Top Posts Tagged with #dubious consent

THE WEIGHT OF HIS TEETH

Soldier Boy/Husband!Ben x Reader 15.8k words ★ MDNI 18+ ★ DUB-CON

Ben has a way with words; you just don’t like the way he says them in front of your three-year-old. Behind closed doors, it’s a different matter. You have a system in place to prevent the supe from hurting you, but sometimes he hurts you in ways neither of you expected. You’re not so innocent yourself—nor is your mortality. (crossposted on AO3)

Tags/Warnings: no use of Y/N • dark romance • dubious consent/consent issues • misogyny • angst • emotional hurt/comfort • possessive behaviour • established relationship • married/domestic life • supe/human power dynamics & boundaries • feelings • safewords (used outside of sex) • smut • rough sex • breeding kink • lactation kink (minor) • vaginal sex • fingering • squirting • dirty talk • explicit language • parenting • unnamed children • canon divergence • post series • somewhat domesticated Ben • possessive Soldier Boy ᯓ★ Please mind the tags!! Prepare for lots of tension.

Who’d have thought a simple change in your physical position could lead to a whole lot of hurt for both you and Ben—but it did. You just had to go and make yourself more comfortable by resting on all fours. That it’s even comfortable for you speaks volumes about your life.

Your boobs hang low as your rump raises high like you’re waiting for Ben to come home and find you this way. You’re not. You’d be asking for trouble if you were. He’s due back any minute, and you’re perched here like this because you’re playing with your three-year-old and his wooden blocks.

They’re scattered across the shag pile rug in the centre of his room. Their brightly coloured finishes look like flowers sprouting haphazardly out of the tight coils. If the fibres were green, the rug might resemble the rare spaces of grass scattered about the city below you.

But when you scoop the toys up and stack them high like the high-rise you’re in, his little hands knock them down again without missing a beat.

“Again!” His arms flail in excitement. His eyes—your eyes—watch you with delight.

“Again?” Your exaggerated sigh makes him squeal. “But you’re just going to knock it over.”

“No! You knock over!” His pudgy fingers shoot up into the air.

“Me?” you scoff. You poke him in the chest only to bunch his pajamas up. “I think that was you.” Your hand tickles his belly like you’re the Cookie Monster and he’s a giant snickerdoodle.

He giggles. More so as he stops you from picking up the next block, as you’ve been doing to him for a few towers now. It wasn’t your greatest idea—makes things a little more tedious than they need to be. You risk waking up your youngest, who’s down the hall, tapped out for the count and milk-drunk.

Thankfully, neither of your sons has shown any signs of their father’s strength yet. The blocks would scatter further than the rug if your eldest had, for starters.

Embedded in the drywall, or on the street below in some poor passerby’s head, you’d be doing more than stretching across the rug to pick them up. And worse? Your nipples would have more than a few faded teeth marks to match the blocks’ painted wood. Hell, you wouldn’t need to worry about marks at all because your eldest would’ve bitten your boobs clean off.

But while it’s one thing to deal with the baby teething, and another to deal with your creations being knocked over again and again, it’s another thing entirely to deal with Ben when he does come home.

Even though you’re expecting it, your body tightens to the heavy clip of him shutting your front door. Each muscle contorts in on the next until your gut intrudes into your lungs and draws the air away. If he wakes the baby, you swear to God, he’s sleeping in his car tonight. You’ll drag him down to the garage yourself once you remember how to breathe.

Ben keeps you on your toes with the filth coming out of his mouth every other second. He likes to keep you on your back, sprawled across the furniture, too. The number of times you’ve needed to replace a sideboard or a table since you moved into your Upper East Side condo is embarrassing enough. Solid pieces, often wide and flat like the toys in your hands, break easily around here.

It’s a wonder you’re not accustomed to the blind arrogance he holds for no one‌ but himself. Still, when he calls out your name, you can’t help but chew on the inside of both cheeks.

He can hear your heartbeat just fine. He knows where you are and should realise the baby’s sleeping if he knows what’s good for him. Your ears prick and your eyebrows raise to the ceiling, listening for any wails filtering down the hall as his damn shield hits your entryway.

