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she looks exhausted. furious about being exhausted. furious about being seen exhausted. alive, though.

that matters enough that annie’s face nearly breaks when she helps her toward the couch. “sit,” annie says.

maeve gives her a look. “still bossy.”

“and you've always been stubborn. sit.”

maeve sits. or more she drops down hard enough for the couch springs to complain. frenchie’s beside her a second later with the little emergency kit, muttering to himself as he opens it. kimiko stands close, hands flexing at her sides like she’s waiting for maeve to decide whether help is an insult or an option.

butcher comes in last with rain on his coat and his mouth pressed into a line that means the rescue went well enough to piss him off. mm locks the door behind him. hughie follows from the back, van keys still in his hand, face pale and tight from whatever he heard over the comms and couldn’t do anything about.

soldier boy stands near the table with his shield in one hand, alert even when everyone around him is bleeding.

you stand half a step behind him and to the side, close enough to see the tension sitting in the back of his neck. your hoodie still feels twisted on your body from the couch. your hair’s probably a mess. your lips feel too swollen. there’s a bruise blooming where his mouth found your collarbone, hidden badly beneath fabric and denial.

noir is dead.

homelander killed him.

the words keep trying to become real.

maeve’s eyes find soldier boy across the room. even worn down, she knows how to take inventory fast. the shield. the jaw. the impossible man standing in a safehouse like vought didn’t turn him into a myth and then a warning.

“shit,” she says, voice scraped thin. “you really are alive.”

soldier boy looks her over with none of the awe most people would probably feel being looked at by queen maeve. his gaze drops to the bruises, the way she holds her ribs, the tremor she tries to hide in one hand.

“this is what passes for backup now?” he bites, pleasant as ever.

annie’s head snaps toward him. “seriously?”

maeve huffs something that might’ve been a laugh if she had more energy. “nice to meet you too.”

soldier boy’s mouth twitches without humor. “you standing?”

“give me five minutes.”

“don’t look like you’ve got five minutes.”

butcher cuts in before annie can. “we need all the hands we can get.”

that shuts the room down for half a second. not because butcher sounds kind. he doesn’t. he sounds practical. brutal. honest. he looks at maeve like an asset, but there's something underneath that too, some recognition that she got herself out of a cage and still walked into the next fight.

maeve looks at him. “is that your way of saying you missed me?”

“it's my way of saying don’t die on the couch. it’s rented.”

“you’re a romantic.”

“so i’m told.”

frenchie presses gauze to a cut near her temple. maeve flinches and glares at him.

“apologies,” he says quickly.

“don’t apologize. just don’t suck at it.”

kimiko signs something. frenchie glances at her, then wisely doesn’t translate.

mm steps toward the table. “we need to talk about noir.”

“what’s there to talk about?” his voice come out flat. too flat for the way he tightens his grip on the shield.

butcher pulls off his coat and throws it over the back of a chair. “you wanted him dead. homelander saved you the trip.”

“that supposed to be funny?”

mm moves between them by a few inches, not fully blocking, only changing the angle before it becomes a fight. “we don’t know exactly what happened yet.”

“we know enough,” soldier boy says.

annie’s whole body changes when her phone buzzes and she looks down at the screen. “it’s one of mine.”

butcher’s eyes sharpen. “inside vought?”

annie doesn’t answer him. she walks toward the kitchen, then stops like she realizes privacy’s pointless in this house. she answers with the phone held tight to her ear. “hey, are you safe?”

you can’t hear the other voice clearly at first. only a thin, rushed sound through the speaker pressed to annie’s ear. annie’s expression tightens.

“slow down,” she says. “what did you see?”

the room stills. maeve’s eyes lift from frenchie’s hands. hughie steps closer without meaning to. butcher watches annie like he can pull the information faster by staring.

annie closes her eyes for one beat. then she says, “hold on. i’m putting you on speaker.”

the voice that fills the room is shaky, low, and trying very hard not to be. a woman. young, maybe. tired in the specific way of someone speaking from a place where cameras have eyes and walls have ears.

“i can’t stay on long,” the woman says. “security’s a mess. everyone’s being reassigned. i wasn’t supposed to see it.”

annie’s voice goes careful. “see what?”

“noir.” the woman swallows audibly. “there was blood everywhere. like… like somebody opened him up and left him there.”

hughie goes a little green.

maeve looks down at her hands.

butcher is the first to speak, “who did it?”

“homelander.” the answer comes fast, scared of itself. “they’re trying to bury it as a medical emergency, but someone ran the tapes back before they locked the feed. i saw enough.”

annie’s fingers tighten around the phone. “tell us.”

the woman breathes shakily. “homelander came into noir’s room. he was calm at first. weird calm. he asked him if he knew.”

the room listens.

“knew what?” mm asks.

“about soldier boy,” the woman says. “about him being…” she hesitates, then seems to realize there's no gentle way to say it. “his father.”

maeve’s head lifts. her eyes flick to soldier boy. “what?” 

nobody answers her. nobody needs to. the look on annie’s face, on hughie’s, on mm’s, on yours—is answer enough.

maeve leans back against the couch, pain forgotten for a second. “jesus.”

soldier boy’s stare stays on the phone.

the woman continues, voice unsteady. “homelander asked him if he knew all along. noir didn’t talk, but he… nodded. homelander kept asking why he didn’t tell him. why he let him go his whole life thinking there was no one.” she stops. when she speaks again, her voice is smaller. “noir wrote something. or showed him something. i couldn’t see all of it. but homelander read it out loud.”

“what did it say?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

the phone speaker crackles faintly. “that soldier boy was bad,” the woman says. “that they had to stop him. that vought was right. that noir was protecting him.”

the air in the room changes. soldier boy’s face remains as if set in stone. that’s how you know it hits.

“and homelander?” butcher asks.

“he said…” the woman breathes in, and for a second there’s only static and the muted sound of movement somewhere on her end. “he said everyone who ever loved him was lying. then he put his fist through noir’s stomach.”

hughie looks away. annie’s mouth tightens.

the woman’s voice drops. “straight through. he was still standing for a second. then he just… christ… he just dropped.”

you taste something metallic at the back of your throat. you think of noir in all black, a cartoon mask over a wound nobody in this room ever got to understand. you think of soldier boy’s fury when the name first came back into his life. the years of it. decades of betrayal preserved like a body in ice. and now noir’s dead, not by soldier boy’s hand, not after answers, not after a reckoning. no. killed because homelander felt betrayed too. blood on top of blood.

“where’s homelander now?” mm asks.

“unknown. upper tower went dark for a while. then he left. nobody knows where. ashley is losing her mind. security is being told to scrub the room and keep their mouths shut.”

maeve makes a dry sound. “classic.”

annie looks at her phone like it might crack in her hand. “get out if you can.”

“i can’t,” the woman says. “not yet.”

“yes, you can. listen to me—”

“i’ll call when i can.” a pause. “annie, he knows people are looking. he knows.”

the line ends. annie lowers the phone slowly and for a while nobody speaks.

maeve is the first to break the silence. “soldier boy is homelander’s father.”

butcher answers anyway. “genetically.”

maeve stares at him. “that’s a pretty fucking big footnote.”

“been a busy day.”

she looks at soldier boy again, and there’s less sarcasm in her face now. more calculation. more alarm. “does homelander know you know?”

your skin prickles. you think of a filtered voice on the phone. you think of soldier boy’s answer.

soldier boy says nothing.

butcher steps in. “doesn’t matter.”

maeve gives him a look. “it matters if he’s about to go full abandoned-child-with-laser-eyes.”

“he already gutted noir,” hughie says quietly. “i feel like we’re there.”

soldier boy’s head turns toward him. hughie shuts his mouth.

mm runs a hand over his face. “homelander killed noir because noir kept the truth from him. now he knows soldier boy is alive. that the rumours are real. he knows we took maeve. he knows we’re close.”

“and he’s hurt,” maeve says.

frenchie glances up. “you said this before.”

“because it’s worse than angry.” maeve shifts on the couch and winces, one hand pressing against her ribs. annie starts to move; maeve lifts a finger in warning, and annie stops. “angry homelander performs. he poses. he threatens. hurt homelander wants someone to make it better, and when they can’t, he starts tearing pieces off the world until it looks as bad as he feels.”

the room absorbs that.

soldier boy looks bored. you know better.

butcher points at maeve. “good. so we get to him before he gets to us.”

“how?” hughie asks.

“he’ll come.” the certainty in butcher’s voice makes you look at him.

“you don’t know that,” annie says.

butcher smiles faintly. “family drama, love. always comes knocking.”

the laptop chirps. not a comm crackle. not a file alert. a clean, bright sound that doesn’t belong in the safehouse.

frenchie turns so fast his chair nearly tips. “non.”

“what?” mm asks.

“message came through the tower feed.”

“from who?” butcher asks.

frenchie doesn’t answer immediately. the screen flickers. then the text appears: soldier boy.

every set of eyes in the room moves to him. frenchie swallows and opens the attached file. it’s audio only. for one second, there’s nothing. then a faint electronic hum. homelander’s voice fills the room, calm and almost warm in a way that makes your stomach twist. 

“i don’t think we got to finish our conversation.”

your hands go cold. soldier boy looks at the laptop.

homelander continues, voice light, conversational, as if he’s calling from a kitchen instead of sending a message through a stolen vought feed after killing one of the seven. “you’ve been lied to. so have i. i think we both deserve better.”

butcher’s eyes harden.

“come to the tower,” homelander says. “just you. family only.”

maeve’s face goes still.

then homelander adds, softer, almost pleased with himself, “i want you to meet your grandchild.”

something in butcher goes white-hot, faster than strategy, faster than vengeance. you see becca’s ghost pass through his face so clearly it feels like someone else’s entered the room. ryan. the name isn’t said, but it doesn’t need to be. it sits inside butcher’s clenched jaw, inside the sudden stillness of his hands.

hughie looks sick.

mm says, “no.”

soldier boy finally speaks. “that the kid?”

butcher turns to him.

“that the kid?” soldier boy repeats, slower.

“ryan,” butcher says the name like a warning.

“it’s a trap,” mm says.

“obviously,” soldier boy answers.

“then we don’t walk into it.”

soldier boy looks at him. “you don’t have to.”

butcher steps closer. “we do if ryan’s there.”

it's the first clean fracture.

soldier boy’s eyes settle on butcher. “thought the deal was homelander.”

“it is.”

“sounds like you got another priority.”

butcher’s face turns ugly. “careful.”

“you be careful,” soldier boy says. “i don’t give a shit about your kid.”

“he ain’t mine.”

“no?” soldier boy’s voice has no heat, and somehow that makes it worse. “you’re making that face for somebody else’s?”

butcher moves.

mm catches his arm before he gets far. “butcher—”

the room tightens, everyone pulled toward the same point of impact. maeve tries to stand, fails halfway, and curses under her breath. frenchie shifts in front of the laptop like that might protect it from the fight. annie steps toward butcher, one hand lifted, not glowing yet, but close.

you look at soldier boy. he isn’t out of control. that almost frightens you more. his head is straight. his eyes clear. jaw set. noir's dead, homelander’s calling, ryan’s in the middle of it, and soldier boy has already started arranging the pieces into a path. not grief. not confusion. not the wet-eyed crack from the hallway last night. this is the man vought made useful before it made him disposable.

homelander took the kill from him. now soldier boy wants to even the score.

butcher seems to see the same thing because his mouth twists. “you still owe me.”

soldier boy’s gaze moves to him. “do i?”

“payback. that was the deal. i helped you take ‘em out. gunpowder, crimson countess, mindstorm, the lot. noir would’ve been yours too if junior hadn’t thrown a tantrum first.”

soldier boy’s face goes colder at the mockery.

butcher keeps going anyway. “deal’s not done till homelander’s dead.”

“then stop barking at me.”

“then don’t make me wonder if you’re gonna get sentimental when you see him.”

a silence drops.

soldier boy looks at butcher like he’s decided exactly how hard it’d be to break his spine and exactly why now’s not the time.

“sentimental,” he repeats.

“blood does funny things to people.”

soldier boy’s eyes flick toward where you stand.

mm steps further between them. “we’re not doing this right now. homelander wants soldier boy alone, which means soldier boy doesn’t go alone.”

“he said family only,” hughie says weakly.

maeve’s laugh is tired and humorless. “he’s not checking invitations at the door.”

annie nods. “we need a plan.”

“we have one,” soldier boy says. “kill homelander.”

“plans change when there’s a kid in the room,” butcher says.

maeve leans back, face gray with pain but eyes sharp. “if ryan’s there, homelander’s using him. either as proof he has a family, or as insurance.”

