Micah~

Didn't know you were glowing again. Not the same way you had during healing, no. This was different. This was hunger disguised as shame.

And Ben? Ben nearly groaned. You walked toward him like you didn't trust the floor to hold you.

Your voice was quiet. Cracked. "I tried to sleep."

He sat up just a little, one arm draped over his raised knee.

"Didn't work?"

You shook your head. "It's louder now."

Ben's jaw ticked. "What is?"

You swallowed. "The ache."

The way you said it—quiet, almost hurt—made something tighten in his chest.

"Where's it hurt?" He asked, voice lower now. Rougher.

You touched your lower belly. The way you winced—it wasn't pain. It was want. Ben knew the difference. He let the silence breathe. Let you fill it with your own need.

Ben nodded, slow. "And what were you thinking about?"

You shifted.

His voice softened. "Be honest."

You looked down. "You."

His cock twitched. Sharp. Immediate. He didn't show it.

You whispered, "I'm sorry. I just wanted it to go away."

"You came to me."

You nodded. "I didn't know where else to go."

Ben leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. His voice dropped to something lower. Quieter.

"I thought maybe you could..." You trailed off.

He tilted his head.

"Could what, baby? Get you off?"

You shook your head fast. "Not like last time. I can't do that again."

"Didn't say you had to." His voice dropped, casual as hell. "Could just kiss you instead."

You blinked. Like the idea hadn't occurred to you.

Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The smirk never left his mouth.

"C'mon. You want somethin' soft? Let me kiss you. You'll like it."

You hesitated. He held out a hand. You didn't move. You stood there, bare thighs trembling, eyes wide, waiting for permission. He held his hand out—palm up, steady.

"C'mere, baby."

You stepped between his knees, uncertain.

"I don't want... I can't do what we did last time."

Ben nodded. "I know."

"I got scared."

"I know."

You looked up at him. "What will you do?"

His thumb traced small circles in the air, coaxing. "Nothing you don't want."

You hesitated.

He smiled. "Just a kiss."

Your breath caught. "Will it help?"

His voice was barely above a murmur now. "Close your eyes and let me show you."

You climbed onto the bed, slow and careful, and as you moved to straddle his lap, the hem of your shirt rose higher—bare skin sliding against his, and fuck, you didn't even know. You weren't wearing panties. Didn't know your cunt was pressed warm and bare right against the line of his abs.

Ben inhaled through his teeth, biting it back.

You didn't notice. You were too focused on settling your knees, shifting shyly, trying to find balance.

"Is this okay?" You asked, voice small.

Ben's hands came to your thighs. He didn't squeeze. Just steadied.

"You're perfect."

You just sat there. Knees on either side of his hips. That too-big shirt rising just enough for him to see the soft crease where your thigh met your hip. You looked down at him, nervous, clutching the sleeves, and you asked:

"Does kissing really help?"

Ben chuckled low. "You're gonna ask me that when you're sittin' on my cock wearin' nothin' but Hughie's laundry?"

You blinked, startled. "I'm not—"

His grin turned wicked. "Yeah, sweetheart. You are."

Your thighs twitched. You looked away.

Ben's voice dropped, softer now, darker. "I ain't gonna fuck ya. Not tonight."

You looked back, startled. He cupped your jaw. Tilted your face to his. "But I'm gonna make sure you dream about it."

You whimpered. Just a little. He leaned in, lips just brushing yours.

"Let me kiss you, angel. Let me show you why you're hurtin' so bad."

You nodded, tilted your head. "I don't know how to kiss."

He smiled.

"You will." He leaned in, letting the heat of your breath meet his. "I'll show you everythin'."

You blinked slowly. "Will it hurt?"

"No," he murmured. "But it'll stay with you."

You didn't understand what he meant. And God, he loved that.

"Okay," you whispered.

Ben brought one hand to your jaw. Tilted your mouth up. Brushed his thumb against your lip.

"Soft," he said. "Just like breathin'."

You nodded.

Ben kissed you like he'd been waiting years to be let inside your mouth.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just full—slow and steady, lips moulded to yours like he was trying to carve the shape of you into memory. You gasped at first, soft and unsteady, your hands tightening around his shoulders as your body registered the unfamiliar warmth blooming low and bright in your belly.

He didn't rush it.

Didn't push.

He just breathed into you, tasting you sweet and slow, like he knew he could make you melt if he kept it steady—if he didn't give you too much at once.