Thank God there’s a rug down there, too—you insisted on it. Mostly to prevent unwanted bodily fluids and rubble from being dragged through the house with him. You also told him to keep his voice down when he comes home, but here you are, insistence ignored because Ben does what he wants.

Of course, “Daddy’s home!” your son declares. Sometimes the noises in this house are just too much.

“He sure is,” you relent. Your brow matches his enthusiasm, lifting high beneath your hairline to hide your initial wince.

Even if you could scold either male for being too loud, you’re obviously not going to. Your son’s excited his dad’s home, and you can’t fault him for that. All you can do is wait and see who’s going to be the one to actually wake the baby.

You’re honestly surprised your youngest didn’t hear Ben’s holler. Perhaps he’s just used to his booming voice after nine months in and out. Or maybe he did inherit some of his father's gifts, and now chooses when to ignore the beck and call of others.

Luckily for you, the hall behind you is silent aside from the creaking vinyl and leather of Ben’s suit climbing the main stairs.

You pick up another block and fly it past your son’s rosy cheeks like an aeroplane. “Should we make a bigger tower for Daddy?” you say.

“No. Daddy knocks towers down.” He shoots his arms up in the air again as if he’s about to knock down the tower you’re yet to rebuild.

“Sometimes he does.” You’re well aware he’s too young to realise that while he was referring to his toys, you were being literal. Not that it matters.

You’ve lost his attention. By the time you place the block in your hand flat on the rug and reach for the next one, Ben’s broad frame looms front and centre in the doorframe.

When he steps into the room, the space between your shoulders contorts. So do your lungs and your throat as they trap in your breath again.

“Well now, that’s quite the welcome view, doll,” he drawls. You don’t need to look to know he’s wearing that feral smirk behind his beard—the one that goes hand in hand with his suit and his raised brow.

You’d glare at him for being so crass in front of your son, but you should know better. All you can do now is concentrate on keeping little ears distracted from whatever it is Ben’s bound to say next as he moves to stand beside you.

The stale cologne, soaked into the softer collar of his suit from years of wearing the same stuff, hits your nose before the tip of his boot brushes over your leg. It pulls at the stretchy lycra, but it’s his palm on your ass trailing over the seam of your leggings that sends a shiver up your spine.

“Just itching for me to breed you again.”

You say his name and glare up at him at that. Ben’s longest finger pressing into the natural curve of your labia has your scornful look depleting.

Your snatch is a traitorous bitch. Her inner walls clench to pull him in closer. She makes it hard to keep up any facade, even when you’re annoyed with your husband. Of course, lust isn't in control here. At least, yours isn’t. Ben’s on the other hand? Well, his eyes light up like his sons have been doing while you played.

“I can hear your heart trying to jump out of your jugs,” he says. “Pussy’s gotta be wetter than the Pacific.”

And he’d be right. Your skin sweats against the cotton panties you’re wearing, even though the fibre is supposed to be breathable.

“Isn’t Daddy silly?” You try your best to maintain composure. “There’s no cat in here.” Your grin reaches the edges of your cheeks, but it doesn’t reach much further. Especially when Ben mutters another colourful remark under his breath.

Sometimes you wonder if the effort is worth the expense of your sanity. The kid’s bound to learn about sex earlier than most living under your roof, but you’d rather it not be today.

You relax when he squeals, “You silly Daddy!” You just don’t approve of Ben’s fingernail stretching a hole in the stitching of your crotch; pushing your top half up so your weight now rests on your knees, you finally exhale that breath.

But Ben’s finger increases the pressure against your entrance, as if the action were an invitation. Cutting through the layer, he inches closer toward the elastic of the inside leg.

“How about you worry about the two boys I already gave you?” You pat Ben’s hip, wanting to squeeze it as tight as your core threatens to do at his intrusion. It’s as futile as trying to get him to drop the colourful language.

Your jaw tightens instead, hissing your next words through your teeth, “He’s been patiently waiting ‌for you to come home since dinner.” You give Ben a pointed look for good measure.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting to cum in you since this morning.” He cocks his head, now infiltrating the gusset of your panties.

“And you can wait another two.” You swat him, but he catches your wrist, pulling you to stand by his side.