“insurance against what?” hughie asks.

maeve looks at soldier boy. “him.”

you feel the room tilt toward the next disaster.

frenchie clears his throat. “if we go to the tower, we will need more than brute force. homelander’s expecting brute force.”

“containment,” butcher says.

the word makes something in you go still.

frenchie glances at him. “monsieur—”

“for homelander,” butcher says, eyes not leaving soldier boy. “if maeve’s right and ryan’s in the room, we need a way to stop the bastard without leveling the floor.”

maeve’s mouth tightens. “good luck with that.”

“frenchie’s cooked up worse.”

“i have cooked up strange,” frenchie says. “not impossible.”

“try harder.”

your gaze drops to butcher’s hands. there’s nothing there. no canister. no vial. no weapon. only the idea of containment sitting suddenly in the room. you look at soldier boy. if he feels the same chill, he doesn’t show it.

mm says, “we take the night. we plan properly. no one moves until we know where ryan is and what homelander actually wants.”

“i know what he wants,” soldier boy says. everyone looks at him. he stares at the laptop where the message has ended, expression carved into something ugly and certain. “he wants somebody to tell him he wasn’t made wrong.”

that should sound almost sympathetic. it doesn’t.

“are you gonna?” butcher asks.

soldier boy’s mouth curls faintly. “i’m gonna tell him plenty.”

maeve studies him from the couch. “you think you can get close enough?”

he looks at her. “you did.”

“i also got locked in a basement.”

“skill issue.”

annie snaps, “she just got out.”

maeve lifts a hand. “it’s fine.” then, her eyes return to soldier boy, voice dry but not sharp enough to be a fight, “you’re an asshole.”

“heard.”

“and you’re probably the only shot they’ve got.” that lands differently. soldier boy doesn’t thank her. maeve would probably hate it if he did.

the room breaks into planning after that, but not cleanly. nothing with this group ever does. butcher wants the tower entry mapped by tonight. mm wants eyes on ryan first. annie wants her source extracted before vought realizes she talked. hughie wants to help and is told, in three different ways, to sit down. frenchie mutters about dosages and delivery systems, still framed around homelander, around the strongest supe alive, around avoiding civilian casualties and not getting everyone lasered in half. kimiko watches the screen with her mouth set, fingers tapping a rhythm against frenchie’s wrist.

soldier boy leaves first. not the house. only the room. you follow.

butcher notices. “try not to bend any furniture this time.”

the room goes still in the worst possible way. heat crawls up your neck.

soldier boy stops in the doorway. slowly, he turns back. “you jealous or just lonely?”

butcher’s grin cuts. “little of both.”

you walk past soldier boy before either of them can make it worse. “great. everyone’s deeply mature.”

“you’re one to talk,” butcher calls after you. you don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.

soldier boy follows you down the hall.

the air changes as soon as the living room falls behind you. the hallway smells faintly of damp wood and old paint, the floor cold under your socks, the rooms around you filled with other people trying not to listen. you stop near the back door because it’s the only place with enough shadow to hide your face and enough exit to make the conversation feel less like a trap.

he stops behind you. “you got something to say,” it's not a question.

you turn. “do you?”

“i’m not the one who followed me.”

“i followed because you’re doing that thing where you look calm, which usually means someone’s about to end up through a wall.”

“you worried about the wall?”

“i’m worried about the person.”

his mouth twists. “which one?”

homelander sits inside every word. ryan sits behind him. noir dead between them. butcher with his deal and maeve with her warning and you, stupidly, standing in the hallway pretending you can say anything that doesn’t make it worse.

you lift your chin. “if you go in there looking for a son, he’ll use that.”

soldier boy’s face hardens. “you think i want a son?”

“i think you want it not to matter.”

he steps closer. not fast. not enough to make you move. enough for the hall to shrink around him.

“you got a lot of opinions for someone who spent the morning bent over the couch.” 

the words hit exactly where he wants them to. your face heats. your stomach tightens. for one second, the couch’s there again: his hand between your shoulder blades, his voice at your ear, the comms crackling too close, your own broken moan swallowed badly into the safehouse quiet.

then you smile. not sweetly. “and you’ve got a lot of nerve for someone who was on his knees five minutes before that.”

his eyes flash. “careful.”

“you keep saying that.”

“you keep needing to hear it.” his gaze drops to your mouth. quick. involuntary. annoying.

you step closer this time. “you can throw the couch in my face all you want,” you say. “it doesn’t change what i said.”

“which part? you said plenty.”

“homelander wants you to need this.”

his jaw flexes.

“he wants you angry. he wants you curious. he wants you thinking blood has to mean something because that means he gets to mean something to you.”

“you’re real stuck on that blood thing.”

“because you are too.”

he looks away first, and that tells you more than any answer would have.

outside, rain taps against the back door in thin, impatient bursts. somewhere in the living room, butcher says something low and mm answers lower. the whole safehouse feels like a matchbox being passed between people with shaky hands.

soldier boy speaks without looking at you. “noir knew.”

“yeah.”

“helped them put me in the dirt. then kept his mouth shut about that thing walking around with my blood. and homelander killed him before i could.”

you nod once, even though he is not looking. “i know.”

his hand curls into a fist, then loosens. “everybody keeps taking my fucking kills.”

it should sound ridiculous. crude. petty. instead, it sounds like the only language he has left for every stolen choice, every year in the dark, every answer buried before he could dig it out with his own hands. kill is easier than closure. revenge is easier than grief. he isn’t wrong about what was taken. he's just using the sharpest word he has.

you choose yours carefully. “then don’t let homelander take this one too.”

his eyes come back to you.

“don’t walk in there as something he gets to use,” you say. “go in there as the man who knows exactly what he is.”

soldier boy stares at you. “and what’s that?”

monster. weapon. father. none of them fit. all of them do. you think of him sleeping on the outside edge of your bed because leaving would have been easier than staying. you think of his fingers catching your hoodie in the dark. you think of him on his knees in front of you, crude and hungry and alive. you think of him at the door with his shield, ready to disappear before anyone could put another name on him.

“dangerous,” you say finally. “not stupid.”

his expression shifts by almost nothing. “that your big speech?”

“i’m saving the good material for when you’re less emotionally constipated.”

“gonna be waiting a while.”

“i can wait.”

the corner of his mouth moves. barely anything. just the ghost of a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. the kind of half-expectation that usually means he’s about to do something stupid or mean or both. 

you don’t get the chance to call him on it. his hand shoots out, fingers hooking into the front of your hoodie. he tugs sharp. you stumble into his chest. and before you can curse him out, he bends, shoulder slamming into your stomach, and hoists you up. 

your world flips. blood rushes to your head. “ben! you absolute asshole—”

“you’re trouble,” he says, the words pressed close to your ear.

he starts walking down the hall. one big hand settled on the back of your thigh, holding you steady, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you’re not going anywhere he doesn’t want. 

“always got something to say.”

you brace one hand against his back, the other smacking his shoulder. “put me down before someone sees.” 

“let ‘em see.” 

his grip tightens as he shoulders open the door to your room. the hinge creaks. he kicks it shut behind him. then you’re being lowered. not dropped. lowered onto the bed. the mattress dips under your back and he follows immediately, crawling over you, caging you in with those ridiculous shoulders. 

his mouth finds yours before you can keep arguing. 

it’s slower this time. not frantic. not the angry grind from the couch earlier. this kiss is deeper, heavier, full of the things he won’t say. his tongue slides against yours, lazy and thorough, while one hand pushes your hoodie up your ribs. you arch into the touch, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just right to make him groan against your lips. 

“fuckin’ mouth on you,” he mutters, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your neck. he sucks at the spot he marked earlier, tongue soothing the bruise. “always running. always making me want to shut you up.” 

you shiver, legs parting so he can settle between them. “then shut me up.” 

he does. soldier boy shifts back onto his knees, dragging you up by the hips until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. his hand fists your hair, guiding. you look up at him as he frees his cock with his other hand. he’s already leaking. the sight makes your mouth water. 

“yeah?” he asks. “gonna use that smart mouth for something useful?”

you don’t answer with words. you lean forward and take him in, tongue swirling around the head before sliding down as far as you can. 

the sound leaves him deep in his chest, hips twitching forward. “fuck, that’s it. that’s my girl.” 

you work him slow at first, savoring the weight on your tongue, the salty taste of him. your hand strokes what you can’t fit, twisting on the upstroke while you suck. his grip tightens in your hair, guiding you deeper, fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts. you moan around him, the vibration pulling another curse from his throat. 

“look at you,” he breathes, green eyes now dark as he watches his cock disappear between your lips. “on your knees for me after telling me i’m stupid. filthy little thing.” 

you take him deeper, cheeks hollowing, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact. he curses again, thumb brushing your cheek almost gently. the contrast makes heat pool low in your belly. you bob faster, hand pumping in time, until his thighs start to tremble.

“enough,” he says, voice wrecked and impatient, pulling you off with a wet pop. 

before you can catch your breath, he’s hauling you into his lap, your knees straddling his hips. he yanks your hoodie and shirt off, then shoves your bottoms down. his cock presses hot and slick against your entrance. 

you sink down onto him in one smooth motion, both of you groaning at the stretch. he fills you perfectly. his hands grip your ass, guiding you into a slow, rolling rhythm. “ride me.” 

you do. hips rocking in long drags. grinding down so your clit rubs against him with every motion. it’s softer than the couch—less punishment, more something closer to need. 

his mouth stays on yours, on your neck, on your breasts, sucking marks while you move. one hand slides between you, thumb circling your clit. “so fucking wet,” he groans, thrusting up to meet you. 

pleasure coils tight and warm, every roll of your hips dragging you closer. you bury your face in his neck, moaning his name as you come, pulsing hard around his cock. he fucks you through it, hips snapping up harder, chasing his own release. 

“that’s it—fuck—” he buries himself deep and comes with a sound that seems torn out of him, filling you in hot pulses. 

you stay in his lap afterward, his arms wrapped around you, cock softening inside. one big hand strokes slowly down your bare back, the other resting on your hip. the room feels quieter, smaller, with just the sound of your breathing and the distant murmur of voices from the living room. 

eventually, you shift, laying down on the bed. you trace a scar on his ribs with one fingertip. ear listening to the steady, fast pace of his heart. 

“you gonna stand in my way?” he asks.

your pulse kicks. you think of temp v. of your voice turning wrong. of him on his knees in a motel room because you said the word and his body obeyed. you think of his face when he asked if you were going to command him again.

“not with my voice,” you say. “not ever again.”

the room holds that. then soldier boy looks away with a small, irritated breath, as if you’ve put something in front of him he doesn’t know how to hit.

“you’re coming?” he asks.

“to the tower?”

“don’t play dumb.”

“you think they’d leave me behind after vought put my face on every screen in america?”

“they should.”

“good luck selling that.”

“you’re human.”

“you noticed?”

“you bleed.”

your throat tightens, but you do not look away. “that sounds dangerously close to concern.”

“i’m right.”

“you’re scared you’ll change target again.” his eyes cut to you. you don’t soften it. “noir was the mission. i got cornered. you came for me. now noir’s dead. if you do that with homelander, we lose.”

he stares at you, face unreadable. it hurts to say because there’s a selfish part of you that loves it. loves that he came down that hallway. loves that some part of him chose you before the mission, before revenge, before sense. but loving that doesn’t make it harmless.

“i can’t be the reason you look away,” you say.

he looks at you for a long time. then he says, “you already are.”

the words hit so hard you forget the next breath.

he seems to hate that he said them. his face closes the second they leave his mouth, but it’s too late. they exist now. ugly. honest. not sweet enough to be a confession and too sharp to be anything else.

“then don’t let me be,” you say quietly.

his eyes flick over your face. “easier said,” he mutters.

from the living room, mm calls your name. “we need you both.”

the moment breaks. not badly. not fully. it folds itself away, still hot at the edges, waiting for the next time one of you is stupid enough to touch it.

soldier boy leaves first. you follow close behind.

the living room’s changed while you were gone. maeve’s leaning forward on the couch now despite annie hovering. butcher stands at the center of it all, one hand braced on the table, eyes bright with the kind of violence he mistakes for purpose. kimiko watches soldier boy enter like she is trying to decide which way he will fall. mm looks at both of you once and says nothing.

frenchie taps the screen where he has the tower schematics. “homelander’s message originated from inside the tower but routed through three public servers. he wanted us to receive it, but not to trace him precisely.”

“meaning?” butcher asks.

“meaning he is not hiding. he is inviting.”