You whimpered. Just a breath. Just a break in your throat. And it shattered him.

Your mouth opened for him like instinct. Your lashes fluttered as he tilted your face up just a little more, his thumb still cradling your jaw, and when his tongue licked into you—soft, coaxing—you moaned like the breath got pulled from your lungs.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your hips rolled forward—subtle, clumsy—and your bare cunt dragged over the deep groove of his abs, flushed and wet and aching against the heat of his skin.

Ben froze. Then grinned. Wide. Slow. Smug as sin.

That's it, baby. Didn't even mean to, did you? Just wanted to get a little closer. Just wanted to breathe me in. Now look at you. Drippin' on my fuckin' stomach and pantin' like you're gonna cry.

You pulled back slightly, panting, eyes glazed, lips kiss-bitten and pink.

"I—I didn't mean—" you stammered, blinking fast, confused and wrecked.

He caught your hips in both hands, held you still.

"You didn't mean to rub that pretty little pussy on me?" He asked, voice low and sweet like a sin he didn't plan to confess.

You whimpered. Shook your head.

Ben chuckled.

"You really don't know what you're doin' to me, huh?"

You blinked. Chest rising and falling in shallow waves. He leaned forward, brushed his nose against yours, lips still close enough to graze.

"You're sittin' in my lap with no fuckin' panties, grindin' that soaked cunt all over my stomach—and you think this is just a kiss?"

You trembled in his hands. He kissed you again. Harder this time. Deeper. And you melted—whining low in your throat, your hips twitching forward again despite yourself.

Ben groaned into your mouth, this time not holding back.

Fuck. I could come just from this. From her noises. From the way she don't even know why she's movin' like that. She's beggin' without sayin' a word.

When he pulled back, you were glowing again—just barely, just under the skin. Like a candle burning through gauze. Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"Still hurtin'?" He murmured, voice raw.

You nodded.

Ben smiled.

"Good."

He pulled back a little more, just enough to see your face. Your lips parted. Kiss-bitten. Breath coming in little gasps that didn't know where to settle. Your eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes trembling, like you were caught between waking and something better.

Ben smirked.

You whimpered.

And before he could say a word—you chased him. Your mouth lifted toward his again, a soft little please written into the movement, like your body couldn't bear the space between you. Like you needed him to breathe.

He caught your chin. Held you just far enough to make you ache.

"Well look at that," he murmured, voice thick with heat. "Didn't take long to get you beggin', huh?"

You blinked, lips brushing his thumb.

"I'm not—"

He tilted your face. Dragged his eyes over every inch of you like he wanted to memorise the tremble in your jaw.

"You're chasin' my fuckin' mouth, baby."

"I just... it feels better when..."

"When I what?"

Your breath hitched. "When you touch me."

Ben's smirk deepened.

Goddamn. This is what it's all about. Sweet little angel in my lap, drippin' on my stomach, chasin' my lips like they'll save her soul. I'm gonna break her open and rebuild her with my fuckin' hands.

His voice dropped.

"I can make it better," he whispered. "If you let me."

You nodded. Eager. Breathless. Like you didn't even know you were nodding.

"Say it."

You blinked. "What?"

"Say you want me to help."

"I... I want—" You swallowed. "Please."

Ben groaned, low and quiet and wrecked. "Fuck, baby."

His hands slid down your sides—firm, slow, grounding. He took hold of your hips like he'd been waiting a thousand years to touch you properly.

"You trust me?"

You nodded.

Mistake. Big fuckin' mistake.

"Good girl."

He pulled you forward. Let your bare cunt drag along the slick line of his abs again, slower this time—controlled.

You gasped. He pulled you back. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching. He did it again. Dragged you forward. You whimpered. Rolled your hips without thinking.

Ben's voice was a low rasp at your ear. "There you go. Let me feel that mess you're makin' on me."

You cried out—a tiny, breathy sound—and fuck, he almost lost it.

He guided you again. Forward. Back. Each time, his grip tightened. Each pass, he shifted you lower. Lower. Until the next drag of your hips had your bare pussy sliding directly over the thick swell of his cock through his sweats.

You twitched. Whined.

He grinned into your neck. "Feel that?" He murmured, smug and dark and so fucking pleased with himself. "That's what you're doin' to me, baby."

You gasped—high and sweet—hips trying to pull away. He didn't let you. He pulled you back. Let you grind over him again. Let your slick soak into the fabric.

"You want it to stop?" He asked, teasing.

