#+ben

You woke up to the faint smell of weed and whiskey and that damn cologne of his that clung to the sheets like a bad habit. The sheets, of course, were his, scratchy, should’ve been burned sometime after 1984, but you weren’t exactly in the position to complain. Especially not when Soldier Boy was draped across you like a smug, snoring furnace.

You shifted, groaning softly. Cramps twisted in your stomach like a knife, and the ache in your lower back reminded you of what the day was about to be: hell. Bloody, hormonal hell.

And of course, as if summoned by the suffering itself, Ben cracked an eye open. “Shit”, he muttered, voice still thick from sleep. “You makin’ that noise all night, sweetheart, or just savin’ it for when I’m tryin’ to sleep?”.

You rolled your eyes, nudging him off your hip. “Sorry I’m not silent and dead like your exes”.

He grinned a wicked, shit-eating grin that always spelled trouble. “Oh, so you do admit it… You’re bleedin’, huh?”, he asked, sitting up and raking a hand through his mess of hair. “Could smell it last night. Thought maybe you’d just killed someone in my bed. Would’ve been hot”.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him. “Asshole”.

“Guilty”, he said proudly, catching it mid-air and tossing it aside. “You know, back in the ‘80s, girls didn’t get all weepy on their periods. They just popped a Quaalude and fucking danced it off”.

“Yeah, and back in the ‘80s you still thought Russia was winning the war”, you muttered, curling into a ball. That got a bark of laughter from him.

“Ah fuck, I love it when you’re a little shit”, he said, reaching over and yanking the blanket off you. “Look at you. All curled up, cranky, hormonal. Like a puppy someone kicked”.

You glared at him. “Keep talking and I’ll kick you”.

“Ooh. Fiery. You sure you don’t wanna cry about it first?”, he teased, leaning in just close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “Come on, doll. Where’s the part where you get all misty-eyed and ask me to rub your back while you sob over some video on your phone?”.

You shoved him again, and he caught your wrist mid-push, his grip firm but warm. Something in his expression softened for a second, just a flicker. “You hurting?”, he asked, quieter this time.

You hesitated. “…Yeah. A little”.

He let your hand go and flopped back onto the bed, throwing an arm behind his head. “Well, shit. Guess I gotta be nice now”, he muttered. “Go ahead. Snuggle up, break my ribs with your heat pad, cry about cats or whatever”.

You stared at him. “You done mocking me?”.

“Sweetheart”, he smirked, “mocking you is my cardio. You’re like a little walking PSA for why women shouldn’t be in combat. All moody, bleeding, curled up like a busted-up MRE. Cute, but useless”.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Wow. Misogyny before breakfast. How very on brand”.

“Please”, he scoffed. “It’s not misogyny if it’s true. Hell, if you were in Payback back in the day, I’d have had to carry you around like a baby in one of those pussy-like kangaroo pouches”.

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could, he reached over and hooked a hand under your thigh, yanking you toward him so you were practically sprawled across his lap.

“Hey!”, you protested.

“What? I’m bein’ sweet”, he said, feigning innocence while his thumb rubbed slow, lazy circles just above your knee. “Figure I’ll keep you close before you waddle off and start nesting or whatever the hell it is you ladies do on your time of the month”.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but his hand was firm on your thigh, rough palm sliding higher with lazy confidence. “Don’t start”, you warned, glaring at him. “Not while I’m like this”.

“Like what?”, he asked as his fingers ghosted just below the hem of your sleep shorts. “Warm? Whiny? Bleedin’ like you got knifed in a bar fight?”.

You shot him a warning look. “Ben…”.

That grin. That filthy, knowing grin that had no business looking good at 7 a.m. “What? I’m just sayin’, sweetheart — I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been worse”. He leaned in, his voice dropping low against your ear. "Honey, I’ve had brains and guts on me. Little uterus juice ain’t exactly my breaking point".

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “That’s disgusting”.

He laughed. “I’ve had my dick shot half to hell and still fucked after. Little period gore’s not exactly a mood killer".

“Ben, no”.

“Ben, yes”, he smirked, dragging your leg higher over his thigh until your core was pressed to the thick line of muscle. “Come on. You’re soft, warm, cranky — it’s kinda hot”.

You stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind. “It’s not hot. It’s gross. I’m literally bleeding. It’s not sexy, Ben”.

He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Why? You think I haven’t been with a girl on her period before? Shit, back in the seventies, girls didn’t even tell you, you just figured it out halfway through”.

“That’s vile”.