“family only,” hughie says quietly.

maeve’s mouth twists. “that’s not an invitation. it’s a trap.”

butcher looks at soldier boy. “so? you taking the bait?”

soldier boy walks to the table. the room watches him. even maeve, tired as she is. even butcher.

soldier boy looks down at the schematics, at the marked lower levels, the upper floors, the places where homelander might stand with a child beside him and a father-shaped wound in his chest.

then he looks at butcher. 

“he wants family?” soldier boy’s mouth curls into something cold. “fine. let’s give him a reunion.”

“sammy not keepin’ it up?” he teased when you first asked. “maybe you need a real man,” he said with a wink. a light joke, nothing real. after all, he wouldn’t do that to his brother right?

he was so, so wrong for it. he knew how happy sam was when you first started dating; he was practically jumping for joy. you were his first everything: kiss, love, body.

but now, dean felt like the worst brother in the entire world. and yet, he seemed to revel in it. it wasn’t his fault, though. you wanted him—no, you begged him.

your back arched under him as he thrusted into you from behind harshly. he held your arms behind you, immobilizing you, leaving you with only the ability to scream and moan. “f-fuck, dean—“

he used his free hand to grip your hair, pulling it roughly. “such a fucking whore,” he scoffed. his thrusts slowed as he spoke, agonizingly teasing. he pulled your hair so far that your back was flush against his chest and your head on his shoulder. “you love this, don’t you? getting pounded by your boyfriends older brother, hm?” he snickered, releasing your hair and pushing you back down onto the bed.

he pulled out of you to turn you around. his hands felt rough against your bare skin, scarred and calloused. “i wanna hear you fuckin’ say it,” he demanded. his hand snuck around your throat, gripping it tightly. “say you’re a fuckin’ cheating slut. a cheap cockwhore.”

you let out a whimper, clit pulsing and head spinning. “i-i’m a cheating slut… a-a cheap cockwhore.” your face burned in shame, watching as dean laughed in your face like you were some joke. honestly, you kind of were.

“that’s right,” he growled. his thumb circled your puffy clit, causing you to squirm. “sammy’s too good for you; he won’t treat you like the dirty thing you really are.” you moaned under him, his weight fully put on you. his leaking cock rested between your thighs, warm and heavy. he pinched your bean a little too harshly, causing you to squeal and arch, trying to pull away. he simply scoffed, “what? that hurt, bitch? well, you fuckin’ deserve it.”

you whined at his words, guilt washing through you. “p-please, dean,” you begged. “just fuck me.” your arms flexed above your head as you gripped the pillow under you. he obliged, thrusting straight through your walls, pushing his cock so far into you.

your head lolled to the side as a silent scream overtook you. his hips slammed against yours in a fastened pace, all the while he whispered dirty words against your neck. his hand held your throat in a firm grip, letting it squeeze tighter occasionally. he was toying with you, reminding you who was in charge.

he pulled away from you, his thrusts slowing in an uneven pace. his fingers gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to his. deans pupils were blown wide and he held a wide grin. “open your mouth, slut.” and when you did, he spat onto your tongue. you swallowed it with your gaze still against his. he hummed and began to rub circles on your clit while he pounded into you.

you squirmed, legs trembling around him as you moaned. “dean. dean, i’m close,” you whined. “s-so close.”

his thumb practically vibrated against your bean, mixing deliciously with his abusive thrusts. he groaned, “me too. come on your boyfriends brother’s cock.” he chuckled, letting himself bottom out repeatedly.

you saw stars before squeezing your eyes shut. your back arched and head fell back as you came undone. you clenched around dean, making him groan.

“fuck, you want it that bad, huh?” he teased, before he twitched inside you. he moaned before he spilled his seed deep inside you, thrusts slowing. “fuckin’ milking me like a good whore.”

after pulling out, he didn’t even bother to tackle an ounce of aftercare. instead, he got dressed. he didn’t even look at you, instead picking up his phone to send a few texts. then, when his eyes finally met yours, he just scoffed.

When he lifted his gaze and saw you standing on the stairs, something changed in his green eyes.

For a second, the man who had always carried you on his shoulders and taught you to shoot with a bow in the backyard disappeared. Only that dark, heavy gaze remained, almost guilty.

"Stay upstairs," he told you with a hoarse, low voice, as if he could still protect you from all of this.

Your father stood beside him, his face drawn, saying nothing as the officers lifted him up. He didn't resist. He only looked at you one last time before they led him out the door, his head slightly inclined, but his back straight.

Ten years had passed since that night.

Your father's car drove along the secondary road that led to the state prison. The sky was gray, heavy with low clouds, and the silence inside the vehicle was uncomfortable. You sat in the passenger seat with your arms crossed, looking out the window without really paying attention to the landscape. You were not happy to be there.

"Why do I have to come with you?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "You could have come alone."

Your father sighed long, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Because he was important to this family for many years. And because I'm asking you, just this once."

You crossed your legs and rested your head against the glass. You had accepted reluctantly. You knew your father felt indebted to him, but that didn't mean you had to be part of this reunion.

After a while, curiosity got the better of your irritation.

"And why isn't his wife coming to pick him up? That's what wives are supposed to do, right?"

Your father took a few seconds to answer.

"They're going through a rough patch. He preferred she wouldn't come."

You frowned. You didn't even know he had gotten married. The idea seemed strange to you: how was it possible to get married while in prison? Apparently it was, because he had done it. With a woman you and your father knew practically nothing about. Only that her name was something like Lisa or Laura... you weren't sure. A stranger who had entered his life while he served his sentence.

It took about ten more minutes to reach the exit area. The access road to the prison was long and flanked by barbed wire and guard towers. Your father drove in silence, hands gripping the wheel, and just a few meters before coming to a complete stop, you saw him.

He was standing outside, next to the curb, with a dark canvas bag at his feet.

He had changed a lot. He was no longer the man you remembered. His figure had broadened, his shoulders wider and his arms stronger, as if the years in prison had hardened him rather than broken him. He wore a worn beige jacket over a denim shirt, his brown hair a bit longer and disheveled, and a thick, well-groomed beard that covered his strong jaw. His green eyes were still intense.

A strange sensation ran through your body at seeing him: a mix of nerves, curiosity, and something you didn't want to identify. Your heart beat faster and you felt uncomfortable warmth rise up your neck.

Your father stopped the car. Barely turning off the engine, he got out quickly and walked toward him. The two men met halfway and embraced with force, patting each other's backs.

"I missed you, brother," your father said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "It's been too many years."

He returned the embrace with the same intensity, though his expression remained more contained. When they separated, he took a step back and looked toward the car. His eyes landed directly on you.

"Is that her?" he asked with a half-smile, that deep, hoarse voice that seemed to have matured with time. "Damn... you've grown so much."

Your father let out a low laugh and waved you over with his hand.

"Come on, come here."

You hesitated for a second, but finally got out of the car. You closed the door and walked toward them with slow steps. When you were close enough, he looked you up and down with that disarming intensity. You leaned forward slightly and kissed him on the cheek.

In that instant, you felt the brush of his thick beard against your skin. It was rougher than you imagined, but warm at the same time. A shiver ran down your spine and, for a moment, you liked it more than you were willing to admit. He smelled of soap, fresh air, and something masculine that felt unsettlingly familiar.

He went still for a second, as if he had felt something too from that brief contact, and then gave you a small, almost private smile.

Your father patted his friend's shoulder and nodded toward the car with his head.

"Come on, get in the car. No point in staying here any longer."

You moved first and got into the back seat without saying anything, leaving the front seat for him. It was the most logical thing to do, but you still felt a slight tension as you settled in. He took his bag, left it in the trunk, and sat up front. The aroma of his jacket and his skin filled the interior of the car subtly but inevitably.

When your father started the engine and began driving away from the prison, he broke the silence:

"We have a room ready for you at home. She helped me get it ready these past few days," he said, looking at you in the rearview mirror with a grateful smile.

He turned his head slightly back, observing you for a moment.

"Thank you," he murmured with that deep voice. "It wasn't necessary, but I appreciate it."

Your father nodded, visibly happy to have him back.

"We have a lot to talk about, friend..."

You couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at you.

"And why don't you go with your wife?" you asked, looking at his neck. "I also wanted to know... where does she live?"

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Your father gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"That's enough," he cut you off with a firm tone. "You shouldn't ask those questions."

He, however, raised a hand in a calm gesture.

"It's fine," he said calmly, turning slightly to look at you over his shoulder. His green eyes met yours through the rearview mirror. "I'm not going with her because we're going through a rough patch. And she lives in Texas."

You nodded, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

You settled better in the back seat and stayed quiet for the rest of the trip, looking out the window as the fields sped by. However, you couldn't help but be aware of his presence. Every time he spoke with your father, his hoarse voice reached you and, from time to time, you felt his gaze shift toward the mirror to watch you.

They arrived at the house as the sun began to set. Your father parked at the entrance and everyone got out. He took his canvas bag from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder with ease, as if it weighed nothing.

"Come on, I'll show you your room," you said, trying to sound natural.

You guided him down the first-floor hallway to the guest room that you had helped prepare. You opened the door and stepped aside to let him pass. The room was clean, with fresh sheets, folded towels on the dresser, and a window overlooking the back patio.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice, setting the bag on a chair. His green eyes scanned the space before resting on you. "I really appreciate this."

"It's nothing," you responded, shrugging your shoulders. "Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, let me know."

You left the room somewhat nervously, your pulse a bit quickened. You closed the door behind you and headed straight to the kitchen. You opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and poured yourself a glass. You drank a long sip, trying to calm that strange unease you'd felt since seeing him outside the prison.

Less than two minutes had passed when you heard footsteps. Both he and your father appeared in the kitchen entrance.

"Your boyfriend's at the door," your father announced with a half-smile, gesturing toward the front entrance.

You let out a sigh of annoyance and set the glass on the counter with more force than necessary.

"He's not my boyfriend," you protested, irritated. "I've told you that several times."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen and headed toward the front door, feeling the gaze of both men on your back. Especially his.

That night you came home quite late. You had spent the rest of the day with your "boyfriend," trying to distract yourself and get away from the strange tension that had settled in the house since his arrival. Your father didn't scold you for the hour; you were always late coming home.

You walked down the hallway in silence, shoes in hand so you wouldn't make noise. Your room was at the end, just after the one he now occupied. As you passed his door, you noticed it was slightly ajar. A warm light came from inside, along with the clear sound of his deep voice.

You couldn't help but stop.

He was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless. The lamp light highlighted every line of his torso: the broad shoulders, the chest and abdomen muscles marked by years of hard exercise, even in prison. A thin layer of hair ran down from his chest and disappeared below the waistband of his pants. He was speaking on the phone in a low but clearly angry tone.

"...don't start with that again. You know perfectly well why I'm here," he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "No, I'm not going to discuss this now."

He turned and dropped into the chair next to the window. As he sat, his pants tightened against his strong thighs, and for a second your gaze dropped without you being able to help it. Everything was clearly visible on him. He was large. The word appeared in your mind before you could stop it, accompanied by sudden warmth that rose through your stomach.

You shook your head quickly, trying to erase that thought. What the hell is wrong with you? you reproached yourself silently. He was your father's best friend. He had just gotten out of prison. He was married.

You took a careful step back, your heart beating hard. Before he could turn around and see you, you moved away down the hallway and entered your room, closing the door softly behind you. You leaned against the wood, breathing heavily.

You went to sleep with your head in a mess, but sleep took a long time to come. You tossed and turned in bed for hours, with the image of his bare torso and that deep voice arguing on the phone repeating in your mind. When you finally fell asleep, it was restless sleep.

The next morning you woke up in a bad mood. You had dark circles under your eyes and a slight headache. All you wanted was a strong coffee. You walked barefoot to the kitchen, still in your pajamas, expecting to find the coffee pot full like every morning, but the pot was empty.

That finished making you furious.

You entered the living room with a frown.

"Why is there no coffee?" you asked grumpily.

Your father, who was sitting on the couch reviewing some papers, looked up.

"Sorry, honey. He finished it," he said, nodding his head toward the other side of the room.

There he was, sitting in one of the armchairs with a cup in his hand, already dressed in a tight black t-shirt and jeans. He looked at you calmly, but you gave him a sharp look in return and went back to the kitchen furious, opening and closing doors with more force than necessary.

Not even ten seconds passed when you heard his footsteps behind you.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, coming into the kitchen. "I didn't know it was your coffee. Let me make another one, no problem."

"I don't want anything," you responded without looking at him, opening the refrigerator just to do something. "I just want you to leave."

He stayed silent for a moment. Then he spoke with a lower but firm voice.