You whimpered, "I—I don't know."

Ben groaned, low and hot in your ear.

"God, you sound so fuckin' pretty when you don't know what you want."

He shifted under you, hips rocking up just enough to press right there—right against the aching, throbbing part of you that made you cry out again.

He stilled.

"Shh," he whispered. "I got you."

And then he rocked you again. And again. Until you weren't just whimpering. You were panting. Begging. Mouth open, hands trembling, thighs shaking.

And Ben? Ben was smiling like he'd just won the fuckin' war.

Because you were panting, mouth open, eyes glassy, breath coming in sharp little bursts that hit his neck like steam. Your hands had gone slack on his shoulders, fingertips curling like you didn't know where to hold on.

Ben kept moving your hips. Forward. Back. Forward. Lower.

Each drag of your cunt over the thick ridge of his cock left a darker wet patch on his sweats. You were soaked—bare and desperate, whining under your breath like something in you was unraveling, like it hurt but you liked it, and you didn't even know why.

Ben grinned.

She's close. Right there. All lit up and tremblin' for me like she's never felt anything before. Gonna make her fall apart without ever even takin' my fuckin' pants off.

He rocked you again. Your hips twitched.

You gasped. "Ben—" you choked out. "It's—it's—something's—"

You tried to pull back. Tried to twist out of his hands. He didn't let you. His grip tightened. Not rough. Firm.

"You're fine," he growled. "You're fuckin' fine, angel."

You whimpered, eyes wide and wet. "I think I'm gonna—"

"Yeah," he rasped, dragging you harder against him. "You are."

You squirmed again, breath shaking. "I don't know what's happening—"

Ben chuckled, mean and sweet at once.

"You're gonna come, sweetheart."

You blinked, lips trembling.

"I—I can't—"

"Yes, you fuckin' can."

Your thighs shook. Your whole body went tight, coiled like it didn't know how to break.

Ben leaned in, mouth hot against your ear. "Don't you fuckin' run from this. Not after you came in here beggin' me to fix it."

"I didn't—"

"You did. You fuckin' did. You sat your pretty little ass in my lap and let me drag that soaked cunt all over me like a good girl, and now you wanna tap out?"

You cried out, gasping, your body shivering against his.

Ben's voice dropped to a hush. "Let it happen."

You whimpered again. Louder.

His hand moved—slid between your bodies, over the mess of his sweats, and pressed. Right against your clit. You screamed. Bent forward. Grabbed his shoulders like you were falling off the goddamn planet.

Ben's grin faded. Now it was something else. Something reverent.

He watched your mouth fall open. Watched your thighs spasm. Watched your halo flicker bright behind your head like a dying star on the verge of collapse.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he breathed. "Look at you. Comin' so hard and you don't even know what for."

You sobbed. Real, breathless sobs—overwhelmed, confused, undone.

Ben caught you. Held you to his chest as your hips jerked and rolled through it. His hand kept you grinding, slower now, dragging the last waves of heat through you until you were limp, glowing, ruined.

Your cheek pressed to his shoulder. Your tears soaked into his skin. Your body twitched every time your cunt brushed his cock again.

And Ben? Ben fucking beamed.

Mine. Fuckin' mine. Didn't even need to fuck her yet. And she's already fuckin' mine.

You were limp against him now. Heavy with aftershock, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, your arms slack around his neck like they weren't yours anymore. The oversized t-shirt you wore was damp with sweat, bunched high on your hips, the curve of your ass bare and trembling in his lap.

Your halo flickered one last time behind your head—brief, frantic—and then vanished into the dark.

Ben didn't move. Didn't rush you. Just sat there, cock hard under you, sweat clinging to his chest, and held you while you came down.

Jesus Christ. She fuckin' did it. Came for the first time in her life, sittin' on my cock like a goddamn altar. I should get a fuckin' medal.

He let his hand drift—slow, deliberate—down the sweat-damp line of your spine, fingers brushing through your hair where it clung in sticky strands to your neck. His other arm stayed firm across your waist, keeping you grounded, trembling and limp against the weight of his chest.

You made a sound. Not a word. Just a soft, fractured little exhale. It cracked at the edges—thin and bewildered. The kind of sound people made when they were breakable. When something sacred had just been undone.

Ben kissed your temple. Barely a press of his mouth, like he was branding you with it.

"Still breathin'?" He asked, low and rough.

You nodded, cheek dragging against his shoulder, and your voice came hollow, distant—"Feels like..." You swallowed hard. "Like I fell."