He places a kiss on your temple once you’re standing upright, but his hand returns close enough to the hole he’s made in your leggings. Grabbing a firm chunk of your ass and making you jolt, he beckons your little boy to stand with his chin. “Come on, kiddo. ‘Bout time you went to bed,” he says as if he has any say in the matter.

“It’s not even six thirty yet.” You step away from your husband and give him another warning look, scooping your son up into your arms and balancing him on your hip.

“It is bath time, though.” You tap his nose and brush a stray curl out of his face. “I’m sure Daddy needs one, too,” you say.

On that note, you move around Ben and out into the brightly lit hallway. Leaving him to his own devices.

He’s welcome to follow you, but he’s not going to, which suits you just fine.

You’d rather deal with one asshole in the bathroom at a time. You’ll deal with Ben’s later.

He’s waiting for you on the bed when you return from checking on the boys, naked and stroking himself. He watches you through half-lidded eyes. His legs, wide open, so the soft claps of skin against skin have little resistance to find their way to your ears.

Whether it’s from the petty insult of taking the liberty to throw your decorative throw pillows on the ground or his equally pretty cock, too long to stay hidden beneath his palm, Ben sure is proud of himself. The same crooked smile you know he was wearing when he came home highlights the straight lines of his beard.

His grip glides leisurely from the base to the tip. Your pelvic floor clenches—understands the clam euphemism perfectly. The thought of going over there and taking a seat on his lap is definitely appealing—but you won’t. Not yet.

You’re letting him stew on it a little longer. It’s really working for you, too… One of these days the kids are bound to repeat what he says, and then what? Your friends and family don’t understand why you stay with someone who talks the way he does, nor do his colleagues—and they’re used to him.

Annie had plenty of questions under the guise of impeding motherhood the other week. Wanting to know which diapers to buy and how many she needed. What you thought about her birthing plan and if you had any advice on what to look for. How to know if what she was experiencing was normal.

But you don’t miss the way she brings Hughie into the conversation, or how she compares him to Ben through generalisations. You’ve told her before Ben’s sadistic facade is just a man projecting his insecurities onto the world that grew without him. You just ignore the point; history tells he was like this before the Russians.

Contrary to what other people think, Ben was there for you throughout both your pregnancies and continues to help you now in his own way. There for you on almost all the late-night-craving runs when he could be. There, in sickness and in health, like the marriage vows you both signed up for.

He got you a bowl of ramen noodles and a jar of peanut butter once, and you weren’t even pregnant. Just sick and wanting nothing else to eat. He found a bottle of apple-flavoured Tylenol at three a.m. another time. You wanted to avoid the dye in the grape and cherry varieties when they were all your go to pharmacy had.

So he didn’t help you with bath time? He never hangs around the kitchen long enough of a morning to help with cleaning up from breakfast, either, but he gives both boys an affectionate hand to their heads as he passes them in their respective seats and comments on the way they eat. There’s a method in the way he shows your oldest how to hold his spoon that you’ll thank him for in the future.

He settles himself further into the sheets now. Angles his hips toward you to see him better. The velvety skin glistens under the light and his fingers when they reveal the remaining inches.

“If you want to stand there and enjoy the show, be my guest,” he says. “I’m shooting my load in that tight cunt either way.” His gaze darts to your thighs and how they rub together. “Need to keep my girl watered.”

And many women would be more than happy to be in your position and let him do it, too, but you point your nose up at him. “You came in me twice yesterday.”

“Haven’t knocked you up again, though.” His hand stills on his erection, allowing space for the soft strums of life from the streets below you to filter into the room. “You might wanna nut yourself before I chain you to the bed all night.”

You have half a mind to worry he’s being literal, but you roll your eyes and ignore him, walling over to your dresser to remove your jewellery. The mirror standing above the mahogany finish catches the moment Ben’s brow darkens his steely-eyed-stare.

He cocks his head to the side. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“It’s just you and me now.” You slide the diamond ring he gave you off your finger and place it on the small glass dish you keep out of the boy’s reach. “You wanna drop the tough guy act?” He’s already read your posture. It won’t take too long for him to answer his own question.

