd. I won’t break.” The hand you’d been pumping his cock with lifted up to touch the hand he had tangled in your hair and you nodded up at him. He’d barely registered that when you took him in your mouth again and this time, you didn’t let up until the head was bumping the back of your throat. The pressure was insane.
“Jesus, woman, you’re going to be the death of me.” Bob groaned, hand tightening in your hair. He could feel you hum around him and his cock twitched at the sound. If you kept this up, he wasn’t going to last very long. He kept his hand firmly in your hair as you worked in a rhythm of blowing him, bobbing your pretty head in front of him. “I’m close.”
You pulled off again and he did whine. “That’s fine. I’m not finished with you yet.”
This time, you moved your hand to gently circle his balls and he felt them tightening up before he was really ready. When you sucked him back down your throat and dragged a nail down the center of his balls, it was game over. He shattered, hand in your hair and the other one against his abs as he cried out, hips stuttering into your mouth shallowly while you swallowed his release. When you pulled off, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled softly up at him.
“Fuck,” he whined, “didn’t mean to finish so fast. Haven’t even touched you. Wanna touch you.”
“Yeah?” you murmured, voice hoarsened by what you’d just done. Bob hauled you up from the floor and dragged you to the bed. You let him. He ended up on top of you, completely naked and between your thighs. “You been thinking about touching me, Floyd?”
“So much.” Bob trailed a finger from the bottom edge of your bra down to the top edge of your panties and pressed a kiss just above your naval. You shivered at the contact. “Thought about worshipping between your legs and fucking you in the locker room.”
“I never thought you’d have it in you.” You grinned wickedly and pulled him down for a kiss. “What else did you think about?”
“Thought about making out with you at the Hard Deck and showing the guys who you belong to. Wanted to take my time with you and fuck you slow and steady here in my bed.” Bob punctuated that particular sentence with a slow thrust of his hips against your core and was rewarded with a whine of his own from your lips. He may have just gotten off five minutes before, but he was already growing again and he knew he’d be ready for another round as soon as he made his fantasies a reality.
“So why don’t you?” you asked, looking him dead in the eyes.
“You gonna let me take my time between your legs. Touch you here?” Bob murmured, trailing his finger between the seam of your legs now and your hips jumped.
“Yeah, yeah, I’d let you.”
“Good.” He took his time holding himself up with his knees and one hand as he leaned in to kiss you. He should’ve felt disgusted tasting himself on your lips, but somehow it was hot as sin and he groaned into your mouth. Two seconds later, his hand was on your back, unclipping your bra with just one hand. You gasped into his mouth in surprise. He smiled.
Then he was leaning back on his knees and pulling your bra off, tossing it over his shoulder. You laughed and helped him take off your underwear. Bob’s voice grew quiet as he looked over your body, completely bare in front of him for the first time. You didn’t seem self conscious as you lazily looked him over, waiting to see what he would do next.
Bob shuffled down the bed and ran his hands down the tops of your thighs, slowly spreading your legs so he could see exactly what he’d been dreaming about for months. He wasn’t disappointed. Your center winked at him, clenching and unclenching in a fluttery motion. He drew his thumb from your clit to your center, then traced your folds gently. Your hips jumped away from the gentle touch.
“Sensitive?” he asked, grinning from his space between your legs. You shot him a glare.
“Quit teasing, Bob, or I’m getting up and leaving your ass here. That’s twice in one night and my patience is growing thin.”
“I’ve got you.” He settled down, hips to the bed and came face to face with your pussy. He blew on it gently and was rewarded with a groan as you clenched again on nothing. “So pretty.”
The first kiss he placed to the skin of your inner left thigh, just next to where you wanted him. He followed up quickly with another kiss to your right thigh. Then, he felt your hand on the top of his head. Finally, he drew his tongue from the bottom of your channel up to the top and swirled his tongue in firm pressure around your clit. Your resounding whine gave him confidence as he held your hips steady and started eating you like a man starved.