"You're being very rude. I was just trying to help you."

"I don't need your help," you replied, closing the refrigerator with a bang.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made the t-shirt tense across his shoulders.

"You weren't like this when you were little," he commented, looking at you with a mix of surprise and something like disappointment. "You were a sweet girl who was always smiling."

You turned to him with fire in your eyes.

"A lot of years have passed," you answered curtly. "I've changed. And so have you."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen angrily, brushing his arm as you passed. The brief contact sent a shiver through you that you preferred to ignore as you headed back to your room.

You sat on the edge of your bed with a heavy sigh and picked up your phone, scrolling through messages without much interest. You were still angry, but the anger was beginning to mix with a feeling of guilt. About ten minutes had passed when you heard two soft knocks on the door.

"Come in," you said.

The door opened and there he was, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He had changed t-shirts and his presence filled the doorway. He entered carefully, as if he didn't want to invade your space.

"I brought this," he said, extending the cup. "And I wanted to apologize again for drinking your coffee. I didn't know you were so territorial about it."

You accepted the cup with a small embarrassed smile. The aroma was perfect.

"Thank you..." you murmured before taking the first sip. The coffee was exactly how you liked it. "I'm sorry for how I treated you earlier. I slept terribly last night and waking up without coffee was awful. I got in a really bad mood."

He nodded, accepting your apologies. Then, without asking permission, he sat down next to you on the bed. The mattress sank noticeably under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him. Being this close made you very aware of his size, his body heat, and the slight smell of soap and clean skin that he gave off.

You looked at him sideways.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile.

"You're already asking," he replied with a teasing tone.

You laughed softly, feeling some of the tension ease.

"Another question," you clarified. "Why did you go to prison?"

He was silent for a few seconds, looking at the cup in your hands. Finally, he spoke in a calm voice.

"I was involved in illegal business. Mainly weapon trafficking and stolen goods. They caught me in a big operation. It wasn't something planned to hurt innocent people, but it was still serious."

You frowned.

"I thought it had been something much worse... given how many years you served."

He let out a low, dry laugh.

"They gave me more years than I deserved because during the trial, I lost control and beat up the judge. It wasn't my best moment."

You looked at him surprised, your eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Yes," he confirmed, looking directly into your eyes. "Really."

The silence stretched between you for a moment. Then he stood up.

"I have to go, your father is waiting for me to talk about some things."

As he stood, he placed his large, strong hand on your thigh to push himself up. The contact lasted just a few seconds, but it was enough. You felt the weight, the heat, and the firmness of his palm through the thin pajama fabric. A shiver ran across your skin and all the hair on your arm stood on end. It was a big hand, calloused, powerful.

He withdrew his hand and left through the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving you alone in the room with your heart beating hard and the coffee still warm in your hands.

The rest of the week passed in a strange but growing routine of cohabitation. Little by little you learned to share the same space without the atmosphere becoming too tense. You arrived home late almost every night, after spending time with your friend or simply trying to distract yourself.

Every time you came into the house, he was usually awake. Sometimes he was sitting in the living room watching television with the volume low, and he would greet you with a simple "you're home" or a slight nod of his head. Other nights, you would pass his half-open door and hear him arguing in a low voice with his wife. His tone was always grave and tired, and you forced yourself to keep walking toward your room without stopping.

During the day, he helped your father with everything he needed: fixing things in the garage, moving furniture, mowing the lawn, or simply accompanying him on errands. You tried to keep your distance, but you couldn't help noticing how, from time to time, his gaze landed on you with more intensity than necessary.

When you cooked, when you read on the couch, or simply passed through the hallway. And you... also looked at him. More than you wanted to admit.

By the end of the second week, the tension between you had become more palpable, though neither of you said anything.

That afternoon you were in the kitchen preparing dinner while you waited for your father to come home from work. You were cutting vegetables with precise movements when you felt his presence. He came in and leaned against the counter, observing you with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit his shoulders and arms, and he looked at you with that calm half-smile that was starting to seem dangerous to you.

"Are you just going to stand there watching?" you asked without looking up from the knife.

He let out a low, hoarse laugh.

"I can't help much, I don't know how to cook."

You rolled your eyes but smiled a little.

"Help me anyway. Hand me that pan behind you and the oil from the top shelf."

He obeyed, stepping closer than necessary to hand you the things. As he handed you the pan, his fingers brushed yours for a second.

"Of course, princess," he said softly, using the old nickname he used to call you when you were a child.

You went still for a moment and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Does it bother you that I call you that?"

"No," you answered, turning back to the pan. "I like it."

The atmosphere became warmer. He handed you the ingredients you asked for, moving around the kitchen with that imposing presence that filled the entire space. From time to time you felt his gaze on your neck, on your hips, or on the movement of your hands as you cooked.

At one point, his phone rang. He looked at the screen, frowned, and moved a few steps toward the living room to answer. He returned several minutes later with a tense jaw.

You didn't want to ask, but the words came out on their own.

"Who was it?"

"My wife," he answered curtly, putting his phone in his pocket.

"Oh," was all you said, and you continued stirring the food in the pan.

He approached slowly from behind, stopping at a distance that was too short. You could feel the heat of his body.

"She wants to come visit me this weekend," he commented in a low voice.

"That's not my problem," you responded in a neutral tone, though you felt a knot in your stomach. "Tell my father. This is his house, not mine."

He didn't move. Instead, he took another step closer. The smell of his skin and the slight brush of his arm against yours made your breathing accelerate. You moved to the side, pretending you needed something from the other end of the counter.

Just then, the front door opened.

"I'm home!" your father announced from the entrance.

The two of you separated immediately. You continued focused on the kitchen as if nothing had happened, while he turned toward the living room to greet your father.

Neither of you said another word about the subject.

The three of you sat down to dinner at the dining table. The conversation flowed relatively normally: your father asked how his day had been, and he answered calmly, commenting on the things they had fixed together. Toward the end of dinner, he mentioned casually.

"My wife wants to come visit me this weekend. If there's no problem, of course."

Your father nodded without hesitation.

"No problem at all, brother. This is also your home. She can stay as long as she needs."

You remained silent, poking at your food with your fork. You didn't say anything, but you felt an uncomfortable pang in your chest that you preferred to ignore.

After dinner, you began to gather the plates and utensils and he got up too.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"You don't need to," you responded without looking at him. "You can go to sleep if you want. I'll take care of it."

He observed you for a moment, but finally nodded and withdrew down the hallway. Your father went to his room shortly after, leaving the house in complete silence.

You stayed alone in the kitchen, tidying everything with methodical movements. You washed the dishes, cleaned the counters, and put away what you could. However, when you tried to place a heavy glass container on the highest shelf of the cupboard, you realized you couldn't reach it. Even standing on a chair, you couldn't reach it well, and besides, it had to go in a specific position to fit with the other things.

You sighed, annoyed. You didn't want to leave it sitting on the counter. After hesitating for a few seconds, you walked down the hallway and knocked softly on his door.

He opened almost immediately. He was shirtless, his wide, marked torso completely exposed under the dim light of the room. The muscles of his chest and abdomen tensed slightly when he saw you, and that line of dark hair running down toward the waistband of his sweatpants distracted you more than you would have liked.

You swallowed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.

"Can you help me for a second?" you asked, gesturing toward the kitchen. "There's something I can't put away up high."

"Of course," he answered without hesitation.

He followed you down the hallway. Once in the kitchen, you grabbed the heavy container with both hands.

"Put it there," you instructed him, pointing to the upper shelf. "It has to be pushed toward the back so it closes properly."

He approached from behind. When he stretched his arms to take the container, his body pressed against yours. His broad chest brushed against your back, and you could clearly feel the heat of his bare skin through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His height and build made you feel completely surrounded.

For a moment, your traitorous mind imagined what it would be like to lean back, arch against him, and let him touch you right there, just for him. To feel those large, strong hands holding you. The idea hit you with force and heat.

No. This is wrong, you mentally scolded yourself. He's older. He's married. He's dad's best friend. There's nothing good in this.

As soon as he finished adjusting the container, he lowered his arms, but didn't move away immediately. His body remained pressed against yours for a few more seconds, firm and warm. Then he took a step back.

"Done," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.

"Thanks," you said, not meeting his eyes.

He gave you a long last look before heading toward the hallway.

"Good night, princess," he said in a low voice.

"Good night," you responded, almost in a whisper.

When you heard his door close, you released the breath you didn't know you were holding and leaned against the counter, your heart racing and uncomfortable heat coursing through your entire body.

That night you had planned to go to bed early. You were tired after a long day and the heat wasn't helping, but your phone vibrated on your bed.

It was Tony, asking you to go out for a bit. You hesitated for only a few seconds before responding that you would.

You changed quickly in your room, opting for something cooler: a thin sleeveless t-shirt and a short cotton skirt that felt light against your skin. It was too hot that night. You fixed your hair a bit, grabbed your keys and phone, and left down the hallway, trying not to make noise. You wanted to avoid your father knowing you were going out so late, but as you passed the door of your father's best friend, it suddenly opened.

He was there, shirtless again, only with sweatpants low on his hips. He looked you up and down with a frown.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a low but firm voice.

You quickly put a finger to your lips, silencing him.

"To see Tony," you whispered. "I don't want my dad to know, it's already late."

He crossed his arms over his chest, marking his muscles even more.

"What you're doing is wrong. Going out at this hour without your father knowing..."

"You're not the one to tell me what's right or wrong," you answered curtly, meeting his eyes. "You're the last person to give lessons."

At that precise moment, the sound of your father's bedroom door opening at the end of the hallway was heard.

Without giving you time to react, he grabbed your arm and dragged you inside his room with a quick but controlled movement. He closed the door carefully, almost without sound. Suddenly you found yourself pressed against his body. Your back was against his bare chest, and one of his large hands firmly positioned itself on your stomach, pulling you against him to keep you from moving. You could feel the heat of his skin, the firmness of his muscles, and the strong beat of his heart against your back.

You stayed completely still, nervous, with your pulse racing. The smell of his skin surrounded you and you felt every inch of his body pressed against yours.

Neither of you moved.

You heard your father walk down the hallway, open the bathroom door, and after some eternal minutes, return to his room and close the door. Only then did he loosen his hand on your stomach and slowly open his door.

He took a step back, creating distance between you.

"Sorry," he murmured, looking at you with intensity. "I didn't want him to see you."

You said nothing. You had rapid breathing and flushed cheeks. You just looked at him for a second longer before leaving his room without a word and walking quickly toward the front door.

You felt his gaze fixed on your back until you left the house.

You left the house without looking back and got into Tony's car. The night didn't go well. Things between you had been tense for weeks, and that outing ended in a strong argument. You got home around 4 in the morning, with eyes swollen from crying. You tried to come in as quietly as possible, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

But as soon as you closed the front door, you saw him.

He was sitting on the living room couch in the dim light, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked up as soon as he heard the door and stood immediately, his expression changing when he saw you.

You tried to hurry past toward your room, but he was faster. He caught you gently by the arm before you could escape.

"Wait..." he said in a low voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you murmured, trying to free yourself and without meeting his eyes. "Let me go."

He didn't let you go. Instead, he turned you toward him carefully, and seeing your red eyes and tears still fresh on your cheeks, his expression hardened.

"Tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time.

As you didn't respond, he raised a hand and gently took your face, forcing you to look at him. His palm was large and warm against your cheek. His green eyes observed you with an intensity that disarmed you.

"Talk to me," he asked in a low voice.

You ended up telling him everything between contained sobs: the argument, how Tony had made you feel, how frustrated you were. He listened without interrupting, with a frown and tense jaw.

"You're not going to see him again," he said when you finished, with a firm and protective voice. "He doesn't deserve you. You deserve something much better than that."

You stayed silent for a moment, processing his words. Then, with a trembling voice, you asked.

"Can I hug you?"

He nodded without hesitation.

You moved closer and hugged him tightly, burying your face in his bare chest. His arms wrapped around you immediately, completely enveloping you. One of his large hands slowly caressed your back, while the other rested on the back of your neck. You felt small and protected against his warm, strong body. He smelled like him, something deeply masculine. You stayed like that for several seconds, letting him comfort you.

"Why are you awake?" you asked without separating.

"I couldn't sleep until I made sure you got home safely," he answered with a hoarse voice, still holding you.

You slowly separated from him, though part of you didn't want to. You stood on your tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, very close to the corner of his lips.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I'm going to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," he responded, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.

You walked toward your room feeling his gaze fixed on your back. You closed the door and leaned against it, your heart beating hard and a mix of emotions you didn't know how to handle.