“So I’m not allowed to touch my wife when I get home?” The mattress protests underneath him as he lets go of his dick in favour of sitting up. “I had a long day keeping this city safe.”

“And we’re grateful. But your son doesn’t need to learn about sex at this age.” You turn around and glare at him, only to find him glaring back.

“He’s going to learn about it someday. May as well learn how to treat his woman young.”

“What, like this?” You peer over your shoulder, contorting your body to see the damage on your rear and the cotton poking out through it. “Why’d you have to rip a hole in them?”

“Because I paid for them.” He stands up, still hard and bobbing in the air. If he’s blessed, you're blessed. If he weren’t your husband, his toned muscles might intimidate you.

They frame his chest perfectly—ripple beneath his skin. The little trail of hair dipping below his stomach is rather endearing; until he stalks across the room to where you are. Within a fraction of a second, he’s shaking a finger down at your chest while his other hand moves to pinch the fabric fitting firm against your waist.

“Did you wear these outside today?” He leaves you no choice but to take a step backward into the dresser.

The cool touch of the handle presses into your unsuspecting spine, forcing your breath to raise your breasts towards him like they’re begging for his attention. But it’s the last thing you want right now with the scowl on his face. You’re lucky the flash only comes from his torso, not his eyes.

“Does it matter if I did?”

“Of course, it does. If you’re worried about me fingering you in front of the boy, but you’re showing off the goods to the rest of New York, then it fucking matters.”

“I’m not showing anything.” You tug his hand off you, but the same arm shoots across your path, shaking the dresser and the contents on top of it. You’d be worried about the breakables, including the glass dish, also planning to slip away, not saying his name louder. Now you worry about both those things on top of his free hand, cupping your chin and his gaze, flickering over your lips as his thumb traces your jawline.

“I’m taking a shower,” you say quieter, swallowing your body’s natural reaction to his firm touch and the blood that suddenly thrums through you. “We can talk about this once your head’s not so concerned with getting its dick wet.”

“If you have something to say to me, we’ll talk about it right fucking now.”

Ben loops his arm behind you and presses you flush against his chest, knocking the air out of your lungs. “You’re not going into that bathroom until I’ve had my way with you,” he says.

“So you’re going to force me to have sex with you. Is that it?”

His brow drops further than it already has. The skin beneath it flashes as crimson as the blood keeping his dick hard. “I’m not a fucking rapist. I don’t need to force you to do anything. You’ll be begging me to fuck you when I tell you to.”

“That’s rape, Ben.”

“No, that’s what good wives do,” he spits; your body goes rigid. He can't be serious. He’s never used coercion on you before, and yet—

“Red,” you say. Clear in your delivery.

There’s no mistaking your intention. It doesn’t take long for the added layer of the word to register in his thick skull.

He takes a step back and his lips are parted. But they only ever open when he's speaking. Even if he orgasms, he keeps a tight lip. If this is how it feels to come out on top after facing Ben in a fight, you don’t like it.

Your breath is too laboured. Your heart threatens to run further than your feet have ever carried you before in Ben’s presence or anyone else’s. But he opens his mouth to say something more, and that’s when you decide you’re not hanging around to hear it.

You take yourself to the master bath on the other side of the room and you don’t look back, too preoccupied by what just occurred, as he is. The only exception you make is when you lock the door behind you, and you never lock the door.

With two little ones and a man like Ben in your orbit, it’s rare to take your time in the bathroom. Even before you were married, the hassle of washing your hair or removing the unwanted stubble from your legs and other body parts was often at the back of your mind. But here and now, in the confines of the wide rain-shower, you let the warm sluice turn cool on your back.

The pressure removes as much tension as it can between your neck and shoulder blades. If only your resolve would wash away like the suds slipping down into the drain. Even if they don’t see the light of day once they fall into the pipes, there’s a clean slate waiting for them when they reach their destination, just as there’s one waiting for Ben tomorrow.

He can never intimidate you when you control how much he gets to cum inside your womb. He’s wrapped around your finger, though he doesn’t care to admit it. A lovesick puppy beneath the fame and the gung ho attitude the rest of the world sees.