Ben's mouth curled into a smirk, slow and wolfish.

"Oh, baby," he said, shifting you just enough to see your face—flushed and tear-damp, lashes fluttering like wings about to crumple. "You didn't fall."

You blinked at him. Wide-eyed. Waiting. He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, his voice like smoke curling in your ear.

"You landed."

Your lips parted. "Is... is that what that was?"

"That," he whispered, dragging the back of his fingers along your jaw, "was your body wakin' the fuck up."

You stared at him like you were looking for answers inside his mouth. Like the shape of his words might make it all make sense. But your brows drew tight again.

"It felt like..." You hesitated, breath catching. "Too much."

Ben raised an eyebrow, smirking like he'd already known that answer.

"Yeah," he drawled. "It's supposed to."

You nodded slowly. Still stunned. Still glowing faintly. He let his palm slide up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the warmth beneath your skin.

"Don't worry," he said, voice dipping lower. "You'll get used to that."

There was a pause. Long enough for your breathing to even out. For the weight of what had just happened to settle between your ribs like a second heartbeat.

"Am I..." you started, then paused again, lashes trembling. "Am I different now?"

Something flickered behind his eyes. And then—that grin. Not sweet. Not cruel. Just dangerous.

"Oh, angel," he rasped, tilting your chin up with his thumb. "You're not different."

He leaned in close—his breath warm and tainted, like a prayer set on fire—and whispered:

"You're finally real."

A tremor ran through you. One he could feel in his lap. He kissed you—once—slow and searing, the kind of kiss that felt like the aftermath of sin. Then he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

"You were so fuckin' clean it hurt to look at you," he murmured. "All that light. All that... innocence. Like you weren't made for this world at all."

You blinked at him. Eyes wet. Silent.

"And now?" He went on, voice rough with reverence, "Now you're sittin' in my lap, glowin' all over, drippin' down onto my fuckin' cock—" He chuckled darkly, licking his lips as your breath hitched. "—and I can feel you already wantin' more."

You whimpered.

Ben smiled. Low. Possessive. "Not broken," he whispered against your throat. "Not ruined."

His lips grazed your pulse.

"You're mine now."

You were still trembling in his lap when it hit you.

The silence that followed your undoing wasn't peace—it was pressure. Something building in your chest, a cold bloom of dread blossoming beneath your ribs. You shifted, breath catching, and Ben felt it before you said a word.

Your glow flickered again—once, weakly—then sputtered out entirely like a flame losing air. You moved to pull away from him. And this time, you didn't stop.

"I have to go," you whispered, already climbing off his lap, legs unsteady beneath you.

Ben stayed still, palms resting open on his thighs, his erection still straining visibly against the fabric of his sweats. Watching you like you were some feral thing caught in the light.

"The hell for?" He asked, voice calm—too calm.

"I need to... I need to pray," you said, clutching at yourself like your own skin was too loud. "I need to atone. I—" Your voice cracked. "I have to ask my Father for forgiveness."

Ben's jaw shifted. Something slow and sour moved behind his eyes.

"For what, angel?" He murmured. "For sittin' in my lap and grindin' your sweet little cunt on me till you came so hard you lit up like a Christmas tree?"

You flinched.

But he didn't smirk this time. Didn't mock. He stood slowly, like if he moved too fast you'd fly away again.

"Come on," he said, gentler now. "Don't do that. Don't fuckin' run."

"I'm not—" Your voice trembled. "I just—I wasn't made for this. I'm supposed to heal. I'm supposed to serve. Not... this."

Ben stepped closer.

"You think that wasn't holy?" He asked, quiet but intense. "That sound you made when you came in my arms?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. Shaking your head.

"I liked it," you breathed—barely louder than the sound of your heartbeat. "I wanted it. I still..."

You didn't finish. Couldn't.

And Ben—still hard in his sweats, untouched, jaw clenched like the ache was carved into his bones—just stood there watching you. Like you were revelation wrapped in panic. An angel with blood on her hands.

His voice came low. Rougher now. Like it'd been dragged through smoke.

"You think God wasn't watchin' when you got off on my lap?" He muttered, stepping closer. "You think He covered His fuckin' eyes?"

Your breath hitched.

He didn't smirk. Not this time. Just looked at you like he was seeing something break in real time—and he liked it.

"Shit, sweetheart. Maybe He wanted you to feel it. Ever think about that?" He tilted his head, voice dropping into something almost taunting. "Maybe He made you just to ruin you."