You spent two days avoiding him as much as possible. You barely exchanged words with him, left early and came home late, or locked yourself in your room with some excuse. He seemed to notice, but didn't pressure you. He just watched you from afar with that intense gaze that made you nervous.

The weekend arrived and you woke up around 10 in the morning in a very bad mood. You didn't know exactly why, but you felt strange, irritable, and with a heavy sensation in your chest. You got up, put on an oversized t-shirt and some shorts, and headed to the kitchen. Your father was alone, drinking mate at the table.

"Where is he?" you asked while making your coffee.

"He went to pick up his wife at the airport," your father answered naturally. "They should be arriving soon."

You felt an uncomfortable pang in your stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. You didn't want to analyze it too much. You just nodded in silence and continued making your coffee, trying to make sure your expression didn't give anything away.

Around 11:30 you heard the sound of a car parking in front of the house. Your heart jumped. You didn't want to go out to greet them, so you quietly approached the living room window and peeked through the curtains.

He got out of the car first. He looked imposing as always, with dark jeans and a black rolled-up shirt. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door.

Then you saw her.

His wife was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had long, dark, wavy hair and a voluptuous body: pronounced curves, wide hips, and generous breasts. She dressed casually but elegantly, with fitted pants and a blouse that marked her forms. She was beautiful, with a confident smile and a presence that filled the space.

She looked nothing like you.

That bothered you more than you were willing to admit. You felt a knot in your throat and an unpleasant heat in your chest. You moved away from the window before they could see you, with your heart beating hard and a discomfort you couldn't explain.

You heard the voices outside: your father coming out to greet them, the introductions, the polite laughs. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to wash your coffee cup, though really you were just trying to calm yourself.

After a few minutes, you managed to calm down enough. You took a deep breath, fixed your hair a bit, and went out to the front of the house with a forced smile.

"Hi," you said as you approached.

He looked at you immediately. His expression was unreadable, but you clearly felt his eyes landing on you.

The woman turned toward you with a friendly smile and extended her hand.

"Hi, I'm Laura," she introduced herself with a warm, confident voice.

"Nice to meet you," you responded, shaking her hand. You tried to smile as best you could, though you felt like it wasn't quite natural.

You moved instinctively closer to your father, almost seeking protection, while you felt his gaze fixed on you. Laura started talking animatedly with your father about the trip and how grateful she was to be received. You barely heard her. Your attention was on something else: his large hand resting possessively on Laura's waist, not letting go at any moment. His fingers looked firm against the fabric of her blouse.

That image stirred something inside you. When everyone came into the house, Laura looked around with interest and smiled.

"If you don't mind, I can cook something," she offered enthusiastically. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen and I want to make a good impression."

Your father accepted immediately, clearly pleased.

"Of course! That would be great."

You didn't open your mouth. You knew that if you spoke at that moment, you would probably say something sharp or out of place. It bothered you deeply that someone else would invade "your" kitchen, the space that felt like your own. You'd never been good at hiding that kind of emotion: your expression became more serious and your body visibly tensed.

Laura seemed to notice, but said nothing. She continued talking with your father as they headed to the kitchen. He, on the other hand, stayed a few seconds longer and looked at you intensely, as if measuring your reaction.

You avoided his gaze and followed them in silence, with an uncomfortable knot in your stomach and a mix of jealousy and anger that you didn't want to feel.

You stayed in the kitchen watching her.

Laura moved around with confidence, as if she already knew the place. She cut vegetables, seasoned the meat, and talked animatedly with him, touching his arm or back from time to time. She acted as if he hadn't spent more than ten years in prison, as if she hadn't practically abandoned him as soon as he got out. Every laugh, every touch, irritated you more.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"I won't be able to have lunch," you announced suddenly, interrupting the conversation. "I have things to do."

Your father frowned, visibly annoyed.

"That's very disrespectful, honey. We have a visitor."

"I'm not hungry," you answered curtly. "I'm going to see Tony. I'll be back later."

You took the keys from the table and left through the front door without waiting for a response, ignoring the heavy gaze fixed on your back.

You came home near midnight. You had spent all day with Tony, though being with him felt increasingly like torture. The conversations were forced and his goodbye kiss in front of the house tasted empty. Still, you reciprocated, letting him kiss you with more intensity than you really wanted.

What you didn't know was that from the living room window, he was watching you.

You came into the house trying not to make noise. Everything was silent and dark. For a second you hoped to find him awake, like the other nights, but there was no one there. That disappointment fell on your chest like a weight. You went straight to your room, changed clothes, and got into bed with your phone.

An hour later, when you were already half asleep, you heard it.

At first you thought it was your imagination. Muffled moans, the rhythmic sound of the bed against the wall. But no, they were real and they came from his room. That made your blood run cold.

You got out of bed with your heart racing and opened your room door. You walked barefoot down the hallway, attracted to the sound as if you couldn't help it. His door was barely ajar, letting out a hazy beam of dim light.

You approached and looked.

He was on top of Laura. Completely naked, his back and arm muscles tense as he moved forcefully against her. His thrusts were deep and forceful. Laura moaned without shame, with her nails dug into his back and her legs wrapped around his waist, clearly enjoying every movement.

His large hand gripped one of her hips with possession.

It churned your stomach. A knot of nausea, jealousy, and something much darker tightened your chest. At that moment, he turned his head toward the door.

His green eyes met yours directly, and for one eternal second, neither of you reacted. His gaze was dark, intense, almost animal, as he continued moving inside Laura. You stayed paralyzed, mouth dry and pulse pounding in your ears.

Finally, you managed to react. You stepped away from the door and walked quickly down the hallway back to your room, with burning cheeks and a whirlwind of emotions you couldn't control.

That night you barely slept at all. Every time you closed your eyes, the images came back: his muscular back moving forcefully, his large hands gripping Laura's hips, her moans.

You remembered too clearly how big he looked, how deep and powerful every thrust was. And the worst part was that part of you couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to be in Laura's place... to be the woman underneath him.

You were so embarrassed.

The next day you didn't leave your room all morning. The mere idea of seeing him made you feel a knot of anxiety and humiliation in your stomach. You couldn't look him in the face knowing what you had seen, knowing what you had wanted.

Around midday, your father knocked softly on your door.

"Are you okay?" he asked from outside.

"I don't feel well," you answered with a dull voice. "I think I'm going to stay in my room today. I have a really bad headache and body aches."

Your father sighed, but eventually accepted.

"That's fine, rest. If you need anything, let me know."

You were alone again, curled up in bed. The shame wouldn't go away, and with it came a much more painful feeling: the certainty that you weren't enough.

Laura was a woman his age, mature, with a voluptuous body, pronounced curves, and generous breasts, and a confidence you still didn't have. You were very young compared to him. You had a good body, slender, firm, attractive, but it was nothing like hers. You didn't have those wide hips, or that generous bust, or that presence that seemed to fill a room. What could you possibly offer him that could really call his attention? He was an experienced man with a wife who, despite their problems, shared his world.

You were just the daughter of his best friend.

Too young. Too... insufficient. That idea ate away at you inside as you covered your face with the pillow, wishing all those thoughts would disappear from your body before you had to face him again.

You spent the afternoon locked in your room, but around five in the afternoon your father knocked on the door.

"We're going to the beach. Laura wants to cool off a bit. Do you want to come?"

You jumped out of bed.

"Yes, I feel better," you said quickly. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

You hurried to get everything: a towel, sunscreen, sunglasses, and your best bikini. You chose a black one, high-waisted with a pronounced neckline that made you feel confident in your body. You changed quickly, put on a light dress over it, and went out with your things, acting as if nothing had happened.

You got into the back seat of the car next to Laura. During the entire drive, you barely spoke. You answered with one-word responses when they asked you something and kept your gaze fixed on the window.

When you arrived at the beach, you all got out and settled in a good spot near the water. Laura was the first to want to go into the water.

"I'm going to cool off," she said with a smile, taking off her summer dress and revealing a red bikini that highlighted her voluptuous curves. She headed toward the water, swaying as she walked.

You desperately hoped he wouldn't follow her immediately. And he didn't. He stayed sitting on the towel, with his legs stretched out and his gaze fixed on the horizon.

That put you in a better mood.

You slowly took off your dress and left it to the side. You stretched out on the towel face down. You could feel his eyes scanning you, even though he said nothing.

Your father got up a little later.

"I'm going to buy something to drink. Do you want anything?"

Both of you shook your heads, and your father walked away across the sand. You stayed alone, and after a few minutes of silence, you decided to break it.

"Can you put sunscreen on my back?" you asked in a casual tone, handing him the bottle.

He looked at you for a moment, tensing his jaw.

"That's not a good idea," he answered in a low voice. "It can be misinterpreted."

You felt offended, turned your face to the other side, and rested your cheek on your arms.

"Never mind then," you murmured.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence closer. You heard the bottle opening and, shortly after, his large, warm hands rested on your back.

You smiled to yourself, hidden against your arms.

His hands were firm but careful. He started with your shoulders, spreading the sunscreen with slow, circular motions. He moved down your spine, pressing lightly with his thumbs. He reached your waist, and then his fingers brushed the edges of your bikini, going a bit further than necessary.

"You're very tense," he commented in a hoarse voice, almost a murmur. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"

"Now I am," you responded softly, without turning around. "Thanks."

His hands continued, spreading the sunscreen with slower and more deliberate movements. The warmth of his palms and the pressure of his fingers caused you pleasurable shivers.

"Is that okay?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.

"Mm... yes," you whispered. "You can go lower if you want."

He hesitated for a second, but his hands continued, extending the sunscreen with movements that were slower and more deliberate. The atmosphere between you became dense, charged with something neither of you named.

He removed his hands from your back just as he saw your father returning in the distance with drinks in his hand. He moved away a bit and sat on his towel as if nothing had happened. You remained there, face down, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin and the pleasant tingle you still felt where he had touched you.

A little later, Laura returned from the water, shaking out her wet hair and smiling. She sat down near your father and started talking enthusiastically.

"This is delicious. Now that I'm here, my husband can come back with me to Texas whenever he wants. It's time we got our lives back together."

Your father nodded, though his expression became nostalgic.

"It's a shame. He's just back and already leaving. I'll see him very little."

Laura smiled with understanding.

"They can visit us whenever they want, or he can come back to visit. Our house is big and there's always room."

Those words hit you like a bucket of cold water. The idea that he would leave, that he would go back to Texas with her, caused a deep discomfort in your chest. You didn't want him to leave, you didn't want him to abandon you, but you couldn't say anything. You just tightened your jaw and kept your gaze fixed on the sand.

He noticed the change in your expression. He watched you in silence for a few seconds before speaking with a calm but firm voice.

"I'd really like to stay a bit longer," he said, looking at your father. "I've missed so many years away from you, brother. If you don't mind, I'd like to stay a few more weeks."

Your father's face lit up.

"Of course it doesn't bother me! In fact, I love the idea. Stay as long as you need."

Laura seemed a bit surprised, but maintained her smile.

"As you wish, honey," she said, though her tone had a slight undertone of discomfort.

You, on the other hand, felt an immense relief that you tried to hide. You lowered your head and smiled slightly against your arm, without anyone seeing you.

The rest of the afternoon turned out to be more fun than you expected. After a while taking in the sun, everyone got into the water. The waves were perfect, and between laughs, splashing, and light conversations, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Laura seemed to be in good spirits, your father was happy to have his friend nearby, and you managed to enjoy the moment despite everything.

At one point, while you were near the shore, a boy approached you. He was tall, with light-colored hair and blue eyes, probably a few years older than you. You started talking and didn't take long to laugh at his comments. He was fun and knew how to keep a light conversation. You felt flattered, and for a few minutes you forgot about everything else.

Suddenly, he appeared at your side.

"Your father is calling you," he said in a neutral tone, but with a look that didn't allow for discussion.

You looked toward where your father was and didn't see him particularly rushed, but the boy politely excused himself and you moved away with him.

You walked together across the sand, away from the water.

"I don't like that boy," he commented in a low voice, not looking at you.

"Why?" you asked, still with a small smile on your lips.

"He looks too old for you."

You shrugged.

"I don't mind age."

He stopped for a second and looked at you with intensity.

"You need to stay away from that type of boy."

You suddenly stopped on the sand, forcing him to stop too.

"Why?" you asked directly, looking him in the eyes.

He took a few seconds to respond. His jaw was tense.

"Keep walking," he said finally, with a deep voice.

You obeyed, but the question hung between you for the rest of the afternoon.

When it was time to leave, you gathered everything and headed to the parking lot. There you ran into some family friends who had also gone to the beach. After exchanging greetings warmly, the friends asked if you could give them a ride to a certain point because their car had broken down.

