Behind him, settled into the backseat, was a boy he hardly knew, yet found himself the sole guardian for. Mark, surprisingly, had managed to fall asleep. The poor boy had been through the unimaginable in just a few short days, and had barely slept. Pure exhaustion had pulled him down into the depths of slumber. Ben let him sleep. He knew that when the inevitable nightmares began, Mark wouldn’t be getting much rest for the time being. 

And then, there was you. Settled into the passenger’s seat beside him, knees pulled up toward your chest as you gazed out the window at the dark, passing landscape. You were quiet. Had been for the last thirty minutes. Ben’s heart ached for you. He regretted bringing you to Jerusalem’s Lot altogether. What had started as an innocent trip to show you the place where he’d spent part of his childhood, quickly turned into a living hell. 

He should have known coming back to that place would only bring trouble. But the Lot was an important part of his childhood, albeit traumatizing as it was. He wanted you to know about his past. There were things he believed that you deserved to know, as his wife. 

But bringing you to that cursed place had nearly resulted in him losing you forever. And as he glanced at you, in the quiet stillness of that car, he realized how fortunate he was that you were still here, beside him. Bruised, bloodied, but alive. 

And in that moment, he was struck with a wave of emotion so intense, tears sprang to his eyes. He took one of his trembling hands, and placed it upon your knee. He didn’t speak, because words were not something that came easy then. But you didn’t need words. All you needed was that quiet, gentle reassurance. 

You placed your own hand over his own, offering a gentle squeeze. As your eyes drifted to his face, you could see how tired he truly was. Shadows lurked beneath his eyes. His cheeks were gaunt. Cuts and scrapes littered his face. But he was here, with you. 

He didn’t have to tell you he was blaming himself for you to know that was what he was doing. You longed to reassure him that you didn’t blame him for what had happened. Yet, when you opened your mouth, your throat tightened with emotion, and you could not utter the words that were on your heart. So you said nothing, and yet, the silence said it all. 

This wasn’t how you envisioned your life as newlyweds. Never in a million years could you have predicted that you would encounter a horde of evil vampires, hellbent on draining the blood out of every living being in their path. Never could you have imagined that you would spend countless hours surrounded by death. 

Everyone you’d grown fond of in the short time you were in ‘Salem’s Lot was now dead, aside from Mark. And although you knew that you should be experiencing grief over it, all you felt was numb. It didn’t feel real yet. Would it ever feel real? 

And most importantly, where would you go from here? Could you even go back to normal life after this? 

“Where are we going, Ben?” When you spoke, you hardly recognized your own voice. It was hoarse from screaming. The primal wail you’d let out the moment you thought you were going to lose Ben had done some harm to your vocal cords, it seemed. 

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Far away from the Lot as we can get. Well stop off at a motel somewhere. Just wanna drive a couple more hours. Make sure we stop at a safe place.” His tone was weary, as if it took every ounce of energy he had to muster a response.

With a heavy heart, you glanced back at Mark, who still slept soundly. He looks peaceful. The way a child should look. Gone was the determined furrow of his brow and the face of bravery he put on. He had no family left in the world. You and Ben were all he had.

“He’s with us now,” Ben softly stated. He didn’t need to elaborate. There was no question of what to do. Mark was part of your family now. You would care for him as if he was your own child. 

There was so much you needed to figure out. But for the time being, all you could do was take it one step at a time. And right now, the next step was finding a safe place to sleep. 

You weren’t sure how much longer Ben could drive like this. It was dark, and he was bone tired. 

“Next motel we see, we’re stopping. We need to rest,” you murmured, reaching over to run your fingers through the tangled curls at the nape of his neck. 

His lashes fluttered as your fingers brushed his skin. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to rest again.”

You felt the same. 

Nonetheless, the next neon sign advertising a cheap motel soon drew you into a sparsely populated parking lot, and a set of motel rooms that were certainly not The Ritz, but they were better than nothing. Ben parked outside the front office, leaned across the console to kiss you, and pressed something into your hand before he climbed out of the car to secure a room. 

A crucifix. 

Your fingers closed around the small cross, thumb tracing the smoothness. You silently prayed that you would never have to use it again. 

Three minutes later, Ben emerged from the office, room key in hand, and approached the car, easing your door open as he leaned down to speak softly. “Got us a room. You ready to head inside?”

“Yeah.”

He took your hand, gently guiding you to your feet. There was something unspoken in the air between you. It was in his lingering gaze, and the way he hesitated. He longed to pull you close, to hold you for hours. However, he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to make sure you and Mark were settled. Needed to make sure you were safe. 

So he settled for kissing you on the forehead, before he ducked into the back of the car to gather the boy in his arms. He handed you the room key before he reached out, carefully pulling Mark into his arms, trying not to wake him in the process. The boy stirred, but remained asleep, much to Ben’s relief. 

You retrieved yours and Ben’s duffel bags from the trunk, each weighing heavily upon your shoulders as you made the quick walk across the parking lot to room one twelve. The door shut softly behind you while Ben ever so carefully placed Mark in one of the beds, taking the time to take his shoes off and tuck him in.

Your hands were quick to deadbolt the door, and shove the nearby desk chair beneath the knob, ensuring it was secure. Of course, you weren’t foolish. If anything evil had followed you from the Lot, a deadbolt and a chair wouldn’t stop it. But even so, it gave you peace of mind. 

From across the room, Ben looked at you. His eyes were haunted. The mirth that had been there mere days ago was gone. Life had been so simple when you set out to visit ‘Salem’s Lot. You’d gone to the justice of the peace to get married just a few days before the trip. You were full of hope, your entire future together ahead of you. 

You’d never imagined, in your wildest nightmares, that you would be running a stake through a vampire’s heart just to save your husband’s life. The image of Barlow closing in on him still haunted your mind. His fangs had been inches from Ben’s neck. If you’d been a second too late, he would have been dead. Drained of his lifeblood. 

A deep, rattling breath passed through Ben’s chest, emotion clouding his face. “I…I guess I should wash all this blood off.” He glanced down at himself, finally realizing what a mess he was. Blood had seeped into the fabric of his denim jacket. You made a mental note to buy some peroxide and see if you could get the stain out without ruining the integrity of the denim. 

“Yeah…yeah. That’s a good idea,” came your response, mouth loose around the syllables. It felt strange to pretend everything was normal, when it was not. Nothing would ever be normal again.

Ben made no move to head to the shower. He swayed slightly in his spot, clearly wanting to say something more. The words wouldn’t come. Such meager things they were, as it was. Nothing could soothe the pain you were both enduring. 

“Will you be alright without me for a few minutes?” He hesitated to leave you alone, despite the fact that you would only be separated by a wall. You had spent every waking moment together in the Lot, not willing to let the other out of your sight, terrified of losing each other. Now, Ben didn’t like the thought of not being able to see you, even if it was only for five minutes.

He’d learned how quickly bad things could happen. How, in the blink of an eye, everything and everyone he held dear could be taken from him.

You held up the crucifix he’d given you in the car. “I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Somberly, he nodded, and finally turned on his heel, limping slightly as he headed into the bathroom, gently pushing the door shut behind him. 

A hush fell over the room, and your eyes drifted over to Mark, who still slept, undisturbed. Silently, you wondered if you would be able to sleep that night. While you were deeply tired, you doubted you would find rest. In fact, you doubted you would ever have peaceful sleep again. It would always be fitful. Even in slumber, you would be hyper aware of your surroundings, disturbed by every sound, every movement.