His hand came up—two fingers brushing your jaw like he couldn't decide if he wanted to hold you or press down hard enough to leave a mark.

"You came 'cause your body fuckin' needed it. That wasn't sin, angel," he rasped. "That was biology."

His lip curled slightly, watching you flinch like the word hurt.

"Your pussy figured it out before your brain did."

You stared at him, stunned. Lashes wet, lips parted like you'd forgotten how to breathe.

"I've never felt like this," you whispered. "Like I'm full of something I don't understand. Like I'm..." You blinked up at him. "Falling."

Ben exhaled—hard. Like your words hit something deep in him and dragged it up.

"You're not fallin'," he said, tone flat. Final. "You're comin' down."

He reached out. Tapped two fingers gently against your temple. The way someone might test for heat under a bruise.

"You ain't gettin' punished," he muttered. "You're just startin' to get it." You blinked. Shaking. Halfway between terror and awe.

"I need to go," you whispered again.

Ben didn't let go of your face.

"No," he said, voice thicker now. "You need to stay. Just for tonight. Just sleep. No touchin'. No fallin'. Just you. Me. Nothin' else."

"I can't—"

"You can. You will. 'Cause you're not prayin' tonight, angel. You're not kneelin' to Him." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "You already knelt to me."

And the best part? You didn't run. You climbed back into his lap. You breathed. And just like that, the light started flickering again—soft, faint, like a memory of grace.

You went still in his arms.

Not stiff, not trembling anymore—just soft. Like the panic had bled out of you, leaving something fragile in its place. A low hum where your glow had been. A pulse he could feel more than see.

Ben didn't move. Didn't dare. He just sat there with you draped over him, your breath brushing his collarbone, your skin hot from the afterglow and the shame tangled tight in your ribs. And under all of that?

You were pressed right up against him—against the thick, hard ache straining in his sweats like a goddamn punishment he hadn't earned yet.

Fuck.

He'd held you through it. Kept you close. Let you use him like he was something sacred—and you hadn't even known. Hadn't realised what you were doing, how you looked, how fucking holy it had been just to watch you come apart on him.

No one had ever made a sound like that on top of him. No one had ever looked like that. Like light was leaking from your skin. Like you were crying for God, but you'd forgotten His name.

And you'd done it on him. In his lap, your thighs shaking, your face buried in his throat, whimpering like sin had never touched you before.

You hadn't even asked if he'd gotten off. Didn't even notice how hard he still was, how it hurt like hell just to sit there and not grind up into you. You'd come, and now you were quiet again. Calm. Hollowed out.

Ben's jaw ticked.

Yeah, you didn't get it yet. Didn't understand what you'd done—what you'd started. But he did. He knew what this was. It was the first crack in the marble. Tonight was the first time your body moved without asking permission from heaven. First time you reached for something because you wanted it, not because you were told to give it.

And now? Now he'd just have to be patient. He could wait. He could go slow.

Because he'd felt it—right before the end, right when you'd gasped and bucked and glowed. That shift in you. The way your hands had gripped his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Like you were falling into him.

He was gonna get you on your knees eventually. Not out of obedience. Not from fear. But because you'd choose it. Because the only thing louder than your guilt would be the need he was waking up inside you.

One day you'd beg for it. One day you'd look up at him with those wide, tear-bright eyes and say please—not because you thought you had to, but because you'd burn without it.

He'd teach you obsession. Dependence. Desire so deep it rewrote your blood. He'd make you stop looking at the sky and start praying to him. And when he finally got inside you? When you cried for the first time from being filled, not from fear? You'd glow for him again. And this time, you'd know exactly why.

He swallowed hard. The thought alone had him throbbing in place, still untouched, still aching.

And that's when you moved. You shifted against him—just a little, just enough to make him grit his teeth—and turned your face into his chest. Your palm rose, featherlight, pressing against his sternum.

You blinked up at him.

"I can feel your heart," you whispered. "It's beating really fast." Your eyes searched his face, soft and wide, full of worry. "Are you okay, Ben?" A pause. "Does it... hurt?"

Ben stilled.

His brain flicked through the options. He could brush it off. Could laugh. Could play it cool. But fuck that. Because you were already touching him. And your hand was glowing.

"...Yeah," he rasped, letting his voice scratch lower, rawer. "Yeah, baby. Kinda does."