He didn’t just eat you. He worshipped you. Just like he said he would. He drew patterns against your clit and your folds, alternating pressure and sucking on that sensitive button every once and awhile just to make you squirm in his hands. Soon, you were gasping and pulling on his hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He ground his hips into the bed, fully hard again as he drew you closer and closer to the edge of the cliff.
“Oh my god,” you whined, voice hitting a new pitch the closer you got to your orgasm. Bob used that moment to introduce two fingers and he pressed upwards with them in a new motion that had you keening. He smiled and started rubbing his thumb in deliberate circles over your clit. “‘M close!”
“I know.” he replied simply and replaced his thumb with his mouth, applying a gentle suction that had you crashing around his fingers and whining his name. He kept up with his thrusts, letting you ride out the aftershocks and you quickly yanked on his hair to pull him away due to the overstimulation.
“C’mere.” you gasped, pulling him up for a kiss. He obliged and kissed you, tongue delving deep to dance with yours. It was filthy and it was perfect. You broke away. “Need you inside me. Right now. I’ve waited long enough.”
Bob nodded and climbed off of you to get a condom from the box he kept in his drawer. It was for emergencies like this one, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d grabbed one. He ripped one of the foil packets open and rolled it on and you pulled him over you yet again.
Your legs were wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass as you tried to pull him into you. Bob remained steady and held himself up over you, his strength surprising you.
“What’re you waiting for?” you whined, reaching between your legs. Bob stopped you, pulling back.
“I said I wanted to take my time with you.” he murmured, reaching down to run the head of his cock up and down your slit. The juices coated his tip quickly and you groaned.
“Fuck that. I want you to fuck me.” you said firmly, staring directly up at him. Bob smiled and leaned down to kiss you. And then he drove his hips home in one solid thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your body rushed to accommodate his length. Because Bob was long and just the right thickness to slightly rearrange your insides. Your moan was long and drawn out against his mouth and he hurried to kiss you again.
He hadn’t moved after that first thrust, letting your cunt adjust to the beating he was about to give it. But then you were pressing your heels against him again and nodding for him to move, and how could he say no?
Bob pulled out until just the tip was inside you and drove in again, stealing another moan from your lips. He continued that pace for a while until he felt you clenching around him and started thrusting even deeper and harder. Your leg shifted just enough that he was able to slide the last of his dick into your channel and the whine you gave him was like music to his ears as he panted into your neck.
Just from the way you were squeezing him, he could tell that you were nearly there and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last either. Being inside you was even more heavenly than being in your mouth and his hips started to stutter the closer he got to his own orgasm. You reached between your legs to touch your clit, but Bob swatted your hand away and reached down to touch you himself. His thumb drew firm circles and soon you were clenching again, crying out. Bob leaned in to kiss you again, swallowing those pretty sounds and reaching his own crescendo between your thighs.
He pulled out and flopped over beside you, settling your body against his.
“That was good, Floyd.” you murmured, head resting on his chest where his heart was nearly beating out of his ribcage. Bob drew his hand over your hair and smiled.
“Yeah, it was,” he said quietly. “Do you wanna shower?”
“You joining?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“Please. I’m not sure my legs will work.” you sighed and Bob laughed. He shouldn’t have, but it felt right and he was rewarded with your own sleepy giggle.
“C’mon, let’s get you showered. You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in.”
“M’kay.” you murmured sleepily and allowed him to pull you into the bathroom. He turned on the showerhead and gathered two pairs of his boxers along with an oversized shirt for you.
“Hope you don’t mind. I usually just sleep in my boxers.” He shrugged and set his glasses on the bathroom counter.
“I don’t mind.” you hummed, stepping into the shower. Bob stepped in behind you, being careful to always stay within reach of your body. You were right. Your legs were a bit wobbly from the position you’d put yourself in during sex, but you weren’t upset about it. It was a good ache.