Even the silence unnerved you, and you were grateful for the sound of rattling pipes and the steady stream of water as Ben turned on the shower. It filled the deafening silence with something so mundane, yet comforting.

A sigh escaped your lips as your feet moved across the old carpet, orange in color, tacky as could be. There was a heaviness in your shoulders, the weight of grief, fear, and pain almost too overwhelming to bear. 

But there was something that could help ease that burden. As your eyes drifted to the edge of the second bed, you realized Ben had forgotten to grab his pajamas and toiletries. Glad to have a distraction, you were quick to rifle around in the bag, retrieving everything he’d need before you padded across the floor, sparing one last glance at Mark before you moved toward the bathroom.

Three soft taps at the door, and a murmur of, “It’s me,” alerted your husband that you were coming in.

Steam had begun to cloud the room, but Ben wasn’t in the shower yet. In fact, he was still fully clothed, sitting upon the edge of the bathtub, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed upon the tile floor. You had never thought of him as small. He was broad, and deceptively strong for a man who chose writing as a career. And yet, he did look small, buckled beneath the weight of all he had endured. 

When his eyes met yours, your heart ached, and you were moving without another moment of hesitation. The duffel bag was placed on the counter before you kicked your shoes off, already coming to stand before him.

Hands gentle, you lifted his face toward you, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, careful not to touch the cut on his cheekbone. “My love,” you whispered. 

His bottom lip quivered. “I…I can’t do it by myself.” He hated how weak his own voice sounded. 

That broke you, anguish washing over you in waves so strong, it stole the breath from your lungs. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here with you.” Your hand wandered as you ran your fingers through his hair, but you were quickly met with resistance from the tangles in his curls. “Let’s get these tangles out first, that way your hair’s easier to wash.”

As you rummaged through his bag for a comb, Ben watched you through heavy lidded eyes, a strange feeling settling into his chest. What should have been normal seemed so foreign now. How was one meant to do things like take a shower, comb their hair, and brush their teeth, after experiencing something so deeply harrowing, they couldn’t even speak of it without being plagued with a violent sense of terror?

And here you were, choosing to lovingly care for him, despite all you’d suffered. It grieved Ben deeply, because you shouldn’t have gone through any of it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as you helped him ease out of his jacket.

“For what?” Came your reply as you draped the jacket across the doorknob, already moving to grab the comb and tend to his hair after the fact.

“I shouldn’t have brought you to the Lot. If we’d just gone on a normal honeymoon, like you wanted, none of this would have happened.”

“Hey now,” you softly chided as you held the comb under the stream pelting from the shower head, “I wanted to go. Remember what I told you? How I’d go anywhere, as long as it was with you? I meant every word. I’d follow you to the end of the earth.”

His eyes drifted shut as emotion washed over him. “And I almost did lead you to the end of the earth. That’s not what I wanted for you. I never wanted any harm to come to you. I never wanted to see fear in your eyes.” But that was what he’d seen. Raw, bone deep fear that made his stomach turn. 

It had awakened a realization within himself. The knowledge that there were things in this world– evil, ancient things –that he could not protect you from. 

“I know that, Ben. But I’m okay. Really, I am. We’re alive, we’re not in the Lot anymore, and that’s what matters.” Your hands were gentle as you began running the damp comb through his tangled curls, careful not to pull too hard. 

The tenderness was overwhelming for him. Hands that had fought for him now caressed his scalp with love and care. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

Your hands went still, silence following for only a moment before you tilted his face toward you. “Don’t you dare say that. You are the kindest, gentlest, most wonderful man I have ever met. I’m proud to be your wife. Even more so now that I’ve seen you run into the face of danger to protect the people you care about.”

He couldn’t speak, lest he begin to weep. So he simply turned his head to kiss the inside of your wrist, lingering there for a moment, grounding himself. For the next several moments, no other words were spoken. You finished combing through his curls, and once they were smooth and free of tangles, you nodded in satisfaction, tossing the comb onto the counter with ease.

“All finished. Let’s get all this blood washed off, yeah?” Your tone was soft and even as you motioned for Ben to stand. Beneath your feet, the tile was cool, and you welcomed the chill as you moved across the small space. It kept you present and focused on the task at hand.

Ben’s Henley was the first to go, crimson stained fabric fluttering to the floor as you helped him ease out of the shirt. A low hiss left his mouth as he moved, and once his shirt was gone, you understood why. Bruising littered his torso and shoulders. He would be sore for days, that much you were certain of.

“Oh, honey,” you whispered, fingers ghosting over some of the bruising, wishing you could ease his pain. 

“I’m alright.” 

Your response was a soft kiss left against his sternum before your hands carried on downward, fingers quick to unbuckle his belt. The atmosphere shifted was you reverently undressed your husband. There was nothing sensual. It was pure intimacy. 

Ben watched you, eyes hooded as he admired your devotion to him. When he was bare, clothes discarded, he reached for you, ducking forward to kiss you languidly as his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt. 

“Want me to join you?” You spoke against his mouth.

“Please.” A single word, yet it held so much weight.

With as much care as you had shown him, he undressed you. As he knelt to tug your jeans down, he gazed up at you, adoration written over his tired features. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your abdomen as he rid you of your jeans and underwear. 

Warmth spread through you at the contact, a comforting hum buzzing through your veins. Affectionate moments had been few and far between lately, because you were much too busy trying to survive. But here and now, in the bathroom of some rundown motel in the middle of nowhere, you found each other again. 

The heat of the shower engulfed you as you stepped beneath the stream, your hand intertwined with Ben’s as you led him in after you. For a motel bathtub, it was surprisingly spacious, and the two of you had plenty of room to stand apart. However, you found yourselves drawn to one another by an invisible gravitational pull. 

As water cascaded over your bare skin, Ben’s lips found yours, kissing you in a way that could only be described as worship. 

You melted into each other, two becoming one. 

“Oh, god,” Ben whispered against your mouth. “I…” He trailed off, uncertainty clouding his features. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. All he knew was that your body was pressed to his, and he was suddenly overcome with a need so intense, it nearly brought him to his knees. 

It wasn’t depraved in nature. No, it stemmed from a natural desire to be close to you. To hold you in his arms, skin to skin, and assure himself that you were okay. You were alive. Skin and bones and muscle and sinew, a heart and lungs and a beautiful, intelligent brain. 

Standing beneath the water, you held each other, your head pressed to his chest, right over his heart. Days’ worth of dirt, grime, and dried blood were cleansed away, and along with it, you allowed yourselves to pretend that just for now, everything was okay. 

You parted only to retrieve the tiny bottle of complimentary body wash provided by the motel, which sat upon the ledge of the tub. With utmost care, you worked the soap into your husband’s skin, careful not to apply pressure to any bruised areas as you washed his body. 

His eyes drifted shut as he reveled in the feeling of your hands upon his body. The tension he’d been carrying for days began to melt away, not leaving entirely, but offering enough reprieve for his shoulders to begin to relax, and his breathing to even out. 

Oh, how he’d taken it all for granted before. The ability to do something as simple as showering together was now something to be cherished. He was present for every last second of it, never wanting to forget how it felt to be touched by you. 

Life was precious. And it could end in a heartbeat. He would never take a single second with you for granted again. 

“I think I’m going to need you to kneel so I can wash your hair properly,” your quiet voice pulled him from his reverie, and his eyes fluttered open to find you looking into his face, your expression open and kind. 