Your father accepted without problem.

"Of course, but we'll be a bit crowded."

Everyone managed to fit the bags and towels in the trunk. Your father organized the seats:

"You sit up front with him," he told you, since you were smaller, they would fit better. "Laura, do you mind sitting in the back with them?"

Laura shook her head, though her smile seemed a bit forced.

"Not at all."

Your father sat behind the wheel and Laura sat in the back with the two family friends. You stayed standing next to the passenger door, nervous.

He had already settled into the passenger seat. He looked at you and opened his legs a bit to give you space.

"There's no other option," he murmured just for you.

You took a deep breath and got in. You sat carefully on his lap, trying not to lean too much. But it was impossible. His body was large and solid, and you ended up completely settled on his thighs. His chest was pressed against your back, and one of his hands naturally positioned itself on your waist to stabilize you.

The trip became a slow, silent torture.

Every bump in the road made your body move against his inevitably. At first you tried to keep yourself as rigid as possible, but it was useless. With each jolt you clearly felt his strong thigh under you, the heat emanating from his body, and slowly, something more. It seemed to grow under your weight, pressing against you in increasingly obvious ways.

He tensed. His hand on your waist tightened slightly and his breathing became deeper near your neck. You knew it was making him uncomfortable. It wasn't the right time, place, or person. Laura was sitting right behind, talking with the family friends, and your father was driving concentrated on the road.

You didn't know how to feel either. A mix of shame, excitement, and nervousness ran through your entire body.

At one point, you took his right hand, the one on the side of the door, where no one could see, and simply squeezed it. You didn't say anything. You just interlaced your fingers with his and held them tightly, seeking an anchor as you felt every small movement of the car.

He didn't pull his hand away. On the contrary, he returned the squeeze, his large, warm palm wrapping around yours.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, only the conversations from those in the back and the engine noise could be heard. You kept your gaze forward, with your cheeks burning and your heart beating hard.

When they finally arrived at the house, everyone started getting out of the car. You stayed a moment longer inside, pretending to arrange something in your bag to give the others time to get out first. You needed Laura and your father to move away a bit.

He didn't move immediately either. He waited until the others started taking things out of the trunk. Only then did he release your hand that he still held and speak in a very low voice, almost against your ear.

"You can get out now."

You got up carefully, clearly feeling his body react to the movement. You got out of the car without looking directly at him and helped unload the things, trying to act normally.

You helped carry some things inside the house, but as soon as you set the bags down in the living room, you murmured that you were tired and went straight to your room.

You closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing heavily.

You'd had too many sleepless nights, too much tension built up. Your body was desperately asking for release. You felt both embarrassed and excited. You took off your still-damp bikini and lay in bed wearing only a thin t-shirt. With shame and excitement mixed together, you closed your eyes and let your hand slowly move down your body.

You thought of him. Of his large hands spreading sunscreen on your back, of how they felt against your skin, of his body pressed against yours in the car, of that growing hardness you had clearly felt under you. Of the image you had seen that night through the half-open door: him moving with force, powerful, dominant.

Your breathing became faster as you touched yourself, imagining that it was his hands that were exploring you, that it was his hoarse voice whispering in your ear. You felt guilty and ashamed, but that only increased the intensity. You came with his name muffled in your throat, biting the pillow to avoid making noise.

When you finished, you stayed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, chest heaving and deep shame invading you. What am I doing? you thought. He's my father's best friend... he's married...

You got out of bed on shaky legs and went straight to shower. You let the hot water fall hard on your body. His presence seemed to have gotten under your skin, and it wouldn't wash away easily. Some time later you came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, with wet hair and your mind still in a mess.

You left the bathroom wrapped in a soft towel, wet hair dripping over your shoulders. You changed in your room with slow movements: you chose a loose cotton t-shirt that barely reached the middle of your thigh and simple black lace panties. You didn't put anything else on. The afternoon heat was still clinging to your skin, and the excitement of what you had done in bed was still pulsing between your legs.

You walked barefoot to the living room. The house was silent. You heard your father's shower running in the main bathroom and, from down the hallway, the distant sound of Laura moving in the guest room, probably changing clothes.

You dropped yourself onto the big couch, stretching your legs across the cushions. You rested your head back and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind that was still spinning inside you. The cool leather of the couch against the back of your thighs made you sigh.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence.

He entered the living room without making a sound. He stopped for a second when he saw you, as if deciding whether to approach or not. Finally he sat down next to you, leaving barely a palm's width between your bodies. The couch sank under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence was dense, charged. You could hear his slow, deep breathing. You felt the heat coming from his bare leg so close to yours. Your heart started beating faster, but you stayed still, pretending you were just resting.

After a long while, he spoke. His deep, hoarse voice was barely a murmur, just for you.

"Sorry for what happened in the car. That shouldn't have happened."

You slowly turned your head toward him. His green eyes looked at you with a mix of guilt and something much darker. You were so close that you could see the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw and the pulse beating in his neck.

"Don't be sorry," you whispered, holding his gaze. "I liked it."

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through his nose. His large hand rested on his own thigh, his fingers tense.

"You shouldn't say those things," he murmured, with an even lower voice. "You're my best friend's daughter. This... is wrong."

You bit your lower lip and turned a bit more toward him, letting your knee gently brush against his thigh.

"I would do it again," you said without hesitation, almost defiantly.

He turned his head to look at you. His gaze had darkened. For a moment he only observed you: your parted lips, your damp hair falling over your shoulders, the way your t-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your collarbone.

"You're perfect," he said finally, almost painfully. "And very foolish for wanting me."

A slow, soft smile appeared on your lips. You felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Without saying anything, you slid your hand across the couch until your fingers brushed the edge of his thigh. You moved upward slowly, feeling the hardness of the muscle under the thin fabric of his shorts. He tensed visibly, but didn't stop you immediately.

"I can be whatever you want," you whispered, moving your face a little closer to his. "Just tell me."

Your hand continued moving up until your fingers brushed the bulge that was starting to form under the fabric. He let out a very low growl, almost inaudible.

Suddenly, his large, strong hand caught yours, stopping it just above his groin. His fingers wrapped around yours with firmness, but without pushing you completely away.

"No," he said with a hoarse voice, almost pleading. "There are people in the house. Your father... Laura..."

"I don't care," you responded in a trembling but determined whisper. You moved your fingers under his hand, gently caressing the hard shape that was growing against your palm. "I want to feel you. Just a little. Please..."

He swallowed hard. His jaw was so tense you could see the muscle flexing. For one eternal second, only the breathing of both of you could be heard, each breath heavier than the last.

Finally he released your hand... but only to move his up to your face. His large, warm palm gently cupped your cheek. His thumb slowly brushed your lower lip, parting it slightly.

"You're so beautiful when you ask for something," he murmured, his voice so deep you felt it vibrate in your own chest. "Too beautiful."

You leaned slightly into his touch, kissing the base of his thumb softly. Your fingers, now free, resumed their movement over him with slowness, exploring the long, hot, hard length that was hardening more under the fabric. You stroked him from top to bottom with your fingertips, feeling how it pulsed and grew with each touch.

He didn't stop you this time.

His breathing became deeper, and his eyes closed to half-mast as he let you touch him. The hand on your cheek moved slowly down your neck, stopping at the curve where your pulse raced. His fingers spread across your skin, possessive but controlled.

The sound of your father's shower continued running in the background. Laura hummed something softly in the distant room. And in the living room, the air was so charged that it seemed like everything could break at any moment.

The tension in the living room was so thick you could almost touch it. Your fingers continued moving slowly over him, feeling his erection growing and pulsing under the thin fabric of his shorts. He had his eyes half-closed, his breathing heavy, and his large hand still held your face like he was afraid you would disappear.

Suddenly, you heard soft footsteps down the hallway.

Laura.

He reacted with speed. In one smooth movement, he grabbed one of the large cushions from the couch and placed it over his lap, covering himself. You pulled your hand away just in time and settled back into your place, pretending you were just checking your phone. Your heart was beating so hard you thought Laura would hear it.

She appeared in the living room entrance, already in pajamas: a soft camisole and short shorts that marked her curves. She looked at both of you with a tired smile.

"I'm exhausted," she said with a yawn. "I'm going to sleep. Are you coming, honey?"

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice calm.

"I'll be right there. I want to shower first, I'm full of sand."

Laura nodded, barely paying attention, and headed to the bedroom. When she disappeared down the hallway, he looked at you. His green eyes were burning.

You got up from the couch on shaky legs with a secret smile on your lips. You walked toward your room without looking back, feeling his gaze fixed on your back.

Once inside, you closed the door and leaned against it. A low, happy laugh escaped your throat. You brought your hands to your hot cheeks. He had confirmed it. He wanted you. As much as you wanted him.

You smiled like a fool against the door, with your stomach full of butterflies and a dangerous warmth between your legs.

That night no one had dinner. Everyone was exhausted from the beach day. Your father went to bed early, Laura also. The house fell silent before ten.

You heard the shower turn on in the main bathroom. You thought he was actually going to shower... until, a few minutes later, your door opened carefully.

You jumped slightly in bed, scared. You were lying down with just a black lace underwear set, the light sheet covering you up to your waist. When you saw it was him, fear turned into a slow, bright smile.

He closed the door behind him with great care and turned the key. The sound of water still running in the shower was perfect cover.

He approached the bed without saying anything at first. You sat on the edge, watching him. He stopped in front of you, observing you from head to toe: your damp hair, your smooth skin, the black lace contrasting against your younger, more delicate body.

"You look like an angel," he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost reverent.

You stood up and wrapped your arms around his neck naturally, pressing your semi-naked body against his. You could feel the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt.

He took your face in his large hands, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. His green eyes dropped to your lips. He leaned down slowly, giving you the chance to pull back.

You didn't.

His lips brushed yours with surprising softness. First it was a light touch, almost tentative. Then, with more pressure, more hunger. He kissed you slowly, deeply, savoring you. His tongue gently caressed yours with slowness, exploring, while one of his hands moved down your bare back to rest on the low curve of your waist, pulling you more against him.

You melted into his body. The kiss became more intense but still controlled, as if he were holding himself back with all his strength. When you finally separated, both of you were breathing hard.

"Do you really like me?" you asked in a vulnerable whisper. "I look nothing like your wife... I don't have her curves, or her experience, or anything to really offer you."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His expression was serious, intense.

"You're more than perfect," he said in a deep, low voice, almost a vow. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. It's not just your body... it's the way you look at me, the way you tremble when I touch you, how you dare to ask me for what you want."

His hand slowly moved down your back, tracing your spine with his fingertips, stopping just above the fabric of your panties.

"I don't need you to be like her. I want you exactly as you are."

He kissed you again, this time with more urgency, while pressing you against his body. You could feel his hard erection pressing against your belly through his pants. His large hands explored your back, your waist, moving downward with slow possession until gently gripping your ass, lifting you slightly against him.

A soft moan escaped you against his mouth and he smiled against your lips.

"Shhh..." he whispered. "You have to be quiet, princess."

He gently pushed you toward the bed. You lay down on your back, looking at him with shining eyes full of desire. He undressed with a single movement, revealing his broad, marked torso covered by that fine layer of dark hair. He climbed on top of you, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you.

He kissed you again while one of his hands moved slowly down your body. He slid his fingers under the fabric of your lace bra, touching your already hardened nipple. He squeezed it gently, then with more force, drawing a gasp from you. He moved his mouth down to your chest, pulling the lace aside with his teeth. He sucked on one of your nipples hard while his free hand moved between your legs.

His thick fingers brushed the wet fabric of your panties.

"Damn, you're so needy..." he growled against your skin, feeling how soaked you were.

He moved the fabric to the side and slid two thick fingers between your folds, caressing your swollen clit with slow, circular motions. Then he lowered them and pushed one inside you, deep and slow. You moaned, biting your lip to keep quiet.

"So tight..." he murmured, adding a second finger. He started moving them in and out with a torturous rhythm, curving them to touch that spot that made you tremble.

Your hand moved down to his pants, seeking his erection. You felt it huge, hot, and pulsing. You stroked it over the fabric at first, then put your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around it. It was thick, heavy, much bigger than you had imagined. You masturbated him slowly, feeling how it swelled even more in your hand.

He growled against your neck.

"Fuck, you're doing it so well..."

He pulled off your panties with an impatient movement and lowered his pants just enough to free his cock. It was large, veined, with a thick head glistening with pre-cum. He rubbed it against your entrance, sliding it between your wet lips, hitting your clit with each stroke.