“That’s history, doll”, he said proudly, brushing his nose along your jaw. “And I got no issue gettin’ a little red on my dick. Call it patriotism”.

You snorted. “Oh my god”.

He grinned, the bastard. “Look, I’m not sayin’ we go full Slip ‘n Slide, but don’t act like you don’t want it. You get all moody and touchy when you’re like this. Sensitive… Hot”.

“I’m bloated and irritated and my uterus is actively trying to kill me”.

Ben’s hand moved up, brushing gently under your tank top, warm and surprisingly tender against your skin. “Yeah, and you’re still the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve laid eyes on since disco died”.

Your breath hitched. Damn him. Damn his hands, his mouth, and that voice.

“You’re seriously trying to get in my pants right now?”, you asked, voice half incredulous, half breathless.

He looked down at you, so damnn calm. “I’m tryin’ to make my girl feel better. Problem?”.

You hesitated. He smirked like he already had you beat. “That’s what I thought. Let me take care of you, baby. Ain’t scared of a little mess”.

You swallowed hard, cursing the way your body responded despite your brain screaming this was ridiculous. “Fine”, you muttered. “But no jokes. No war metaphors. No calling it ‘shark week’”.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear with a low growl of a promise. “No jokes”, he murmured, his voice hot and honey-thick. “Just you, me, and a bed that’s gonna need burnin’ after”.

Before you could fire off another protest, Ben’s hand pressed flat to your shoulder, pushing you gently but firmly onto your back. “Ben—”.

“Shh”, he drawled, settling between your legs, sitting back on his heels like he had all the time in the world. His hands gripped your thighs through the thin fabric of your shorts, thumbs stroking lazily against your skin. “Shit, I missed this view. Pretty little thing laid out just for me”.

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not ‘laid out’—”.

“Yeah, you are”, he smirked, leaning in just enough for his breath to tickle your skin before he sat back again. “And you’re lucky I’m in a generous mood”.

With a slow, deliberate tug, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and underwear, dragging them down over your hips. The movement was unhurried, almost reverent, until the fabric slid past the tops of your thighs and your bare skin met the cooler air.

His eyes flicked down, and that wolfish grin of his spread wide. “Well”, he said, tilting his head like he was admiring a battlefield. “There’s my girl. Bleedin’ for me”.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You’re disgusting”.

“Yeah”, he agreed shamelessly, tossing your clothes aside. “And you’re warm. Fuck, I love that about you humans. All that heat on the inside. Supes don’t got it the same — cold, sterile, like screwin’ a fucking refrigerator. But you…”. He ran one big, calloused hand up your thigh, slow as a match burn. “You’re all soft and alive and hot in here. Can feel it in my bones when I’m inside you”.

Your cheeks burned, and you hated that his words made something low in your stomach tighten despite the cramps. “Maybe we shoul-”.

“What?”. His thumb brushed over the tender inside of your thigh, and his gaze was fixed between your legs. “C'mon now. It’s just you. My girl. My mess”. He leaned forward, palms braced on either side of your hips, lowering himself enough that the heat of him pressed against you. “And I’m gonna enjoy every damn second of it”.

You could feel him, hard, thick, pressing against your inner thigh like he’d been waiting days for this.

Ben reached down, wrapped a firm hand around himself, and pressed the head of his cock down with his thumb, guiding it with that casual, practiced control that made your breath hitch.

“Look at that”, he murmured, eyes dragging down between your thighs like he was admiring a loaded weapon. “Standin’ at attention so goddamn perfect".

You clenched around nothing, cursing him in your head and yourself for the way your body responded to his voice alone.

“Gonna slide in nice and slow”, he muttered, almost to himself, his hips shifting forward, the thick head of him nudging where you needed him most. “Feel every inch of you stretch around me”.

Your breath caught as he pushed in just a little, not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease. His jaw flexed.

“Fuck, you’re hot”, he groaned, eyes half-lidded. “Like a goddamn furnace in there. I swear, it’s not even fair".

You turned your face away, too flustered to meet his gaze, but he caught your chin in his hand and turned you back to face him. “Uh-uh. Eyes on me, sugarplum”, he said, voice low. “I want you to feel every fuckin’ inch. Want you to remember who does this to you, who makes you forget the pain and all that shit. It’s me… Say it”.

Your lips parted, the words stuck in your throat, half from shame, half from how deep the need clawed inside you.

He pushed in another inch, slowly, relentlessly, and you gasped. “Who is it, baby?”, he whispered against your ear, voice suddenly softer. “Who makes you feel like this?”.

“…You”, you breathed, almost involuntarily.