“Okay.” So he knelt for you, lowering himself to the floor of the bathtub, head tilted back, vulnerable, yet safer than he’d been in days. 

The shine of adoration and unadulterated love in your eyes was a beautiful sight, and he felt as if he was basking beneath the glow of the warm sun. 

When your hands touched his scalp, he leaned into you, giving you complete freedom to work the shampoo through his curls. While the experience of you washing his body had been intimate, it didn’t compare to this. 

Looking up at you as you took care of him broke him wide open, his chest aching as if someone had pried his ribs apart and forcibly yanked his heart out. He fell apart then. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, mixing with the water from the shower. 

“I…I need you closer.” He tugged you toward him, and you gasped softly as your knees buckled, sending you right into his lap, your thighs bracketing his own. 

“Ben—”

His lips found yours, arms sliding around your torso, holding you close, chest to chest. “Please, I—I can’t—”

With your forehead pressed against his own, your hands came up to cup his cheeks. A deep, longing ache, more intense than anything you had ever felt in your entire life, rippled through you. A sob bounced off the walls of the shower, and you realized the sound had come from you. 

Mouth open against his own, you let yourself be engulfed by his warmth, his skin slick and bare against your own. You moved by instinct alone, two lost souls desperate to find each other again, knit together by the fabric of the universe. 

“I need to be inside you,” he breathed, voice wrecked, body trembling. “Please, tell me you want that too.”

It took everything within yourself to muster a reply. “Yes, I-I need you, Ben.” It wasn’t about chasing release. It wasn’t even about pleasure at all. It was about being connected after nearly losing each other. It was about soothing the parts of your souls that were raw and ragged and torn to shreds. 

It was about becoming one. 

Water still rushing down around you, you surged forward, arms thrown around his neck as you kissed him deeply, tasting, consuming. His hand ghosted over your hip, between your thighs, fingers careful as he tenderly parted you, working the digits inside. 

You gasped, whimpering brokenly as he oh so gently opened you up, coaxing your slick from you so he would be able to slip inside you without causing you pain. Your body responded in kind, eager to let its guard down and be cherished. 

Skin to skin, heart to heart, you allowed yourself to sink down onto him, gasping softly at the stretch of being filled. There was no hurriedness to your movements. You lowered slowly, until your hips were flush with his.

A broken sound, a cross between a whimper and a sigh, pulled itself from his throat, lashes fluttering as he grew accustomed to the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him. It hit him all at once, like a blow to the chest. “Oh, god,” he croaked, bottom lip quivering, the deep blue of his eyes clouded with tears. 

Arms around his shoulders, you settled into him, needing to feel every inch of his body against you, grounding you, reminding you that this was real, and not a dream. Forehead pressed to his, a soft sob escaped your parted lips, and it all came rushing forth.

“I…I thought…” You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t utter the words that needed to be spoken. But you forced yourself to swallow the emotion and make your confession. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Tears tracked down his cheeks once again as he nodded, arms tightening around you. “I thought so too.” His voice trembled, thick with emotion. A beat passed, the sound of your mingled breathing, and the stream of the shower, the only things to be heard. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“When I thought it was over for me, my last thought was of you. How the times we had together were some of the best moments of my life. And how I hoped you’d make it out of the Lot and go on to live a good life without me.”

You couldn’t speak. There were no words you could utter, no reassurances you could breathe into the air between you. Instead, you buried your face against his neck, and let him hold you, bodies intertwined, connected in the most intimate of ways. This moment was two soulmates, rejoicing that the unthinkable hadn’t happened, and seeking solace in the other’s arms. 

Enveloped in his warmth, you finally felt safe. The war in your mind quieted to a dull hum, and the thrumming in your veins settled, allowing you to melt into him, and just be present. You weren’t fighting anymore. No weapons were brandished, no desperate prayers were uttered. 

Your head lifted from the crook of his shoulder, only to take in the sight of his beautiful face. You didn’t want to close your eyes, needing to commit this moment to memory. The slope of his nose, the staggering blue of his eyes, the cut on his cheek, the bruise near his eye. Reminders of what he had survived.

You never wanted to forget the feeling of him inside you. So deep, filling you so completely that it stole the breath from your lungs. Like the universe had created him to be connected to you in this way. 

The feeling was too much and not enough all at once. You needed him closer, needed him so deep that it was unbearable. When you pleaded for him to move, it came out as a broken, pathetic sob. 

Oh so slowly, he began to rock his hips into yours, not hurried, not rough. Gentle, careful, loving. “I’ve got you, baby,” he gasped against your mouth in reassurance. “I’m never letting you go.”

As he made love to you, he knew that he’d stop at nothing to see to it that you never had to suffer what you went through in the Lot again. He would be damned if he ever failed you again.

Your lips were warm as they trailed feverishly against his skin, a silent response to his words, and he was struck by how much you loved him, even after all you had been through. It made his chest ache so deeply, it took his breath away. 

In a moment of sheer need, he pulled you back and sought out your lips, kissing you even as tears trailed down his cheeks. 

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered against your mouth. “I’ll always love you. Always fight for you.”

You pressed your forehead against his, whimpering softly as you shifted your hips and felt him nudge against that sensitive spot within you. 

“And I’ll always love you,” you echoed. How good it felt to say that. To know that you had survived the unthinkable, and still had the opportunity to profess your undying love to him.

You wanted to say more, but the syllables died in your throat, stolen away by each shunt of his hips into you. I love you. Keep going. Right there. Don’t stop. 

A steady rhythm built between your bodies, and Ben lifted his pelvis to meet yours each time you sank down onto him, thighs quivering from the exertion. 

“Oh! Ben, I lo-love you,” you whimpered lowly, entirely overwhelmed with it all. 

He kissed you, swallowing your confession and burying it deep within his bones, allowing it to knit itself into his DNA. In his mind, his thoughts rang loudly. So good for me. Precious darling. All mine, always. 

You trembled fiercely in his arms, heat rushing through your body, both from your pleasure and from the closeness of his body. With each nudge of his hips inside you, his pubic bone pressed against you, sending you teetering toward the edge with every passing moment.

It built, and built, and built. Like magma swelling inside a volcano. Like rain clouds threatening to burst forth in the midst of a storm. The intensity was too much, and you found yourself burying your face against his shoulder, biting down so you wouldn’t cry out too loudly.

Ben grunted softly at the feeling of your teeth against his skin, rhythm stuttering, tremor running down his spine. You were losing yourself. He could tell. Could feel it in the way your anatomy tightened around him like a vice. 

His arms held you steady as he rutted into you, and as you leaned your head back, entirely unable to control your bodily responses as the pleasure built, his mouth found yours again. Hot and open, sharing each other’s gasps, tasting the desperation in one another’s mouths. 

“I-I’m–” 

“I know,” he gasped, hardly able to keep his voice steady. “Let go when you need to, honey. I’ve got you.”

And he did have you. He was so steady and solid beneath you, warm and real and human. So good, kind, and loving. Everything you could ever need. And his love, his tenderness, his care was what sent you plummeting over that edge.

He cradled you close as you fell apart, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Once again, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, muffling your sobs as you writhed against him. Ben’s eyes fell shut, shocks of electric pleasure crackling to life at the base of his spine. 