You’re working on the sadistic behaviour at home for both your sons’ sakes whenever he drags it through your front door. His generation didn’t allow children to speak outside of being spoken to. Neither did your grandparents. But after your mom told you about the time your grandfather sent you out of the room for being too loud, you decided it was something you’d never do, no matter what Ben says.

So what if some days every room in your home appears as though Ben’s been at it on the battlefield when, in fact, it’s at the hands of you and your eldest running rampant? The threadbare fabrics and sticky handprints make the condo a home as much as the laughter and tears make your days full of joy and memories. You’d rather keep the forts and the drawing of the Central Park Zoo lion on the refrigerator door. Even though the poor thing's head is way too big for its body, you’ll still show the picture proudly to anyone who steps foot into your kitchen, green mane and all.

What happened in your bedroom is just another blip, piling up on the radar, as every other day does. You can handle Ben once you leave the comfort of the water and the four walls that keep the steam in. You’re just not sure you want to right now when the bitchy attitude is bound to come with him, even if he is remorseful.

But you risk one of your boys waking up and needing you if you don’t. So, you wait a minute more before shutting the faucet off.

You drip dry in the shower recess as you strain your ears and listen for any noise above the hum of the exhaust. As far as you can tell, your little slice of the world is quiet. Closed off from the bustling city outside. Time will tell if it is.

The soft edges of your towel hit the back of your knees as you unlock the door a few minutes later. Though the latch clicks and the hinges whine, Ben’s not in the room to hear either.

Everything is as you left it, aside from Ben hovering over you and your dresser as you stand in front of it again. The main door remains closed, and the ceiling lights are on. Though even with the peace that comes only in the later hours of the evening (and alone), you dress quickly.

You hesitate—only for a moment, brushing your fingers over the silver wedding band still in its class dish. Putting it on, you ignore the rest of your nightly routine, switching off the lights and tucking yourself in under the covers. Now, only the mood light above the vanity in the bathroom remains on. Leaving the room as dark as the city that refuses to sleep below you.

It’s a comfort that others are awake. Someone else is bound to be in their bed alone and dealing with a spouse who’s as much of an ass as yours is.

Yours keeps the city safe? Well, the distant rumble of a rogue engine and a siren way off in the distance say otherwise, though they’re as much a comfort as the thought of other people having marital troubles, too. Without them, it’s hard to sleep, even with all the other systems you have in place.

Being summer, all you need is a top sheet and your pajamas to cover you. The satin of your camisole and the cotton of the bedcovers, along with the ducted air, keep the room cool enough day and night.

Of course, tonight isn’t one of those nights where sleeping is going to come easy for you, even with all the added comforts. Part of you has the mind to go find Ben, seeing the situation is going to keep you awake anyway. But you don’t need to. You haven’t been lying there long when the door creaks open, announcing his return.

For someone so large, the man is as quiet as a mouse. With your back to the door, you have no way of gauging exactly where he is. Facing away from his side of the bed means the weight of him climbing onto the mattress is the only tell he’s beside you.

He doesn’t speak at first, just stays above the covers. His legs brush against yours as his chest settles along the shell of your back.

You remain as you are, arms pulling tighter against your body. “You know that system’s for when we’re fucking.” He sniffs like he’s been snorting something again. “It’s not meant to be used on me when I’m talking to you.”

“Was your dick out?” you say, unmoving.

“That’s not the—” He places his palm on your upper arm. His fingertips tap you just like you do with the boys when you put them to sleep. He tries again in an even softer tone.

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the point.” You roll your shoulder under his touch, far enough so your breast presses into the cushioning beneath you. It might not stop him from reaching for you again, but there’s a satisfaction that comes with making things that much harder for him. “You can’t make someone have sex with you, Ben. What would you do if someone else pulled that shit on me?”

“Doll, if anyone ever laid so much as a finger on you, I’d rip their arms off and shove them so far up their shithole, they wouldn’t touch anything but their insides.”

A sliver of humour mixes through his tone, doing nothing to quell the ache lingering with everything else in your chest. As far as you’re concerned, it makes no difference who threatens you. And when.

“You know I could ask Butcher or Kimiko or Annie to do that to you?”