He looked into your eyes as he positioned himself.

"Fuck, it won't fit..." he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost concerned, seeing the difference in size.

"I want to try... please," you pleaded, opening your legs more for him.

He pushed the thick head against your entrance. It was slow, very slow. You felt how he opened you, stretching you in an almost painful but delicious way. Inch by inch, he entered you. Your insides squeezed him tightly, pulsing around his thickness.

"Go ahead, take it like a good girl," he whispered against your ear when he was already more than halfway in. "Breathe... that's it."

You moaned softly when he was finally completely buried inside you. You felt completely full, completely filled by him. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and breasts while his large hands gripped your hips.

He started moving. First with slow, deep thrusts, coming out almost completely to re-enter all the way to the bottom. Each time he reached the bottom, a muffled moan escaped from your throat.

The rhythm gradually increased. His hips collided with yours with more force, but controlled. The wet sound of his cock entering and leaving your pussy filled the room.

You clung to his broad shoulders, digging your nails into his skin. He looked directly into your eyes as he fucked you harder.

"You belong to me. Just me. Say it. Just me."

"Just you..." you gasped, barely able to speak. "Just you... please..."

"Again," he demanded, accelerating the rhythm, hitting that spot inside you with each deep thrust.

"Just you... Damn, just you!"

He kissed you hard to muffle your moans while he fucked you faster. One of his hands moved between you and he rubbed your swollen clit with his thumb, pushing you to the edge.

"Come for me, princess," he growled against your mouth. "I want to feel how you squeeze me."

The orgasm hit you hard. Your insides contracted violently around his thick cock, trembling and squeezing him while waves of pleasure ran through your entire body. You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He kept fucking you through your orgasm, deeper, wilder, until with a low, hoarse growl, he came inside you. You felt the hot bursts filling you, his cock pulsing hard while he filled you completely.

He stayed inside you for a long time, both of you breathing heavily, sweating, and trembling. He kissed you softly on the lips, on your forehead, on your cheeks, as if he couldn't stop touching you.

"You're mine now," he whispered against your skin, still buried deep inside you.

You remained connected for several more minutes, with him still buried deeply inside you. You felt his cock pulsing gently inside, his warm cum filling you completely. Neither of you wanted to move. He stroked your hair with one hand while the other moved slowly down your back with gentle caresses.

"I could fuck you all night..." he murmured against your neck, with a hoarse and satisfied voice. "I wouldn't get tired of this."

You smiled, still trembling from the orgasm, and tightened your internal walls around him.

"You could let me..." you whispered, kissing his jaw. "You could do whatever you want to me, all night."

He let out a low, deep laugh that vibrated against your chest. He lifted his head to look at you, with that dangerous half-smile you loved so much, and kissed you deeply, slowly, and affectionately this time.

When he separated, he rested his forehead against yours.

"I have to go, princess," he said softly.

"No..." you protested in a low voice, wrapping your legs around him more tightly. "Stay a bit longer. I feel so full... I like having you inside."

He closed his eyes for a second, as if struggling with himself.

"I need to go back with Laura," he said gently. "If I don't, she'll suspect."

Those words felt like a blow to your chest. Suddenly you felt a knot in your throat and, without being able to help it, tears started falling down your cheeks. You tried to turn your face away so he wouldn't see them, but he didn't let you.

"Hey..." he whispered tenderly. He carefully pulled out of you, causing a moan of emptiness to escape your lips. He lay down beside you and pulled you against his bare chest. "Don't cry, please."

He cleaned your tears with his thumbs, kissing each one of them. His lips brushed your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"Everything will be okay," he murmured against your skin. "This is complicated right now, but I'll fix it. I'll see you later, yes? I promise."

You nodded in silence, though the knot in your chest didn't fully disappear. He kissed you again, this time softer, longer, as if he wanted to carry your taste with him.

Then he got out of bed reluctantly. You stayed lying there, watching him as he got dressed: first his pants, then his t-shirt. Each movement of his muscles reminded you of what had just happened.

When he was ready, he bent over you one last time. He took your face in both hands and gave you a kiss so deep, so long, so desperate that it seemed like goodbye.

"Go to sleep," he whispered against your lips.

He dedicated one last look, charged with desire and something softer, and left your room with the same care he had entered. He closed the door softly.

You were left there, naked on the rumpled sheets, with your legs still open and his cum slowly running between your thighs. You felt full of him, marked, used in the best way possible.

A silly smile appeared on your lips as you brought a hand to your belly, still feeling the echo of his thickness inside you. You were happy. Very happy. But at the same time, a deep sadness settled in your chest when you heard his footsteps moving away down the hallway toward the room he shared with Laura.

You turned to your side, hugging the pillow, and closed your eyes. Happiness and sadness mixed strangely inside you.

You had crossed a line that had no turning back... and part of you didn't want it to.

you and ben sat beside each other on the creaky bed, just barely touching under the covers you are forced to share. you’re sat up with your arms around your knees, while ben is sprawled out with his arm beneath his head.

going on vacations and trips with your friend, emma, and her dad was not uncommon. you two were glued at the hip ever since first becoming friends. you’d share rooms, beds, sometimes even showers. it wasn’t weird to you or her, so there stood no problem. every trip, you and emma would end up rooming while her father would get himself a single, but this time was different.

emma got herself a boyfriend. and with said boyfriend, she had to room with him. it was the most logical. so unfortunately you were stuck rooming with her father, ben.

ben was always good to you, making sure you felt like his real daughter. he loved you like his own, and certainly treated you as such. luckily for him, your father was a deadbeat, so ben quickly filled himself into a fatherly role.

here you were now, years later, formed as a proper woman—your body was enough evidence for that. he was infatuated with you, which made him decide that it was finally time to mark you as his.

letting out a yawn, you leaned over to grab the remote as the movie had ended. you don’t realize that your ass was up in bens view, with your back arched as you reached for the remote. you let out a struggled sound, your arms just not long enough to reach.

ben chuckled behind you, and swiftly pressed against you to grab the remote. him being much bigger than you, he pulled it with ease. you let out a gasp, feeling your ass flush against his crotch. you quickly recoil, slamming yourself back onto the mattress away from him.

after turning off the tv, ben placed himself on top of you, and glided his hand down your cheek. it tickles you ever-so slightly, until it reached your neck, which he firmly gripped.

“ben…” you whispered, “what are you doing?” your voice was ignored as ben stared down at you. he licked his bottom lip, his eyes still on your plush lips. “just trust me, sweetheart,” he whispers.

you weren’t blind; you knew from the day you met him how good looking he was. although being much older, he looked amazing. he had a full head of hair, beautiful doe eyes, and a god-sculpted body. but you avoided thinking about him like that, he was your best friend's father after all. you couldn’t let whatever it is he wanted to happen. it was wrong, disgusting, maybe even unlawful. because no matter what, you started to see ben as a father, someone you had grown to trust and love.

“no, please. stop,” you breathed. you were scared, terrified. you wanted to believe he wasn’t in his right mind, that he was in a state of delusion—that he didn’t know what he was doing. but he knew, alright.

bringing his face closer to yours, he gripped your throat harder. “don’t make this hard… unless you like it that way.” he smirked wickedly before bringing his lips to your neck. you let out a whimper as he kissed and sucked on your neck, being sure to leave traces of himself. you tried to push him away, but he was too strong. he growled on top of you, pulling away from your neck. “stop fucking moving,” he demanded. you let out a sob, accepting your defeat.

with a victorious smile on his face, ben began to pull your shirt off. he tossed it behind him and began to lick and kiss all over your chest. despite still wearing a bralette, it was sheer and thin so it served no barrier. you'd never felt this before-such intimate actions. his tongue darted to circle around your covered nipple, his saliva soaking the fabric. your jaw slacked and back arched against his mouth. chuckling, ben lightly bit at your nipple before letting his tongue graze over it. you whimpered, unintentionally grinding yourself against his hard body.

"look at you, sweetheart. look at how much you want this," he whispered. his hands kneaded your breasts while he studied you with lustful eyes. your eyes were squeezed shut, lips parted, and hands still slightly pushing his chest. you began to shake your head furiously, lips forming a pout before you start to sob.

"no, stop. i don't want this. p-please.."

"you want it. you want it real bad, princess. look at you, grinding against me so hard," he whispered into your ear sensually. his hand left your breast, and moved to cup your clothed cunt. granted, your pyjama shorts are as thin as your bralette, and of course, you're not wearing panties.

“let me show you what a real man feels like, yeah? you need this, baby.” your hips bucked at his words, receiving the smallest amount of friction against his hand. you moaned lowly, head pressing hard against the pillow beneath you.

ben bit his lip and slowly started to circle his fingers against your clothed clit. he admired how your lips parted, lewd moans and whimpers slipping out. he knew how much you needed this, how much you’ll thank him when he’s done. he knows you’ve never had sex, never even had a boyfriend before. how? the walls are thin, obviously.

ben’s fingers suddenly stopped, causing you to finally open your eyes. “please,” you whined. he simply chuckled. he swiftly switched their positions, having you straddle his one thigh with her chest against his. he reveled in the innocent, teary-eyed look you gave him—unsure, embarrassed, utterly aroused. as much as he wanted to rush it and use you dry, he decided to let you feel something to get you started. “have you ever touched yourself, sweetheart?”

your face immediately glowed red, eyes darting everywhere but to his. of course, you knew what touching yourself meant, how it would work, why people did it. but you had always been too academically focussed, shielded by family, or even too oblivious to have done such things. and by the time you were finally exposed to everything, it had felt too late, so you didn’t bother. but hearing the question come from ben felt shameful, you were unsure what the right answer would be. whether to lie or not.

ben waited a moment, two moments, before grabbing your throat. “i asked you a question, sweetheart.” you let out a struggled sigh and shook your head slowly. he grinned, and pulled your neck to lay a kiss on your forehead. of course, he was so glad you hadn’t. that you hasn’t been spoiled and was all for him to teach.

pulling off his shirt, he propped you on the middle of his thigh. he slightly moved your hips back and forth, showing you what it feels like. you let out a sigh, clearly liking the feeling. even without your noises, ben could feel your slick through the clothes that separate you both. “that feel good, huh? keep going,” he ordered.

you gave a hesitant nod before slowly grinding against his thigh. you let out a low groan, realizing how good it felt. you began to pick up the pace, humping on him like a dog in heat. your hands find their place on his chest to keep balance, and ben’s hands find their way to your breasts once again. he discards your bra, letting it join the discarded clothes on the ground. he snaked one hand around your back, pushing you harder on his thigh in an act of guidance. he slouched his back to bring your nipple in his mouth, circling his tongue against the now bare skin.

you let out a whimper, back arching into him, letting your hands tug at his hair. your hips roll on him desperately, feeling a knot in your stomach. “fuck! fuck! please, please daddy,” you moan. ben let out a growl at the name you’d given him, applying his thumb to press against your clit. “let it out, sweetheart, c’mon.” and that you do with eyes rolling back and mouth slacked open. your hips stutter but ben helps by stimulating your clit to help ride out your orgasm.

he doesn’t stop circling your clit, however, causing you to twitch and whimper. “p-please, s’t-too much!” your body curled up and try to push his hand away, but ben doesn’t let up. he bites your nipple, causing you to scream. your sobs make ben let out a laugh.

“please! p-please, stop, it h-hurts… i-i can’t take it!” your arms snaked around his neck in a hug, your cries loud in his ear. he revelled in it.

he leaves your cunt, and wraps his arms around your waist, attempting to soothe you. “you’re beautiful, so beautiful.”

you sniffle and pull back, staring into his eyes, faces mere inches apart. your doe-like eyes are tearful, with snot starting to leak down her nose, it was gross, but ben loved it.

“did I do good?” you whispered hesitantly.

he smiled, “so good, doll.” you mirrored his smile, “really?”

he breathed a laugh, taking your hand in his and guiding it to his clothed erection. he held your hand there as his other pushed the back of your head close. with his mouth to your ear, he whispered, “look what you do to me, sweetheart.” you gasped.

ben guided your hand up and down his girthy member, applying pressure to the fingers, letting you squeeze him. stifling a groan, he let go of your hand. he undressed himself entirely, allowing his throbbing erection free to slap against his lower stomach.

you studied his cock, mouth watering at the sight. it was huge, thick with veins bulging across it. his pubes were trimmed elegantly, making you wonder what he was preparing for? your stomach fluttered at the thought of you being the one he was expecting.