You were so perfect. So beautiful. Shaking against him, overwhelmed with pleasure, giving yourself to him completely. It ebbed through you, not like a violent monsoon, but in gentle waves, warmth radiating through your blood stream. It was comforting, in a way. Grounding.

And as you came down from it all, Ben offered a few more deep, deliberate thrusts, arms tightening around you before he tipped over the edge, gasping brokenly as it washed over him. You took all he had to give, shivering at the feeling of his warmth flooding you, filling the deepest part of you.

Mouth hot and open against your temple, he breathed, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When you looked up at him, there were tears shining in your eyes. The kiss that followed was tender, raw, laced with all the words left unsaid. There was no rush to break the spell that had fallen over you both. You remained intertwined, uncaring that the water was still running. 

After being terrorized by an ancient monster, wasting water was low on your list of worries.

Holding each other seemed much more important. You remained cradled in your husband’s arms, safe and secure. But all too soon, you had to part, and he tenderly helped you ease his softening cock from you, soothing you when you whimpered softly.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, angel.” When he stood, he groaned softly, his joints protesting after being seated on the floor of the bathtub for so long. But he ignored the pain, carefully helping you to your feet so he could rinse you clean. 

He was reverent and adoring, handling you as if you were a precious jewel. And when he was finished washing your body, he shut the water off, reaching beyond the tub to retrieve one of the towels off the nearby rack. Once dry and wrapped in the towel, he ever so carefully guided you out of the tub. 

“My bag,” you sleepily murmured, “it’s in the room.”

His lips found yours in a sweet kiss. “I’ll grab it.” After tossing on a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, ignoring his still damp skin, he padded out of the bathroom to retrieve your bag. 

Now alone in the bathroom, you let out a weary sigh, turning toward the mirror. A strange sort of hollow feeling settled in your chest as you took in your appearance. Exhaustion lurked in every ridge and curve of your body. The events of Jerusalem’s Lot had aged you, it seemed. You hardly recognized yourself. Part of you wondered if you would ever be the same again. It felt as if your very soul had been altered. Ripped apart and put back together again in all the wrong places.

You weren’t given much time to fall into a spiral, for moments later, Ben returned, quiet in his movements as he closed the bathroom door, duffel bag in hand. 

As he retrieved a little pot of body lotion for you, you asked, “how’s Mark?”

“Still asleep,” Ben murmured as he warmed the lotion in his palms before he began to smooth it along your skin. 

“Good for him. Lord knows he needs all the rest he can get.”

Silence settled between you again as Ben continued. You let him take care of you, watching in awe as he so meticulously lotioned your skin. Caring for you in this way quieted his mind and gave him purpose. 

“There. All finished,” he murmured, hands quick as he put the lid back on the lotion. The product was returned to your toiletry bag, and once you’d retrieved your pajamas from the duffel, Ben helped you dress. 

Finally clean and settled into comfortable clothes, the two of you made your way back out into the main part of the room, sure to be quiet as you moved. As you settled into the surprising softness of the empty bed, your husband crossed the room, taking a moment to look through the peephole on the door, and peek through the curtains. Of course, no one was out there. But he had to be certain.

When he turned to join you in bed, he caught sight of the mournful look in your eyes. “We’ll always be looking over our shoulders, won’t we?” You whispered.

He let out an unsteady breath as he pulled you into his arms. “For a while, at least.” He settled behind you, arms cinched around your waist, holding you against the warmth of his broad chest. “But maybe…in the future, we’ll find ourselves in a place where we finally feel safe.”

A deep sense of longing spread through you. “God, I hope so.” 

He slowly moved to hover over you, his eyes filled with raw sincerity. “I need you to know that no matter what, I’m with you. Whatever comes our way, I’ll be by your side, fighting it with you. You and Mark deserve the chance at a normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you brought your hands up to cup his cheeks. “I know you will, Ben. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

He nuzzled his nose against yours before he sealed his promise with a kiss. As you settled into bed that night, you knew that your journey was only just beginning. It would not be an easy task to move on from the events of the Lot. You didn’t even know how to begin to recover from it.

But what you did know was that you wouldn’t have to go it alone. You would lean on each other, just like you always had. And somehow, some way, you would come out on the other side of this. Battered and scarred, but alive. 

-

tagging:

@thecowboyfiles @sunfloress @thesoftdumbass @householdcryptid @rainymitskicain

@mashtonbunny @mrcspectr @awesomekollie @bbybnnybee @rosesandtae

@fairyheart @mywinterivy @queer-vampire @voidslxt @withahappyrefrain

@shinycupcakebaker @cosmic-marauder @trelaney @gwaciechang @mustaaarrd

But yours?

He was absolutely hypnotized by them.

He had memorized the shape of your fingers before he’d ever touched them accidentally. The slight bend of your knuckles when you curled your hand around a mug of coffee in the mornings in the compound kitchen, while you tried to make casual conversation with him. The way you sometimes picked at your palms nervously when you were trying to ease your own anxieties. He even memorized the way you tapped your nails on anything and everything–tables, countertops, mugs, windows–but most importantly when you’d tap them up your thighs when you were bored during briefings. All these things you did, the little quirks you had, they were cauterized into his brain, and it took up a reserved spot specifically built for things you did that drove him crazy–such as touching him.

Because when you did–whether it was by accident or not–that contact was enough to ruin him for hours.

A pat on the back after a mission. A brush of your fingers against his when handing him notes or files or coffee. That one time you had smoothed a wayward piece of hair behind his ear, with your freshly filed nails grazing his cheekbone–where he had nearly stopped breathing and ceased to exist, making it one of his favourite memories, so much so that he purposely tousled his hair into chaos before seeing you sometimes, just to give you the opportunity to fix it again and recreate the same spark it gave him before.

Sometimes, he imagined your hands on his chest, palms flat, pressing warmth into the stretch of skin just below his collarbones. Or your fingertips gliding down his ribcage, leaving a trail of invisible fire in their wake, making him arch toward your touch so he can beg for more of it. But it was the thought of your nails–those glossy, always filed things–that plagued him the most. He could practically feel them scraping slow, aching lines down his back when he pictured you under him. Could imagine them wrapped tight around the base of his cock, the sharp edge of the nail of it swiping ever so gently over the head in a teasingly cruel manner.

He touched himself to those thoughts more times than he would admit. Stroking himself in the dead of night with your name falling out of his mouth in whispered gasps, hips twitching, his free hand gripping the sheets like they might somehow shield him from the raw need that curled in his gut. There were nights where he didn’t even need to try–his brain just went on autopilot and did all the work.

Then there were days where he was so out of control that a glance across the room at you doing something so mundane like typing on your laptop would make him stiffen in his sweatpants. Days when his bottoms felt too tight and his thoughts turned feral just from watching you. He’d make some excuse–bathroom, food, forgetting mission notes–and would escape quickly to handle the situation, praying no one noticed.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that your hands–specifically–drove him completely nuts. How was he supposed to explain that everything you did had him hanging on by a thread in anticipation? It was a double edged sword that he knew he didn’t want to hold or draw. He couldn’t out himself, and there was no chance he would, or at least he thought that…

Until…You came back to the compound on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, fresh from your day of gallivanting around the city. The elevator had pinged as the door slid open into the common room. Bob had been lounging on the couch, an old, torn up copy of 1984 in hand, half-reading, and half-daydreaming about you–which was the norm these days. His long legs were tucked under a deep green throw blanket, plucked from the foot of his bed, just so he had something comfortable pressing on him.