“I’d like to see them fucking try.”

“I’d like to see you try.” The words slip off your tongue, quieter than his. It doesn't take a genius to know you’re talking about something else.

You expect him to bite back, but he doesn’t. Just—lets go of you and heaves a heavy sigh.

The f-bomb is the only clear thing in his cadence beneath a shortened quip. The mattress dipping behind you tells you he only goes as far as sitting up before the sheets lift and he scoots beneath them.

That’s when the cotton of his grey sweats brushes against the backs of your thighs, as soft as the ones he wore when you first met him. Of course, back then, you knew little about him. Besides the persona you saw on ‌TV and the outdated views he threw at you, he was an enigma, as his actions are now.

Hesitant in his movements, he adjusts himself cautiously. His arm hovers in the air before committing to becoming your big spoon. He scoops you into the breadth of his chest once he’s realised you’re not budging.

“Try for what?” he mutters. His breath brushing against your skull has you holding your own, not knowing what he’ll do next. As it is, you don’t even know what you should do next. Just that you can’t move when your legs are now as slack as your tongue is.

There’s comfort in his embrace, contrary to how he behaved. The jury’s still out on how you’re feeling about him holding you now. But his powerful arms keep you secured when they don’t block you from moving. His presence, your home. even though you probably should push him away.

If anything, you want to turn around and bury your face in his warmth simply because you believe him. Anyone who dared touch you would have their body wrung out like an oil rag. There’d be no room to move their arms with their organs and bones brittle and stained if they didn’t retreat fast enough. If they did, Ben would hunt them down. But he’d never do that to you.

You hope ‌he'd defend his sons in the same way.

And there it is.

The thought you’ve been trying to suppress laid out bare for your lack of words to further compress.

“What the fuck is wrong now?” Ben says before the tears have agreed to form behind your eyes.

He says lewd things, but they’re easy to explain away when more often than not he’s directing them towards adults who can take it. You don’t bat an eye for his associates or the adversaries he deals with on the daily. You might say something if he’s rude to your parents, or a server who’s done nothing more than forget a salt shaker in a section full of ten or more rowdy tables. But your boys?

Your boys will only be little for so long. The affection he shows them is half the battle. Those touches at the breakfast table. The way he held them as newborns. Both those memories and more will stick in the creases of your mind, long after their bodies have outgrown their perch on your hip.

But you don’t want him to miss out on how wonderful they are, or worse. For them to have memories of a father who expects too much of them, just because his own father didn’t show him the love he deserved. But he deserves love. Your sons do, too. When you shake your head, he lifts himself up and leans over you because he cares about you.

“Christ—you too afraid to mouth off at me after all that fussing?” His hand comes to your cheek and cups the newly sticky skin with a gentle caress you’re more accustomed to.

“Green light, for fuck’s sake,” he says, but there’s no hostility behind it when his thumb sweeps over your lower lashes. Rather than a reply, you bite your bottom lip.

He’s seen you cry. You’re keeping what shred of dignity you have left. He’s annoyed. You’re trying your best to appease him. Yet he needs to understand you just want what’s best for him and your family. You just can't find the breath to voice your thoughts as the rawness of them weighs on you.

“Cut the waterworks. You’re not a fucking child.” Ben’s thigh swoops over your waist, forcing your hips down square with the mattress. His body hovers over yours, caging you once more between his solid arms. “You don’t get to cry unless I tell you to.”

You’d laugh at that—you don’t. Him saying you can’t cry now without his permission is as ridiculous as his rape line. The man enjoys sex. He’s never made you do anything you weren’t comfortable with. It’s all wordplay under misguided rhetoric from the same era that gave him his worldview.

His brow creases like the covers between you billows beneath his weight. He tests his forehead against yours. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

He’s so close now, when he inhales, it pulls his stomach away from yours and you feel a loss. Your fingers reach for his solid mass, searching for the small tells he’s still the man you depend upon. His heart. His breath. The same as any other living being on Earth as he is strong and crude.

“Why can’t you be like this with them?” Your hand smooths a path up to his neck and the coarse hairs of his beard. “They deserve to have you like this, Ben.”