He shifted beneath you, like the pain was real. Let his breath catch in his throat. Slid your hand a little higher on his chest and held it there like it hurt to move.

"Think it's actin' up again," he murmured, voice thick, shoulders tense. "Started right after you... y'know." He winced. Let the sound leak through his teeth. "Fuck. Might be somethin' wrong."

Your brow furrowed. Glow brightening.

"Can I heal it?"

Ben didn't nod. He ached it.

"Yeah," he said, hoarse and low. "Just your hands. That's all."

And you didn't hesitate. You just shifted in his lap—warm and soft and glowing—and placed both palms flat to his chest like you were about to bless him.

He barely held back a groan when your touch hit. It wasn't the heat. It wasn't the light. It was the care. You touched him like you wanted to fix something. And that? That was the most dangerous thing you'd done yet. Because as your halo flickered back to life and your fingers moved in slow, sacred circles over his heart—

—Ben could feel his cock pulse beneath you. Could feel the pre-come leak and stick to the inside of his sweats like a sin he hadn't even earned yet.

You didn't notice. But he did. And he knew then—clear as gospel—

He wasn't gonna fuck you. Not yet. He was gonna let you heal him first. Over and over. Until the only thing holy left in you was him.

Your hands were glowing, pressed to his chest, fingers splayed like a blessing, like something sacred, and Christ—Ben swore he could feel the light sinking under his skin. Warmth bleeding through him, golden and steady, like you were pouring your grace straight into the rot.

And fuck, it felt good.

It always did. But this time? This time, it hit different. Maybe it was the afterglow still clinging to your skin. Maybe it was the way your thighs bracketed his lap, soft and pliant and innocent. Or maybe it was the fact that you were still wet—he could feel the heat of it, could smell it, slick and soaked right through the cotton of his sweats where you sat draped over his cock like some kind of fucked-up relic.

He was still hard. Still throbbing. Still untouched.

And here you were—healing him. Pouring light into him like he deserved it. Your voice came soft, tender.

"Just relax," you murmured. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Ben's eyes fluttered shut. Safe. He hadn't felt that word in years. Didn't believe in it. But right now—with your palm on his chest, your breath sweet and close, your thighs cradling the bulge in his pants like you were built to hold it?

He could pretend.

And that made it worse. Because your healing didn't just soothe the damage—it riled him the fuck up.

It always had. It went too deep. Felt too good. Like being split open from the inside and rebuilt molecule by molecule. Like his nerves were lit fuses and you were trailing soft fire down every inch of him.

His hips jerked once. Just a twitch.

You didn't notice. Or maybe you did—but you didn't understand. You kept speaking in that soft, lullaby voice. You stroked your fingers over his chest, steady, glowing, pulsing light into old scars he didn't even realise he still carried.

And Ben? Ben started to lose it.

A low groan slipped from his throat. He grit his teeth, swallowed it down—but then your thumb brushed over his sternum and fuck, he bucked again. Couldn't help it.

You gasped a little. Eyes flicking up, confused.

"Are you okay, Ben?" You asked.

Ben cracked a grin. Sharp. Wolfish. Filthy.

"Oh, baby," he drawled, voice rough as gravel. "You're makin' me feel so fuckin' good right now."

Your lips parted. A confused little breath escaped.

"I am?" You whispered.

He chuckled low in his chest. Let his hands slide to your hips, just barely holding you there.

"Yeah, angel. You are." His eyes darkened, locked on you. "You always do."

You blinked down at him, trying to understand, still glowing like you didn't know your light could burn.

Ben leaned his head back, letting the sound of your voice wash over him, that soft hum of concern and devotion—but now, his hips had started to move in earnest. Slow. Subtle. Just the faintest rut upward into your heat.

You gasped again. Your hand flinched slightly on his chest—but you didn't pull away.

Ben grinned wider.

"What's wrong?" He rasped. "Feelin' that ache again?"

You shook your head. "I... I'm not sure."

But your thighs pressed together over him. Tight. Like your body did know. He groaned again, long and low, and rolled his hips up harder this time, grinding into the curve of you like it was the only relief in the world.

"God, you're good at this," he muttered. "Feels like I'm bein' reborn every fuckin' time you touch me."

You flushed. Your lashes fluttered. And you looked down into your lap like something inside you was turning over—slow and syrup-slick—like heat was blooming there again, thick and helpless. You squeezed your thighs.

Ben felt it. Every twitch. Every tremble. He bucked up again, harder, breath hitching.