When you stepped out of the elevator, his eyes peeked up at you from over his book, attempting to have a semblance of a cover-up so you didn’t think he was staring. You were wearing a white fitted top, and a pair of high-waisted blue jeans that hugged every curve and dip you were blessed with. You were holding an iced coffee in one hand and had your shoulder bag perched on the other, and almost instantly, he noticed your nails.

They were at a medium length, curved like almonds almost, and they were painted a deep gold, accented with little silver specks that caught the natural light that spilled in through the tall windows of the open common space.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw him, quickly tapping your watch to pause whatever you had been listening to, before pulling out your earbud.

“Hey! Didn’t expect you to be home on your day off, I thought you said you were going out with the rest of the team?” You asked, stepping further into the space with an effortless kind of grace that made Bob’s heart stutter. You bent slightly to set your shoulder bag down on the floor beside the entryway bench, your shirt riding up just an inch to reveal the soft skin of your lower back–just enough to make his throat go completely dry.

You fished your earbud case out of the tight front pocket of your jeans, the fabric clinging to you like seconds skin, and he couldn’t help but take quick glances at the way your body shifted as you pulled out the white compartment. With a little pop, the earbud clicked into place, and the case joined your bag, your nails making that same crystalline tapping noise against the plastic that nearly electrocuted his nervous system. A shiver sneaking up his spine before he could brace for it.

“I…I thought it would be nice to just st-stay in for the day. Just to really relax and recoup, y’know?” He replied, eyes flickering down to your hand again as it curled around the clear cup of your iced coffee. He couldn’t look away from the way your golden nails glinted when you adjusted your grip–like you were sprinkling sunlight across the room with a flick of a wrist. He gulped, trying to provide a little relief for his throat.

A small smile pulled lazily at your lips, like you had caught him staring but you let him off the hook anyways. You stepped further into the common room, kicking off your shoes in the process, leaving them a few feet apart from each other, splayed across the polished wood, as you approached the couch.

”You wouldn’t mind if I joined you then, hmm?” You asked, lifting your brow, almost too casual for it to be innocent. You were standing over him a bit, the condensation of the iced coffee cup dripping onto your palm–he wanted to lick the droplets off so bad, but he refrained from even moving a muscle. With the semi-close proximity he could smell your perfume–sweet pineapple, with lemon, mint, and neroli–and he nearly forgot how to function. It felt like all his senses were at play and it was only going to end with him spontaneously combusting under the pressure, but he knew he had to keep his cool.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head maybe a little too quickly.

”No, no. Be my gu-guest,” He said, his voice cracking at the end as his throat tightened. He gestured to the far end of the couch, moving his feet to make room for her, praying his face didn’t look as red as it felt. But instead of moving straight there, you stepped closer–to his side–and gave him a teasing glance as you reached over him to grab one of the spare throw pillows, your arm brushing his shoulder.

“Thanks,” You murmured, and the sound of your nails brushing against the ribbed fabric–the sinful scrape–as you adjusted the pillow against the armrest sent another wave of heat down his spine. You settled in slowly, lounging back against the dark brown leather, legs curling under you as you brought the iced coffee to your lips, taking a sip, the straw clicking softly against your teeth. Bob’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking to the glimmer on your nails again, his stomach twisting before he looked away in shame.

“So…What’re you reading today?” You asked lightly, tipping your chin towards the book that was in his lap now. His hands–suddenly sweaty–tightened on the worn paperback, and he fumbled for something intelligent to say, but all he kept thinking of was your hands, and the water droplets that tricked down your palms, and the gold nail polish that curled even tighter around the plastic, as if they were simulating curling around him…

He licked his dry lips, adjusting the blanket over his legs to hide the growing tension in his lap, “Uh…Orwell. Just rereading.” He mumbled. You tilted your head, humming thoughtfully as you ran your index finger along the condensation on your cup. Bob’s eyes followed the motion like a dog watching their leash come off the hook, and you were watching with a smirk on your face.

”Hm…Definitely a heavy read for a day off,” You commented, voice lifting. Then you paused your movements, glancing at him from under your lashes, “But…It’s fitting.” You added, like you were making reference to something he couldn’t quite catch onto.

”Fitting?” He asked, confused. Trying to keep his voice neutral. You shrugged, and your smile turned devilish, or teasing in a way only Bob caught.

”It’s about repression, isn’t it?” You responded, almost like you knew it was going to get to him…And it did, because Bob nearly choked on his own tongue. Your brows lifted in innocent amusement as you took another sip, tapping your nails absently on the cup’s lid letting the acoustic sound echo lightly. His skin was on fire. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to look at your hands again, your mouth, the shape of your nails and the softness of your skin. His sweatpants were tightening dangerously under the blanket, and all you were doing was sitting there, being normal.

You shifted beside him with a little sigh, the movement slow, almost like a cat. The worn leather couch dipped with the change in weight, and Bob could feel the heat of you bleeding through the slight gap of cushion between your bodies.

And then you looked down at your nails, dragging your thumb over the smoothness of the polish like you weren’t unraveling every last thread of his self-control.

“Y’know,” You murmured, cocking your head slightly as you turned your palm toward yourself, admiring the sheen, “I’m still on the fence about this colour.” And before he could even process what was happening, you extended your hand out to him, fingers splayed ever so slightly, the sunlight catching the gold and silver flecks like you were holding stars in your palm. “What do you think?” You asked. Your voice was sweet, curious, innocent. And yet it hit Bob like a goddamn sucker punch to the gut, because he knew that you knew exactly what you were doing.

Up close, the gold looked familiar.

Not just because it shimmered like something precious, something sacred–but because it stirred something in Bob’s mind that had been sleeping, curled in a corner of his subconscious. He couldn’t quite place it at first, more because it felt like his brain was boiling, melting in the heat of your presence, your fingers still outstretched–glinting, hovering like a threat–right over where his paperback book now precariously covered the pulsing, growing tension beneath the blanket in his lap.

He was sweating. He could feel it at his temples, down the back of his neck, on the insides of his palms that now gripped the book like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

You were still holding your hand there.

Still waiting.

Still looking at him.

And so, because it was expected, because you’d asked–because it was you–he swallowed down the panic and the arousal that clawed up the back of his throat and rasped, “I…I like the color. It’s really…Really pretty. And…Gold.” You tilted your head like you were studying him. And that smile curled slow and sly on your lips, the kind of smile that spoke fluent intentions.

“Hm. I thought you might say that,” You mused, like it wasn’t the most loaded thing you’d said all week, then you dropped the bombshell, “I actually used Sentry’s suit for a colour reference, so…That’s probably why you like it so much.”

Bob’s heart flatlined for a second.

His eyes went wide, lips parting slightly, and he just stared at you like he’d been shot. Like he’d just realized that not only were you very much aware of what you were doing–but you’d taken it one step further.

He let out a nervous, breathless little laugh–one that barely cleared his throat. It sounded strangled, broken at the edges.

”Wh-Why would you use Sentry’s suit for a colour reference?” He asked, already dreading the answer, knowing it was going to make him even more flustered. He wanted to melt into the couch and disappear into another timeline, just being in this position made him feel ill.

You shrugged with a soft, knowing little smirk on your lips, before lifting the straw back up to your lips and taking a slow sip. The tip of your tongue peeked out to catch a stray droplet at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” You started, resting the cup back on your thigh, “Because I wanted to give you something pretty to look at, of course. Since you like staring at my hands so much.”