“Damn right”, he growled, and with one hard roll of his hips, he sank in deeper, not all the way, just enough to make your back arch and your fingers curl into the sheets. “Now relax. I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you forget what you were even cryin’ about”.

Ben eased back, and you caught the way his eyes flicked down between you, that smug grin stretching slow across his face.

“Now ain’t that some wholesome American shit”, he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “White sheets, blue fuckin’ veins, and red all over the place. Damn near deserves a national anthem, sweetheart”.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Ben…”.

“What? You’re makin’ me festive”, he smirked. “Feels like I should be salutin’ right now“.

Before you could come up with a proper insult, Ben’s smirk deepened and his hands locked hard on your hips. “C’mere, doll”.

You barely had time to gasp before he drove back in with one rough, uncalculated thrust, too deep, too fast. The breath ripped out of you, your hands flying to his chest in reflex. “Ben!”. The sound came out sharper than you meant, pain flaring low in your stomach.

He froze, eyes narrowing instantly. “Shit”. His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull out, his expression shifting from cocky to something dangerously close to sheepish. “Too much?”.

You glared at him through the sting. “You think?”.

He blew out a breath, muttering under it, “Damn it… ". He eased his weight off you, hands gentler now as they rubbed over your hips in slow circles. “Got carried away”.

You gave him a look that said You always get carried away.

“Hey”, he said, softer now, searching your face. “Talk to me. You good, or you want me to stop?”.

The cocky mask hadn’t dropped entirely, this was still Soldier Boy, after all, but there was a tightness in his jaw, like he was forcing himself to hold back.

“Hurts”, you admitted, your voice smaller than you meant it to be.

“Alright”, he murmured, brushing his thumb over your hip bone. “We go slow. My bad”. Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again. “Still, you took damn near all of me in one go. Not bad for someone who’s supposedly delicate”.

You swatted weakly at his shoulder. “Benjamin—”.

“Yeah, yeah”, he said, bending to press his mouth against your temple. “Easy now. I’ll make it worth it”.

His hands adjusted their grip on your hips, not to pull or control this time, but to keep you steady. He moved slowly, painfully slowly for him, watching your face for the smallest flinch. It was almost… adorable. And painfully Ben. Always overcompensating.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in me if you keep staring like that”, you said softly, trying to take the edge off.

“Not takin’ chances”, he muttered without looking away.

You reached up and brushed your fingers over the rough stubble on his jaw. “I’m okay, Ben. Just a bit sensitive right now. You’re good”.

His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, searching, like he didn’t entirely believe you. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”, you assured, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re being… weirdly careful. Kinda sweet, actually. Don’t tell anyone, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation”.

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t drop the focus. “Just… tell me if it’s too much”.

“I will”, you promised, letting your hand trail to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there.

He gave a slow nod, then eased forward again, still watching you like a hawk, less the cocky supe now, more the man who, despite himself, didn’t want to break what was his.

It struck you then… the last time he’d been this careful was months ago, the night he took your virginity. Back then, his hands had been steady but unsure, his mouth still mouthing off between moments of surprising gentleness. You’d almost thought you imagined it afterward, that tenderness, because it hadn’t shown up again.

Until now.

Seeing it again, feeling it, did something to you.

Ben wasn’t the kind of man to hold back for anyone. He was all sharp edges, bad habits and a mouth that got him into more trouble than even he could shoot his way out of. But right now, those edges were softened, his hands warm and grounding instead of demanding, his eyes scanning your face like he was taking inventory of every breath, every twitch, every flicker of discomfort.

It made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

You’d fallen for him before, in pieces. In the smirk that made you want to punch him, in the way he carried himself like the world still owed him a parade, in the heat of his presence when he wanted something. But this? This was different. This was rare. And it was yours.

Your throat tightened, and you reached up, curling your fingers into the hair at the back of his head. He glanced down at you, that mission-focus still in his eyes. “What?”, he asked.

“Nothing”, you said, shaking your head with a small smile. “Just… don’t stop”.

Something flickered in his expression, not quite a smile, but close, before he leaned in, brushing his mouth over your temple, and kept moving slow. Every shift of his body was deliberate and measured, like he was proving he could be careful when it mattered.

And you realized, right there, that this man — this brash, infuriating, larger-than-life man — had just made you fall for him all over again.

Every slow movement, every careful shift of his weight, every look he gave you like you were something worth guarding, it built higher and hotter than you expected. It wasn’t just your body reacting; it was everything else, too. The months of brashness, the constant teasing, all balanced now by this one rare, steady tenderness.

It was too much. Your breath caught, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Ben—”.