“What? You want my dick hanging over them like this?” Said‌ dick twitches against your thigh, but you pay it no mind.

“That’s not what I meant,” you say, twisting your chin to look beyond the extra shadow his bangs cast over his eyes. “You’ve never hurt me.”

“I’ve never hurt them either.” He rolls himself off you, shaking the bedframe as he lands with a grunt on his hulking back. You miss the contact almost immediately. Until he points a finger, half at you, half towards the ceiling and says “You coddle them too much.” You close your eyes over rolling them.

“They’re not even in school yet.”

“Well, they should be.” He drops his arm and stretches the other out to flick on the bedside lamp. It lights the room up with a subtle glow. His eyes, with the softness he only ever wears when it’s just you and him.

Ben’s head settles into his pillow, but he doesn’t look back at you, choosing to stare blankly, like he’s a million miles away.

You lift yourself up and lean yourself onto your wrist and forearm. “So that’s it?” you say. He frowns.

“What’s it?”

“You went all sweet on me and now that I’m talking to you, you’re just going to brush off the fact I’m pissed with the way you spoke to me in the playroom?”

“That’s what’s got your panties in a knot?” he chuckles. “‘Cause you sure wanted to suck my hog when you saw me beating it,” his eyes flick to you briefly, “You know I could smell how wet you were from across the room?”

Your lips force a smile,m. You don’t answer the question. Whether it was rhetorical or meant to rile you up, you know the man you love is in there behind the vulgar words he uses. He smells your tears and your arousal. After four years of marriage, why can’t he pick up on the other things, too?

There’s bound to be something that gives off the way you react to the gentle tone he uses whenever he actually uses it. You’ve shared hundreds, if not thousands, of conversations against the pillows like this or wound up underneath him. Even with his cock throbbing between your legs, Ben agrees to talk to you. It’s not always about how you’re taking him or how tight you are, either. Sometimes he even passes himself off as chivalrous.

The proof was there in the way he told you he’d defend you moments ago. Sure, you’re taking liberties with how he said it, but you can read between the lines just as well as he can read you, and his mind is as sharp as his lips are tight. He has to know you’re waiting for him to open up to you.

But while he tilts his head towards you, he gives you nothing more than swallowing whatever it was he’d planned to say.

If you’re honest this uncharacteristic silence of his has your pulse racing again, because though the man might spew a lot of shit out of his mouth, one thing’s for certain; he’s never lost for words.

You bring your free hand down to his sternum. “Ben?” you say, searching for his heart still drumming steadily beneath the muscle.

He never ceases to amaze you, but it's not his fingers curling around your own that threatens to uproot all you thought you knew about him. His grip is as delicate as the moment he held both his sons for the first time. “I don’t know how to talk to them," he admits.

It takes all your willpower to keep a straight face. “But you know how to talk to me?” And you suspect your suppressed smile hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“You’ve seen the underside of my ball sack.”

His free thumb comes to the bridge of his nose like he really has been snorting something again, but when he sniffs, the softer sound he makes is for another reason. You just won’t call it out, aware you aren’t the only woman to have the ‘privilege’ of seeing his junk up close and personal.

It's not that you’re offended by the countless women before you that have. It’s just another part of his body, looking like most other human males—the same parts at least. You’re not missing anything by not seeing it, just as you can’t be jealous of the other women that have.

You’ve seen both your boys. No doubt you will for a lot longer to come on top of Ben’s—but “I’m not the only one,” you say. You just won’t add the names you know who have aloud. Sometimes, part of you questions why he’s settled for someone like you. It doesn’t help your self-esteem even though he wears the ring you put on his finger at the altar.

You don’t have the strength or stamina to keep up with him. You’ve built a solid foundation with him, sure. But it doesn’t help any woman feel secure to know their man’s ex has the physique of a model or an actress or both. And you're only considering the women he was openly in a relationship with. Every other day he drops the names of others he’s known.

His eyebrow raises—the snort is a little delayed for your liking. Especially when he counters you with the one name you didn’t want to say. “What? Countess? First time I told her I loved her, I burned her to a fucking crisp.”

And yet she’s still the worst of it, even though she’s dead.