The air left his lungs in a single, panicked wheeze.

You knew…

His mouth parted, his breath caught, and for a full second all he could do was stare at you, every muscle in his body seizing like you’d turned a spotlight on his dirtiest secret.

“I–” He started, but the words wouldn’t come. Your lips curved into something even more wicked, and then you bit your lower one, slowly, deliberately, dragging it between your teeth like you were savoring every second of his unraveling.

“Do you really think I don’t notice you drooling all the time?” You asked, your voice dipping lower, softer–dangerously close to a whisper, “You think I don’t feel your eyes on me?” Bob was speechless, and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck from the nerves and embarrassment he was feeling. It felt like his insides were boiling into a puddle of sludge, until he saw you reaching out.

Immediately he tensed up at your movements, watching as your well manicured hand pressed onto his stomach–slow, and gentle–resting it there, your fingers splayed over his t-shirt. The heat of your palm burned through the cotton like it was branding him, and his entire body stiffened beneath your touch.

And then–

The sound.

That soft, sinful, scraping sound of your glossy nails dragging lightly across the fabric of his shirt–barely there, but loud in his ears. Crkk–krrkk–krrk. Each little scrape made the hair on his arms stand up, a shiver crawling up his spine so fast it left goosebumps in its wake. It was the exact kind of noise he fantasized about in the dark: your nails against sheets, against skin, against him.

Bob’s eyes snapped shut, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack, and a broken, shaky breath slipped past his lips like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“Y-Y/N…” He whispered, trembling beneath your touch, “Please don’t tease me like this…Don’t drag your nails down my st-stomach like that.” You tilted your head, expression shifting slightly–not cruel, but curious. Fascinated. Amused by how easy it was to ruin him.

“Why?” You murmured, shifting even closer now, your knees pressing against his, “You getting turned on by this?” Bob let out a soft, desperate sound–somewhere between a groan and a whimper–and you felt his stomach flutter beneath your hand as you ghosted your nails down to the hem of his shirt, pausing there, your fingertips toying with the edge. His breathing was shallow…Laboured like he was in pain.

You slipped your hand under the hem of his t-shirt, the cotton lifting just slightly as your fingers made contact with his bare skin, instantly feeling the heat of him. The tips of your nails glided over the tight ridges of his abdomen, slowly tracing between the lines, teasing each muscle like you were aping out the lines of his tension just to watch him crumble.

He twitched, his eyes closing tightly.

Like the sensation was too much and not enough all at once.

Goosebumps erupted beneath your touch, rippling down his sides as your hand drifted lower, tracing the very faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingertips paused there, right above where he was aching, and you could feel the way his breath hitched. He was holding himself together by a thread–shaking, twitching, whimpering–but still trying to be polite about it.

You let out a small sigh, and slipped your hand out from beneath his top. In one swift movement, you leaned forward, carefully placed your iced coffee down on the table beside the couch, your phone clattering after it. Then, without a word, you grabbed the book–the one he’d been pathetically clutching like a shield–and tossed it to the floor. Bob had made a little noise of protest like you had ripped off a piece of armor, his hands immediately adjusting the blanket over his lap, but before he could even react, you rose from your seat and climbed onto him, straddling his lap with slow, fluid control, placing your knees on either side of his waist. The blanket was between you, but not enough. Not enough to hide the fact that he was hard and straining against the fabric of both his sweatpants and the blanket, his hips jerking subtly up toward the pressure of you settling against him.

He let out a strangled, choked sound, and his face flushed a deep, almost cherry red, as he tilted his head back like he was in absolute agony. You adjusted yourself leisurely in his lap, grinding just a little–not enough to give him what he wanted, but just enough to make his breath stutter, and to make it known that you could feel him under you.

Slowly you reached out and rested your hands gently against his chest, feeling the rapid, terrified rhythm of his heart under your palms. With the way he was looking at you–his blue eyes wide, lips parted, with a deeper flush creeping up his throat rising like a tide–it made you want to ruin him slowly.

”You know…” You whispered, leaning closer, the words spilling across his lips like smoke, “I think it’s sweet that you like my hands so much.” He inhaled sharply, lashes fluttering low as his jaw clenched like he didn’t want to believe you. His voice cracked on the edges of desperation when he spoke.

”You don’t have to lie to me to ma-make me feel better…I know I’m a creep for having this…This stupid thing.” He replied, like you were teasing him out of pity more than anything else. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

”I’m not lying to you…And I don’t think you’re a creep Bob.” You breathed, your voice dropping to something low and intimate, like a secret passed between lovers, “I like that you stare and that you admire them from a far.”

And then–without warning–you brought one hand up to his hair, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his light brown locks. You tangled through them gently, letting your nails scrape just a little against his scalp, and then tugged. Firm enough to make his spine go rigid beneath you, firm enough to tilt his chin up so that his throat was exposed to you. His breath caught in his throat and then released in a trembling exhale, a soft moan following close behind.

You leaned in, letting your lips press softly against the thrum of his pulse just below his jaw. Once. Twice. Your breath fanned over the sensitive skin, and you felt him tremble beneath you, his hips shifting, bucking up ever so slightly as his cock pressed insistently against the fabric of your jeans through the blanket. He was hard–achingly so–and you could feel him pulse with every tiny movement of your hips.

“Y/N…” he gasped, broken, a plea falling from his lips like prayer.

You smiled against his neck, your lips brushing the heat of his skin as you whispered darkly, sweetly:

“Do you think about my hands when you’re alone at night?” He let out a shaky whimper, flinching at your words, “Do you imagine them wrapped around your cock? MY nails dragging along the shaft, my fingers squeezing the head just enough to make your thighs shake?” Your words vibrated against his throat, and the strangled moan he let out was nothing short of devastating. His hands clenched at the blanket on either side of you, his whole body visibly shaking beneath the weight of your voice, your heat, your hands.

“…Ye–Yes,” He choked, breathless and raw. “Fuck, yes…” The confession sounded like it had been ripped from his soul, shame-laced and trembling–but you didn’t give him time to retreat. You pulled on his hair again, a bit harder this time, and he moaned—open-mouthed and helpless–his body arching beneath you as you gripped him like he was yours, as you leaned in.

“That’s what I thought,” You whispered darkly against the shell of his ear, “I bet you come so fucking quick too, don’t you? Just from thinking about my hands wrapped around your cock…” He was whining now, almost crying, and god, you’d never seen anything so beautiful. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy, his lips trembling like he was already at the edge.

”Please…”. He rasped desperately, “Please Y/N…Please touch me, I can’t–I need it–“ You shifted back just enough to find his mouth, then kissed him–slow and deliberate. His lips parted instantly beneath yours, a quiet moan escaping him in a desperate effort to express how he was feeling. He melted into the contact, chasing it even as you pulled away. His hands came up to cradle your face like it was instinct–his touch gentle, but desperate, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or fall apart under you.

Before he could kiss you again, you slid your fingers back into his hair and gave it another firm tug, guiding his head back and breaking the contact. His breath hitched. You leaned in close, eyes heavy with intent, and whispered against his mouth.

“Take your shirt off.”

He obeyed without hesitation, dragging the cotton fabric up over his head with shaking hands. You helped him halfway, your palms brushing his warm skin, lifting until the shirt was off and discarded somewhere behind the couch.

And now he was bare.