"Shit, angel," he groaned. "You feel that? That's what you do to me. Just your hands. Just your fuckin' light."

He slid one palm up your spine—slow, reverent.

"You're my favourite fuckin' drug," he said, voice gone ragged. "And I don't ever wanna get clean."

His hips moved again, slow and greedy beneath you, grinding up into the heat that soaked through your thighs like sin blooming in silk. You were still healing him—your hand pressed to his chest, glowing with grace—and he was using it. Using you.

"Keep goin'," he muttered, voice thick with praise and filth. "Just like that. You're doin' so good for me, baby. Always so good."

You shivered. Your lashes fluttered. You looked down again—into your lap, where the ache had returned, thick and thudding and unmistakable.

Ben saw it. Felt it. Felt your thighs press tighter. Felt your hand tremble where it touched him. Felt the light spark again—weak but sharp—right behind your head. And God, he couldn't stop himself. He leaned in close—mouth brushing your cheek, voice a rasp right against your ear.

"You keep makin' sounds like that," he whispered, "and next time, I'm not lettin' you come alone."

You gasped. Your palm faltered. Your thighs jerked. And in that moment, just for a second—your halo flared.

Ben felt it. Felt it burn against his skin. And then? He went still. Smiling. Grinning like a man with plans. Like a wolf finally holding the throat.

a/n: PHEW. I freaking love this series so much. Literally cannot stress this enough: @tinas111, you are a fucking genius, babe. It's gonna get worse from here on out. Christ, stg all I'm good for is writing taboo shit and smut. No complaints though, right? Anyways, standard protocol, you know the drill... please let me hear y'alls thoughts. My warped, gross little brain and heart love it. All the goddamn love.

His puff fills your nostrils, and when your eyes open after turning toward him, you watch as he takes a drag of the blunt. He holds it in his lungs, letting it circulate before releasing it into the sex-filled air. Fuck, he looks sexy. You aren't sure if he makes smoking look sexy or if he looks sexier smoking. Whichever it is, you're thankful for his addiction.

He catches your stare and holds out his joint, offering you a hit. You shake your head, imagining taking it a different way. He shrugs, then brings his fingers back to his lips. The end of the stick glows a bright red as he inhales the marijuana before it returns dull once he stops. You move the covers, and he watches with curiosity as you ignore your shaky legs and climb on top of him, straddling his hips.

"More already? Can't get enough of my hog?" His deep voice cuts through the silence before taking another drag.

You don't answer. Instead, you place your hands on his bearded, chiseled cheeks and kiss him. Your tongue swipes his bottom lip, begging for entry as you grind down on his lap. Without wasting a beat, he opens his mouth, and the smoke floods in yours. You shut your eyes and inhale it slowly, doing your best not to choke and make yourself look like a pussy. The cannabis swirls in your head, making you delightfully dizzy, but that, too, could've been the lack of oxygen. You lean away and exhale what remains. With a flutter, your eyes open to find a huge and amused smile plastered on his face.

"Fuck, doll, just when I thought you couldn't get any hotter."

He sets the mug on the nightstand and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you down and smashing his lips against yours. You're a bit taken aback, but you kiss him just as feverishly. His lips taste like weed, and his beard painfully rubs against your smooth face, but you endure it all for him. Your fingers intertwine with his long hair, and you tug him closer, deepening the kiss. His tongue shoves past your lips and wrestles with yours, but it doesn't last long.

With a moan, you give in and submit to the infamous supe. The hand that was once wrapped around the back of your neck now shifts to your jaw. His thumb rests on your chin, holding your mouth open as he pushes you away, just enough to bring the tightly rolled grass to his lips. He takes a quick puff, aligns his mouth with yours, and blows a line of smoke into it. You feel the fast effects of the soul diesel take control.

Shotgunning wasn't something you had done before; Now you can't help but question why you hadn't tried it sooner. He takes another draw, his gaze unwavering from yours. You feel him grow beneath you, and your body responds. Wetness coats his awakening member, and if he didn't have the blunt between his lips, he'd bite his lower. His hand leaves your face and travels between your bodies, clutching his thick and lengthy cock. He swipes at your folds like his dick was a card, and your lips were the reader. Just like his money, his sex was endless: everything a girl could ever want. His teasing elicits a whimper, and without warning, he sticks his (rather large) chip in your machine.