He looked down at you, still moving with that same deliberate control, but his eyes sharpened at your tone. “You there, doll?”.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, the heat cresting all at once, sudden and overwhelming. It rolled through you in seconds, your whole body tensing and shuddering beneath him.

The sound that tore out of you was almost a sob, sharp, unsteady, too honest to hold back. You felt yourself shaking, every nerve lit up at once, and when you opened your eyes again, his were already locked on yours. They widened, just a fraction, like you’d done something he hadn’t prepared for. That unguarded flicker, surprise, maybe even a little awe, was enough to knock the air out of both of you.

His breath hitched, the careful rhythm faltering as his grip on your hips tightened. “Ah, shit…”, he muttered, voice rough, like he’d just realized too late that you were pulling him over the edge with you. His whole body tensed above you, his weight sinking into you as he let go. The sharp inhale he took was ragged, almost matching your own.

He stayed there, braced but close, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven and his chest was rising and falling against you.

“…Didn’t see that comin’”, he admitted after a beat, his voice low and unsteady in a way you’d never heard before. You smiled faintly, still catching your breath. “Me neither”.

He didn’t move right away. Usually, Ben was quick to roll off, crack a joke, or wander off like nothing happened, but not this time. His weight stayed over you, his forehead still pressed to yours like he was catching his breath and… maybe not ready to let go yet.

You felt the slow thud of his heartbeat against your chest, the warmth of him sinking into you. His hand slid from your hip to your side, resting there like it belonged.

“You’re heavy”, you murmured, though you made no move to push him off.

“Deal with it”, he muttered, the words automatic, but the edge was gone from his voice.

You smiled, your fingers drifting up into his hair, brushing it back from his face. “You’re… different”, you murmured, your fingertips tracing through his hair.

His eyes stayed half-lidded, watching you. “Don’t get used to it”, he said, but there was no bite in the words.

You shifted under him slightly, realizing something. “Huh”.

“What?”, he asked.

“No cramps anymore”, you whispered, almost surprised.

That cocky grin started to tug at his mouth again. “So what you’re sayin’ is… I’m better than painkillers”.

You rolled your eyes but leaned up anyway, brushing your lips against his in a soft kiss. It lingered, slow and unhurried, before you pulled back just enough to see the faint smirk still playing on his face. “Guess you’ve got your uses”, you teased.

“Guess?”, he echoed, feigning offense. “Baby, I just cured your uterus. That’s Nobel Prize material”.

You laughed, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, I’ll put in the nomination tomorrow”.

He finally rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you ended up tucked against his chest. His arm stayed draped around you. “Good”, he murmured into your hair. “Means I don’t have to go far for my next miracle”.

-

Later that day, Hughie was halfway through a sandwich, when Ben strolled in, looking smug in that I-just-got-away-with-something kind of way. Butcher was at the table cleaning a gun, already narrowing his eyes. “What’s with the shit-eating grin, grandpa?”.

Ben dropped into the chair across from them, leaning back with his arms spread. “Just came from my girl. She’s on the rag—”

“For fuck´s sake”, Butcher muttered. “Here we fuckin’ go”.

Hughie froze mid-bite. “Uh… do we really need to hear—”.

"Yes, you do”, Ben shot back, pointing at him like a drill sergeant. “This is educational. Girl’s laid up in bed, cramps kickin’ her ass, barely able to move. So I step in, handle business like a gentleman, and suddenly?”. He snapped his fingers. “Fuckin´ miracle recovery”.

Hughie blinked. “I’m scared to ask what ‘handle business’ means”.

Ben grinned. “Kid, you ever been inside a woman when she’s runnin’ that hot? Feels like your dick just got drafted”.

“Alright, that’s enough”, Butcher snapped, jamming the cleaning rag through the barrel of his gun hard enough to nearly bend the rod.

“No, no, hear me out”, Ben went on, waving a hand. “Humans already run warm, right? But when they’re on their period?”. He pointed like he was explaining combat strategy. “Whole different operation. Like somebody lit a goddamn furnace in there”.

Hughie dropped his sandwich onto the table, looking like he was rethinking all his life choices. “I am begging you to stop talking”.

Butcher shot Ben a look full of exhaustion. “You done traumatizing the children?”.

Ben leaned back in his chair, smug as hell. “Just wanted you assholes to know you’re in the presence of a fucking healer”.

Butcher rolled his eyes. “More like a filthy old perv”.

Ben just grinned wider. “Call it what you want, pal. I call it service to my country”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think. It’s one of my all-time favorites🥰)

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