The sunlight from the tall windows bathed his skin in warmth, making every line of his body look more pronounced, giving him a golden haze on his normally pale skin. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the shape of him stretched taut with tension–like every muscle had been wound up, just waiting for your touch. You took your time admiring the details.

His collarbones were sharp, framed by the mess of his light brown hair. His chest was smooth and pale, but peppered with tiny freckles and beauty marks of various shades. You leaned forward and brushed your fingertips across one, then another. Your nails dragged slow, featherlight paths over his skin, and the effect was immediate: his stomach tensed, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

You trailed lower. Across his ribs, over his stomach–watching each muscle shift and contract beneath your touch. He was trying to stay still, to hold it together, but you felt the way his hips jerked beneath you when your nails dipped along the lines of his abdomen, just soft enough to tickle, just sharp enough to tease.

He looked like he was on the verge of falling apart.

His throat bobbed with every swallow, and when you glanced up at him, his eyes were locked on yours–wide, glassy, pleading. His lips were parted, pink and swollen from your kiss, and his hands trembled where they held your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do more.

Then his hand shifted.

It released your side and reached up slowly, tentatively, toward yours. He took your wrist gently, holding your hand between both of his, and brought it up like it was something holy, something fragile. He didn’t even look away from your eyes as he whispered:

“Can I suck on your fingers?” Your breath caught for a moment, but immediately you nodded at him, mesmerized by the question. He didn’t wait for further permission.

He guided your hand closer, turning it palm-up, and then dipped his head to it, tongue warm and wet as it slid over your thumb. The contact was molten. He wrapped his lips around the digit, sucking gently, cheeks hollowing as he kept his eyes locked on yours. It was deliberate, drawn out–like he wanted you to feel every second of it, every swirl of his tongue against the pad of your thumb.

Then he moved on.

Index finger next. The wet glide of his lips, the soft pressure of his tongue, his lashes fluttering but never fully closing. He looked wrecked already. Adoring. Starving.

When he got to your middle finger, his lips went tight. He sucked it deeper, his cheeks coloring as he pulled it in further than the others–so far that your knuckle brushed the back of his tongue. The reaction was immediate.

His throat flexed around it.

He gagged softly. A delicate, broken sound that made more saliva spill past his lips and down your hand. His chin glistened with it. Drool sheen catching the light like something obscene. He pulled back with a wet gasp, your finger slipping from his mouth with a faint pop, spit connecting in thin strands between your hand and his lips.

“Fu–Fuck,” He panted, voice cracked and sticky, “They taste so good…”

You felt the breath leave your chest.

He took your palm in both hands like it was something to be worshipped and leaned in, licking a slow, messy stripe from the heel to the tips of your fingers–leaving your skin glistening, sticky with spit. Then he pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, slow and soft and somehow more obscene than anything else he’d done.

Your throat tightened with need.

You cupped that same palm against his flushed cheek, his skin hot beneath the slick, and leaned forward. He met you halfway this time.

The kiss was messier now. Wetter. Your chin smeared with the same spit that coated your hand. Bob moaned against your mouth like he couldn’t help it, lips parting wide, letting you taste the sweet, hot tang of him and your skin all at once.

And the moment you ground your hips against his again, harder this time, more deliberate, he gasped into your mouth–hands flying to your waist, bunching the fabric of your shirt in trembling fists. His cock throbbed beneath you through the blanket and sweatpants, and he was practically panting against your lips when he pulled back just far enough to speak.

“Can I ta–take your shirt off now?” He stammered, breathless, voice pitched high with need.

You smirked, dragging your thumb along his jaw. “Okay.”

He wasted no time. Bob sat up just enough to tug your shirt up, and you lifted your arms to help him, the fabric sliding over your body in a single fluid motion. When it was gone, he froze.

Your white lace bra was sheer, delicate, hugging your curves in a way that made his lips part and his fingers twitch where they rested on your sides.

You didn’t let him get lost in it.

You rolled your hips once more, just enough to make his breath stutter again, then leaned in close, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m gonna take my jeans off,” You murmured. “While I’m doing that, you do the same with your sweatpants.”

His entire body tensed. You felt it. The tremble. The barely-there nod.

”Okay.” He whispered, voice wrecked. You slid off him slowly, every movement deliberate, letting your body drag over his lap just enough to make him shiver. Your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, flicking it open with ease, the soft click echoing like a starter’s pistol in the space between you.

Bob sat completely still, his lips parted, his breath shallow as you slowly began shimmying the denim down your hips. He watched–eyes wide, and hungry–while you slid the jeans past your thighs, and down your legs, as your nails brushed the outside of your skin, pushing them off completely.

The matching white lace of your underwear made his mouth go dry.

It clung to you delicately, barely there, sheer in the light, hugging every curve like it was made to be seen–made to ruin him. You hadn’t meant to match the bra and panties, but now, under his gaze, it felt like fate. His cock twitched visibly beneath the blanket at the sight, and his hands clenched into the couch cushions. He scrambled a little, tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down with shaky fingers, lifting his hips as he kicked them off the rest of the way, the fabric pooling awkwardly at the foot of the couch before he shoved it aside. He was left in just his boxer briefs, tented from how hard he was, and damp from the pre-cum that was dripping from the tip.

You returned to him like a wave rolling back over the shore, lifting the blanket just slightly, before slipping under it with the kind of practiced ease that made Bob suck in a sharp breath. You resumed your place straddling him, but this time it was different–hotter. More bare. The thin layers between you did nothing to hide the friction now. You sank back down into his lap, feeling the thick, pulsing weight of him pressing right up against your lace-covered core. The heat of it seared into you instantly, and you let your hips roll–just once, slowly–dragging forward across him, letting the stiff line of his cock drag right over your soaked panties.

He moaned into your mouth.

The kiss was immediate and eager, your lips crashing together with an urgency that left no space for hesitation. His moan vibrated against your tongue, deep and soft and desperate. He panted between kisses, adjusting himself underneath you, hips twitching toward the pressure, his hands gripping your waist like he was drowning in you.

And then you pulled back.

Just far enough to look him in the eyes. Your chest heaved slightly from the kiss, lips tingling, and your palm lifted slowly–hovering in front of his mouth.

“Lick it,” You whispered, voice thick with authority and something darker. You didn’t have to explain. He knew exactly what you meant.

Bob’s eyes locked on yours–dark with want, lips wet–and without hesitation, he leaned forward and flattened his tongue against your palm.

The heat of it, the glide.

He licked slowly, then went back again, wetter this time. Keeping his eyes on yours like it was the only thing that mattered to him in those moments. Like watching your face while his tongue coated your skin was the only thing that truly made him realize that what he was doing was real.

You pulled your hand away, leaving a wet sheen across your palm where Bob’s spit clung, then let your fingertips trail down the center of his chest. Your nails moved in slow, teasing paths, catching on the extremely fine hair along his sternum, watching every twitch of muscle beneath your touch. He was breathing hard already, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven waves, eyes flicking between your face and your hand as it slid lower and lower.

When you circled his nipple with the sharp tip of your nail, he gasped–his back arching, a shiver racing across his skin like lightning. His lips parted, but no words came out, just a breathy moan that cracked open in his throat.

You smiled at the reaction, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek, before letting your hand drift further–slow, steady, and unstoppable–until you reached the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He tilted his head back, inhaling sharply, like even the anticipation of your touch was too much to bear. You let your fingers slip just under the elastic, teasing at the edge, feeling the heat of him pulsing beneath–but not quite touching him yet. You stayed just at the threshold. Cruel. Controlled. Making him wait.