Bob handed you a washcloth and poured some sort of botanical smelling soap on it, letting you clean yourself while he did the same thing to his own body. And that’s when you really, really looked at him. Bob was toned. You knew he had to be in order to maintain the rigorous PT standards you had to follow, but he was more toned than you expected and you drew your hand over his abs.
“Why do you hide all this with those shirts all the time?” you asked softly, standing in the spray of the shower. Bob squinted at you and shrugged.
“I don’t really care to show off. It’s not my nature.” he answered, and that was that. The rest of the shower was quiet, but filled with soft kisses and wandering hands. It was a miracle you ended up outside the shower, dressed and not in it going for another round. You wanted to, but you knew you were too tired and you weren’t sure Bob’s body could handle yet another orgasm in the space of an hour.
He handed you an extra toothbrush and you brushed your teeth sleepily, ready to crash. It was only when you were in bed beside him, alarms set for him to drive you home in the morning before work that he broke the silence.
“Are we gonna talk about what this means?” Bob asked quietly. Timidly. Scared of the answer.
“In the morning. Right now I just want you to hold me.” you murmured, slipping closer to his side. He reached around your body to spoon you, settling in the gap you’d both made. And you would.
Maybe you’d tell him about your feelings besides the lust-filled ones you’d shared tonight. And maybe he’d tell you he’d dreamed of far more than just sleeping with you. But that could be said in the daylight.
tags — 18+ minors dni | f!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), spooning sex, size difference, pet names (sweetheart & baby), dirty talk, creampie (0.6 wc)
the clock on your bedside table reads 7:14am and clark has you on your side, his body engulfing yours as his chest presses up against your back. with an arm wrapped around your front, clark holds you tight against him—rubbing slow, languid circles on your swollen clit.
a soft, muffled groan tumbles from clark’s lips as you slowly roll your hips back—his cock nestled deep inside your cunt, stretching you open. you desperately try to fight back your need for him, for his cock, knowing you have to get ready for work, but you’re practically begging for more.
his pelvis is snug against your ass—coarse curls beneath his navel brushing against you. you feel all of him, every ridge, every vein, every twitch as he rocks into your cunt. clark moves his hand to grip your thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he gently hooks your leg over his thigh, spreading you wider.
the new angle drove him deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. the room fills with your breaths mingling together with the filthy, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you.
just as quickly as it left, clarks hand returns to your clit and you instinctively clench around him, trying to pull him deeper as he ruts against you. clark’s breath is warm against the nape of your neck as he lightly bites down on the skin of your shoulder.
every roll of clark’s hips is with a little more tenacity each time, seeking that delicious friction. the pleasure is overwhelming, completely taking over all of your senses. you can’t think of anything else, except for clark, and how he's ruining you for anyone else.
“taking me so well, baby,” he mutters, kissing behind your ear.
you cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets, then at his forearm—your nails leaving crescent indents in his skin. he revels in the soft, needy moans you make with each shallow thrust. you move your hips in counterpoint, chasing the pleasure of his fingers and the fullness of his cock.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, that's it,” he mumbles, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you repeatedly.
an embarrassingly loud moan slips from your lips as you cum without warning. your body shudders hard against his—your orgasm crashing through you and taking your breath away. clark gently coaxes you through it, rocking his hips in a slow, gentle rhythm while pressing tender kisses along your shoulder and neck.
clark's hips stutter and his own orgasm catches him off-guard. he buries himself to the hilt, releasing thick, hot ropes of cum deep within your cunt—filling you completely as his cock throbs and pulses inside you.
you clench around him and clark hides his face in your neck with a weak, tired chuckle. his hand squeezes your hip tenderly as he slowly eases himself out of you. your cunt clenches around nothing, missing his cock already. you can feel his release leak from you and slide down your thighs but you pay no mind to it.
“good morning to you too,” clark says through soft pants.
“hmm, good morning indeed,” you hum, turning to face him with a small smile.
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