“touch it,” he murmured, slightly adjusting his hips into a more comfortable position. you whimpered as he moved, still sensitive clit gaining a small amount of friction. your legs tightly wrapped around his bare thigh, trying hardest not to move. you gave him a worried look, which he immediately understood. “it’s okay, just touch it, i’ll guide you,” he reassured.

you let out a shaky breath and nodded, smaller hands wrapping around his cock. not knowing what you were doing, you started twisting the skin, causing an uncomfortable groan to leave ben’s lips. he quickly grabbed your hands, causing you to panic. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry!”

ben was starting to lose his patience, but he tried his best to mask it. “it’s alright, sweetheart. just let me show you, yeah?” he held your hand in his as he wrapped them around his dick. slowly gathering his leaking pre-cum, he started to pump himself with your hand.

“like this, okay, doll? up and down. you understand?” he toyed. he squeezed your hand around him, pumping faster, more erratic. you nodded furiously, “yes, i understand. i want to make you feel good,” you said, eyes glued to his bright red tip that emerged every time your hand slid down. ben groaned, his head falling back, and his hand leaving yours. “go on then, help your dad out. you want to be my good girl, don’t you, sweetheart?”

you let out a moan, and began to pump his cock as he had taught you. “yes-yeah. i wanna be your good girl.” you grew determined to make him feel good, so you added another hand to pump him. ben smirked, snaking his free hand to squeeze your breasts. “yeah, doll. you’re so good, look how good you make me feel. such a good girl.”

your head spun from the constant praise and his hands kneading your perked tits. your hands slowed on his cock, before picking up the pace, going faster than ever.

“i want to cum in you, doll. so let’s save me for a bit, okay?” he cooed, pulling your hands off his shaft. you nodded. your mind has been nothing but hazy for the night, arousal clouding over your better judgement. the fact that this was her best friend’s father, lingered in the back of your mind. but you were too far gone, too drunk on the pleasures he brought.

ben swiftly sat up and pushed you against the bed on your back. he pulled apart your legs, though you had to stretch out more as he was so much more larger than you. you let out a whine as he pressed against your sensitive core.

he struggled to control himself as he saw your swollen, puffy cunt. it looked perfect, smelled perfect, too. your arousal leaked down between your cheeks, coated in a shiny gloss.

he decided to tease you, needing to break you fully. to ruin you. he sensually massaged your inner thigh, gliding his thumb so close to your needy cunt. “look at you, so dirty,” he whispered, “you need me so bad, say it. beg me to fuck you dry.” he blew a breath to your cunt, making you shiver and moan.

“p-please, i need you so bad. i need you in me so bad. please, i need this.” you begged.

without further warning, ben slammed into you, not being able to contain himself any longer. you let out a scream, back instinctively arching, chest pressing against his. you felt so full, so warm. it hurt, but you pushed through.

he let out a grunt, feeling your virgin cunt tight around him. he grabbed onto your throat, pulling you to meet his lips.

you roughly kissed—you mostly not knowing what you’re doing, but ben didn’t care. his tongue entered your mouth, assaulting yours. his hand around your throat made it hard to breathe, and you let out exasperated pants and whimpers.

leaving your mouth, he travelled down your neck to your perked nipples; he enveloped one with his mouth, and used his hand to play with the other. all while his thrusts continued to meet your hips, his cock basically abusing your cervix. you moaned wildly, back arching and legs squirming.

“so fucking good. you’re just a good fucking girl, aren’t you? You’re dad’s good girl, say it.”

your eyes rolled back, mouth dropping open as he began to rub his thumb over your throbbing clit. you began to buck your hips into him, the pleasure overwhelming. you needed release, to feel how you felt when you rode his thigh, but something told you this would be a much better orgasm.

ben’s teeth around your nipple snaps you back into reality. “t-that hurts!” he doesn’t give up, waiting for your words. he applied more pressure, revelling in the way you squirmed.

“please! im daddy’s good girl, i am!” you moan as the pain started to turn into pleasure. ben took note of it, chuckling against you. “look at you, so dirty. you’re so desperate for daddy, arent you? you close, doll? you wanna cum around your dad’s thick cock?”

you shut your eyes tight, drool leaking down the side of your mouth, snot dripping down your nose. “yes, please. i need to cum so bad. i’m so, so close!”

ben’s thrusts become animalistic, fucking you raw, so hard that he thinks there may be blood. his heavy balls slap against your ass, “you gonna milk me dry, sweetheart? milk me with that tight, virgin pussy? well… it’s not anymore,” he laughed.

you moaned, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him close. your bare chests flush against each other. “oh—fuck. it’s too much!”

your head fell back as your body jerked violently. you exploded around him with a scream. “fuck! oh, my god.”

your desperate cries and pulsing core pushed ben over the edge, his cock twitching in you before releasing ropes of hot seed. he pushed himself into you as far as he could go, wanting—no—needing to fill your womb. “fuck, sweetheart. you’re such a good fucking girl, sucking my cock in so hard, so greedy.”

he thrusted in a few more times, pushing his seed deeper in you, before pulling out. he watched your gaping hole as it clenched around nothing, some of his cum spilling out. he admired his work, watching your bruised cunt spasm.

he let out a chuckle, and leaned down to press his lips against your forehead. “you did so well, doll. such a good girl,” he whispered. he moved down and began to place kisses over your face. cheeks, nose, lips. he realized how tired and worn out you looked, eyes half-lidded as you fell in and out of consciousness. “rest up, little one, tomorrow i want to teach you something more exciting.”

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.

He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.

Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.

✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦

✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦

He manhandles you just firmly enough to turn you over so he can see your face—out from where it had been buried in your pillow. Despite yourself, you greet his annoyingly handsome face. It's covered with neatly trimmed stubble, and with the back of your hand you touch his cheek in affection. He pushes it away.

“You got something to tell me?” he says, more of a demand than a question. “Answer me. What the fuck happened here?”

He gestures at a prominent dark-bluish mark on the inside of your thigh. You sigh and give him a patient look (and that is an effort in itself).  

“Nothing,” you reply. A cheeky smile starts to play at your lips, but Ben’s brows furrow in irritation. He knows you’re messing with him, and he doesn’t appreciate it.

“You work at a damn desk. Unless you’re getting nailed by the mail guy—”

“Get fucking serious, Ben.” You dismiss that with a roll of your eyes. He tilts his head at you. His mouth works, and his gaze becomes suspicious. But you notice an edge of worry behind his eyes.

Has someone hurt you? Threatened you?

It hasn’t been the first time the latter had happened. Even though Soldier Boy was officially pardoned and now works as a contracted ally with Supe Affairs, he still has plenty of hated enemies. It doesn’t help that you also work in the thick of it—running surveillance for the team.

So you decide to put him out of his misery.

“You really don’t remember?” you ask wryly.

At Ben’s raised brow, your lips quirk at the corner.

“You don’t remember two days ago? When you met me at my office for lunch, which consisted of you rudely sweeping all my hard work to the floor and ultimately breaking my new desk?”

Realization lights up Ben’s face, and his mouth edges into a smirk.

“We were breaking it in,” he corrects you.

Good times, he thinks, before another, less fun realization hits him: his hands are responsible for the patchwork quilt of bruises that litter your skin.

And he remembers, yet again, that he has the very real capacity to hurt you.

You notice how he takes pains to be gentle, slowly brushing the back of his hand across your thigh.

“It’s not the first time,” you remind him.

“It could be the last,” he reminds you. Your face doesn’t change.

You won’t take compound V. Not for him. Not for anyone.

But with shit like this, he wonders why you stay with him. 

“It’s good for you to remember your own strength,” you say, only half-teasing. He turns away from you.

Ben grumbles, “You wanna gamble with your fucking life, that’s up to you.”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do that.” You lean on his shoulder from behind and caress his back—smooth of any scars. You can’t help but prod at him again. “Real men don’t sulk.”   

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. You giggle at his green-eyed annoyance.

The truth is, you make it difficult for him not to care. Not to be a softer man. 

He fucking hates soft. 

But…just for you, he could do it. Just a little.

He closes his hand over yours, which rests on his chest. 

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is deep and holds the weight of his sincerity. That one word also encompasses how much progress his relationship with you has made.

Instead of answering, you kiss his shoulder, the back of his neck. He turns around and strokes your cheek, knowing from your eyes that you don’t hold anything against him. 

“You don’t have to treat me like a porcelain doll, but I don’t need to look like a checkerboard either,” you tease. 

Ben rolls his eyes and slides his arms under you, pulling your naked body onto his bare chest and making you squeal. You meet his eyes as his hand soothes down your back.

“How about this,” he says. “Come up with a safe word.”

You laugh. “We already have one.”

“That’s for other shit,” Ben says, grinning. “Let’s have one just for this. Whenever you wanna remind me to tone it down.”

His hands are careful when they grasp a non-aching portion of your hips. You look down on him fondly, and you consider his suggestion.

“Hmm…pineapples,” you decide. It’s the first obnoxious thing that comes to mind.

“No,” he says. “Veto.”

“What? You can’t veto. It’s my safe word.”

“I’m not gonna be balls deep inside you hearing pineapples in my ear.”

You shake your head at your boyfriend and frame his face with your hands, squeezing his head in exasperation.   

“Fine. How about…checkers,” you suggest. A teasing smile comes to your face, even if it pulls his lips into a frown. “So you remember we had this conversation.”

You can tell he doesn’t entirely like it, but he nods in agreement.

“Good. Now, care to join me for a bath?” you ask. Ben is reluctant; he knows you’re going to pour in a shit ton of frilly-smelling soap and bath salts that feel uncomfortable to sit on. But he’s open to the bath time shenanigans that usually ensue.

“I am still a bit sore,” you say, giving him an imploring look. He levels you with a knowing frown. Using his guilt against him is a dirty tactic, and you always employ it well to your advantage.

“Fine. But we’re using regular fucking soap,” he says. You smile and press a lingering kiss to his lips.

But you both know that the second his back is turned, you’re going to dump in your lavender-scented bath bubbles anyway.

AN: I found this basically sketched out in my files and decided to clean it up and put it out there! Let me know what you think. I know it's a much softer Soldier Boy than we're used to seeing. ;)

[Edit - 9/20/24]: ^That was the original author's note, as this is the first Soldier Boy story I ever put out there. It's also the inspo behind the larger BMD story.

Keep Reading in the BMD-verse:

Next we have another fun little drabble with Wanderlust:

Summary: Your wandering hands are keeping Ben up at night.

▶️ Next Story: Wanderlust

Break Me Down Series Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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Author's Note

Welcome to the result of my wrath. An expansion of my soldier boy x reader series, No Love Lost, made to be a more explict rewrite of the Boys season four and five. If you're going in with no prior knowlege of the other fic, enjoy! If you're coming over from No Love Lost, hello! I hope you enjoy this one as well. Going in, no matter what, please forgot everything released after season 3. Gen V, season four and five, Vought rising, none of it's real. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Prologue (7/6) (on ko-fi now!)

Season 4

Episode 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole Episode 2 - What's Dead and Buried Episode 3 - The Limelight Episode 4 - All of Us Heathens Episode 5 - Good Hair Boy Episode 6 - On Shadowboxing, Spiderwebs, and Songbirds Episode 7 - Titanfall Episode 8 - The Firebird's Gambit Episode 9 - Metamorphia Episode 10 - You Scratch My Back Episode 11 - Buzz Buzz Buzz Episode 12 - Transmutation Episode 13 - Quick, Bald, and Broke Episode 14 - Heaven, Ohio Episode 15 - When You Hear the Bell Toll Episode 16 - Scurry Under the Mountain Episode 17 - Blinding Neon Glitter Episode 18 - hymns Episode 19 - Jersey Devils Episode 20 - Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon Episode 21 - The King of Babel Episode 22 - Diet Euphoria Episode 23 - Event Horizon

Season 5

Episode 1 - It's Always Sunny Episode 2 - Go With the Changing Tides Episode 3 - That Big Silver Screen Episode 4 - On the Tenth Day Episode 5 - Put One Right Between the Eyes Episode 6 - Washed Up and Sold Out Episode 7 - Love Thy Neighbor Episode 8 - So It Goes Episode 9 - Bloodshot Episode 10 - Flipping Texas Episode 11 - The Untouchables Episode 12 - Mr. Butcher Goes to Washington Episode 13 - And When You Love Her, Remember to Look Back Episode 14 - Homelander: The Musical Episode 15 - Run the Gauntlet Episode 16 - Operation Ranch Hand Episode 17 - Hail Mary Episode 18 - Abandon All Hope Episode 19 - Benjamin, or Italy Episode 20 - Oroborus Episode 21 - Veni Vidi Vici Episode 22 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh Episode 23 - Sunrise, Sunset