His hips bucked up slightly, instinctive and helpless, chasing your hand. He whined, soft and broken.

“Please,” He rasped, voice barely holding together. “Y/N, please…Touch me…Fuck, I need it…” You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving.

“You can do better than that.” The flush on his chest deepened, and he looked up at you like you’d cracked him wide open. His hands trembled against your thighs, gripping them like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t anchor himself.

“Please,” He begged again, voice wrecked, more desperate now, hips wiggling under you. “Please, I want your hands on me…I want you to touch me, I need it so bad, I’ve been thinking about it for so fucking long. I–I’ll do anything, just…Please, Y/N, please–”

That was enough…You slipped your fingers into the waistband and tugged.

The fabric dragged slowly over his hips, down his thighs. You pushed it further, baring him completely, and then you paused–just for a moment–to take in the sight of him.

He was hard. So hard he twitched when the air hit him. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and angry-red at the tip, the shaft thick, veined, and glistening with a glossy bead of pre-cum that rolled slowly from the head. When it hit the flat of his stomach, it left a wet smear across his skin. His abs tightened beneath it.

God.

It was gorgeous.

You shifted back on your knees, eyes dragging down to his lap, then back up to his face. Your own lips parted slightly, breath catching in your throat. He was well-endowed, thick and long, but it wasn’t just size–it was everything…

Your thighs clenched, and then without breaking eye contact, you raised your spit-slicked hand and wrapped it around him. Bob let out a shattered, breathless moan, hips jerking up into your grip like he couldn’t stop himself. His head dropped back against the couch, lips parted, neck tight with strain.

You stroked slowly. Tight. Controlled. You let your fingers squeeze a little more firmly with each pass, the drag of your palm leaving wet trails of his own spit smeared down the length of him.

He whimpered.

You twisted your wrist slightly at the top and dragged your thumb through a fresh bead of pre-cum, smearing it slowly over the swollen tip in a lazy, circular motion.

“Fuck…Y/N.” His voice cracked, like it had splintered straight down the middle. “Oh my god–” You leaned in close again, your breath fanning against his flushed jaw, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

“Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” You whispered, and then gave him another slow stroke, just to hear the way he moaned at the praise–like the words alone could make him come apart. You tightened your grip just slightly, the wet glide of your hand making a slick, obscene noise as you picked up the pace. Bob’s cock twitched in your palm with every stroke, the head flushed and leaking with steady drips of precum that added to the mess between your bodies.

“God, listen to you,” You purred, your breath hot against his lips. “So fucking loud for me.” Bob moaned–guttural, desperate–his head tipping back against the couch cushions. His thighs were shaking beneath you now, his body visibly trembling with the effort to keep himself from coming right then and there. But the sounds you were coaxing out of him? Absolutely divine. His breath came in quick, stuttering pants, every exhale a broken sound.

“Fuck…Can I…Can I t-touch you too? Please?” He begged, his voice cracking apart with need, his hand fluttering up toward your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to make contact without permission. You smiled softly, leaning in to brush your mouth against the corner of his lips.

“If you want,” You replied quietly.

That was all it took.

Immediately, he shifted beneath you, sitting up a little straighter so that your torsos nearly pressed together. His hands were trembling as he brought them to your hips, slipping up beneath the blanket with reverent care. You were still stroking him–slower now, teasing, your thumb smearing the mess over the head of his cock just to make him whimper again–and when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace of your panties, you sucked in a soft gasp.

“Jesus Christ… Y/N,” He whimpered, breathless, his voice barely holding together. His middle and ring fingers slid through your soaked folds with a soft squelch that made both of you shiver. “You’re so wet. Fu-Fuck.”

Then he leaned in again, catching your lips in a kiss that was messier than before–hungrier. Spit-slicked and open-mouthed, your tongues brushed, tangled. Your moan vibrated into his mouth as he circled your clit with maddening gentleness, then slipped two fingers inside you with almost no resistance.

The stretch was perfect. Your hips jerked forward, pressing down into his touch as he curled his fingers slowly, his palm grinding against your clit with every forward motion. You were panting now, moaning softly between the kisses, your hand still pumping his cock in slick, tight strokes.

The air was hot between you. Sweaty. Tense. Each sound–your breathy whimpers, his choked moans, the rhythmic squelch of his fingers inside you and the slick, wet slap of your palm gliding over his cock–echoed through the living room like they were trying to shame you into slowing down. But neither of you cared–nobody was home, and you would clean up afterwards.

Bob was a wreck. His body was trembling beneath you, his brows drawn tight, lips parted around helpless little gasps as your strokes grew faster, sloppier.

“Y/N…Fuck. Your hand, your hand feels so good–gonna…Shit, I’m gonna–”

You leaned in, whispering into the curve of his neck, your voice low and thick. “Don’t you dare cum until I say.”

He whimpered again, hips twitching, and the sound he made when you rolled your hips forward into the heel of his palm–shuddering, needy–made your body seize up. He pushed his fingers deeper, curling them just right, rubbing that spongy spot with trembling precision while his palm never stopped grinding against your clit.

You cried out–sharp, gasping–your thighs squeezing around his wrist. “Fuck, Bob. Right there…Right fucking there–!”

Bob kissed you again, deeper, his hand steady now, his fingers fucking into you faster, rougher, while your own hand faltered–just slightly–around his cock. But you picked it back up immediately, giving him faster, firmer strokes, your slick fingers sliding along his shaft with filthy, wet sounds that only got louder as your body began to tense.

And then–it hit.

Your back arched. Your mouth fell open.

“Bob–!”

You gushed around his fingers, your panties soaked instantly as a hot rush of liquid poured out, flooding over his palm, dripping down his wrist, the wetness pressing into his lap.

“Oh my god,” He gasped, eyes wide, fingers slowing as he felt your body pulse around him. “Did you just–?”

“Yes…Fuck…Yes!” You panted, your entire body trembling against him, breath ragged. He looked down in awe, eyes darting between your soaked panties and the wet mess now streaked down his arm, and he moaned, deep and low.

That was it.

You tightened your grip again–faster now, harder–stroking him through his ragged breathing, through the mess of spit and precum already slicking his cock.

“I want you to cum for me, Bob,” You whispered hoarsely. “All over yourself. Right now.”

He didn’t last three more strokes.

With a strangled cry–loud and cracked–his body arched off the couch, his thighs trembling, his cock twitching hard in your grip as thick ropes of cum spilled up over his abs, dripping down his stomach in hot, messy streaks. His mouth hung open, jaw slack as he moaned through it, every pulse of pleasure ripping a sound from the depths of him like it was being torn free.

“Fu–Fuck, Y/N, oh my god–.” You kept stroking, easing him through it, feeling every throb and twitch beneath your fingers, watching the way his whole body trembled with overstimulation. His head lolled back, cheeks flushed red, chest heaving with each uneven breath.You smiled down at him, your own legs still trembling from your orgasm, your thighs wet and sticky.

And then–slowly–you brought your cum-slick fingers to your mouth and sucked one between your lips, moaning softly at the taste, and all Bob could do was whimper at the sight. Those well manicured nails stained with his release almost made him get hard again. You cleaned off your palm with your tongue keeping eye contact with him the entire time as his chest was rising and falling with ragged awe.

“I should get my nails done more often,” You murmured, voice wicked-sweet.