A heavy gasp falls from your mouth, and he takes the opportunity to blow into it. Your throat burns with delight as he slides further into your spent cunt. The stretch tosses your eyes to the back of your head, and just when you think the smoke nearly suffocates you, Soldier Boy connects his mouth to yours and shoots more fumes down your esophagus. You breathe in sharply through your nose, desperate for air, but it’s no use; The room is filled with hefty clouds of smoke.

Your body squirms, grinding your hips in a circle, needing the friction while also needing oxygen. He shows you mercy and unlatches his lips from yours. Your heart races and your chest heaves, lungs feeling like they’re on fire. It isn’t a resolution, it isn’t even a fix, but it sure is one hell of a distraction when his strong hand squeezes your hip as he begins to move underneath you. Your grip gets tighter, but the pull to his hair doesn’t faze him. His hips rock up into yours, causing your mouth to fall open wider.

Your body arches into him, your breasts smushing against his toned chest. He takes another drag of his spliff, and when he doesn't share, your eyes land on him. You catch a glimpse of wariness, of vulnerability, of second-guessing. He saw your moment of weakness, when the reefer hit you a little too hard all at once. If it were any other girl, any other time, he wouldn’t have cared. Hell, he would’ve kept going, but not with you. So, to assure him that you’re fine, you place both hands back on his cheeks, inching your face closer to his before nodding gently. The second he parts his lips, the smoke floods out of the gates, and with a little push, he directs the vapor toward you.

Just like him, Mary Jane had you by the throat, making you bend at will. Man, oh man, was it fucking you as hard as Soldier Boy was. Your body moves with each thrust, his angle hitting your g-spot perfectly. Between his revitalizing blow and the invigorating effects of the soul diesel, you’re no longer tired. The blend sets you on a high you hadn’t felt before, and you want more—you crave more.

This specific ganja lifts you up, giving your energy a much-needed boost after the last few rounds, and you can’t be more grateful. You push yourself into the cowgirl position, your hands now behind you, resting on his knees for support. He retracts half his cock from your body as you lift yourself higher, his tip threatening to leave its domain. You slam down just as he bucks into you, both of you shouting from the immense pleasure of deeper. If you had any moisture left in your body that wasn't designated between your thighs, you would've teared at how far in your guts he was buried. A rhythm was quickly set, screwing harder than you ever had before. You weren't a supe; Both of you were aware there was always a limit you hit before breaking, but this time was different. This time, the cannabis numbed the pain you'll surely feel tomorrow.

It isn't long after you begin that you cease to meet him halfway. No, it soon becomes out of your control. Your body thrashes, like you were riding a bull, and you try your best to stay on. He watches your breasts bounce with every thrust, your nipples so sharp they cut the puff of smoke he continues to blow your way. Your head spins, and your hands move to his abdomen, bracing to catch yourself if he bucks you off. Moans pour from your lungs and echo throughout his penthouse, accompanied by the pornographic sound your bodies so naturally created. Surely if he were any other supe, there would've been a knock at his door, urging him to keep it down.

You feel your orgasm approaching, and the weed seems to intensify your pleasure. The knot in your belly tightens, and you know it'll be any second before the tension snaps. He sees the once white, now red, of your eyes, and he knows you're on the cusp of euphoria. The fucking pro that he is, sets the blunt between his lips towards the corner of his mouth, leaving a gap big enough to in and exhale, before finally gripping your other hip. With his feet already horizontal with the mattress, he stabs himself deeper. One, two, and on the third jab, you're convulsing on his dick like you were possessed. You cry out in both pain and overwhelming pleasure as you fly higher than you ever thought possible. He grunts out louder than all the times before, and he sprays your insides white.

His face twists as he empties his sack, almost forgetting to balance the bud between his lips as you shudder above him, milking him of every drop. The moment his hips touch the bed, you collapse on top of him, resting your head on his chest. Your heart races at a dangerous pace, but listening to his slower beat helps you find your way back. He tosses the nickel-sized joint into the cup he was using earlier, but not before taking the last hit. He lifts your chin, and your droopy eyelids barely open to see his handsome face. His thumb parts your lips, and you accept his final shotgun. One arm wraps around your body, and his opposite hand holds your jaw, pulling you closer once you exhale. His mouth devours yours, and though you do your best to kiss back just as eagerly, his power of stamina proves to be a lot stronger than the drug you took to enhance yours. Once it begins to wear off and it feels like you scooted across a rug floor long enough to get a harsh burn, he lets you break for air.

"Ever get fucked over the ledge of a 100-foot story building before?"

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