You can’t go to the park without seeing something related to Vaught on some surface. Nor can you watch TV without someone from the organisation being flung on the screen. It’s like any female supe who’s not Annie appears in your face every other occasion. At least once a week, sometimes more, you’re reminded of Countess as you go about your day to day outside the house.

Ben believes he’s telling you the truth when he says she never had his heart. But though none of it was real, you can see through the unspoken words he doesn’t tell you.

He believed in their relationship until the burning, even if he didn’t tell her he loved her prior to it. The way his eyes gloss over when he remembers the glory days intensifies whenever he drops her real name.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of that,” he says. “There was nothing left to identify.”

“Countess didn’t give you two sons—who love you, by the way.”

That’s one thing you have outdone her by. He told you he thought about having kids with her. At least you one-upped her on something—two-up if you’re counting.

That one eyebrow quirks higher, but he humours you just the same. “One of them can’t even talk yet.”

“One of them can—and he hears everything you say.”

Raising yourself a little higher, you remove his grip and take his jaw to keep him facing you. “Talk to them like you did when they were small. Tone down the profanity… I don’t want you to regret not knowing them when they’re older.”

He huffs then. It doesn’t quite break through his teeth the way one usually would. As it is, with the way he’s lying down, if it weren’t for the bone beneath your touch, sticking out just enough so his chin doesn’t blend into his neck, you wouldn’t hear his next words. “I’ll regret watching them die when I’m older.” He blinks, and his gaze stares at you through damp lashes. His face, forlorn and weary.

He’s not crying—he’d have made a sarcastic comment about it first if he were. But what little of his eyes you see between the lids has glossed over in a different light.

It’s not happiness. It’s not reverie. He’s not remembering a time when he wined and dined with the rich and famous of yesteryear or how he pummelled some poor soldier to the ground. It’s the years of mishandling and deprivation thrown on him by those who should’ve loved him. The same afflictions he made with his own hands, coming through to the surface. Until now, he was yet to realise the full extent of the scars they left and what future ones would leave.

If you had his gifts, you’d hear his heartbeat and the tightening of his jaw. The arm beside you, as stiff as muscle and bone coils together, no longer pressed into your side.

He’s quiet. Too quiet. The way his chest rises and falls is the only sign he’s even breathing. Your eyes have to squint to catch it. Any further away and you’d be wanting to place your palm back above it instead as you do with the boys on nights you’re extra skittish. From sickness or a tumble that happened too close to bedtime, it settles your worry.

The man beside you is your world, just as they are. You hate that loving him now will lead to his pain and a future of him living long after you’re gone. He’s said I love you more than once, but it’s those odd times he says it that don’t quite make sense, and makes you wonder if it’s for this very reason.

The first time he told you he was mid-orgasm. It happened the second after you felt the warmth between your legs bloom slicker with his own release. It wasn’t the first time he fucked you, but it coincided with the death of an old rival. He said little. Used his body to convey what his voice couldn’t.

He gripped you tight, as he so often does, lingering longer than was necessary. As if the second he let go, he’d lose you to life’s demands and pitfalls. Like he wanted ‌you so close, you melded into one. That no force could tear you apart, no matter the destruction.

Far from one-upping Countess, you never ended up with any parts of you singed or unrecognisable after he said it. But he’s never gone as far as saying something so profound or quiet when he adds, “I can’t lose you,” like he can read your thoughts now, too.

It’s also not a first, but your heart accelerates to a speed you’ve never known it to go. Faster than it raced on your way to the bathroom. More pronounced than going through active labour, when you feared you were about to be ripped in two.

Your thumb swipes over his beard and down the grain, only to brush it back again the wrong way. The hair, though coarse, is still somehow plush thanks to all the products he uses to keep it contained. “You’re not going to,” you say, letting the varying scents of oils and creams lift into the air. The fresh, woody notes must be overpowering for those supes with super senses, but for you, it’s grounding; helps you collect your thoughts and really consider what not being there for him would mean.

You can’t stop yourself from dying, just as you can’t stop the ageing process. Someday soon there will come a time when you surpass him in physical age.

“I hate the thought of you with someone else when I’m gone,” you admit. Perhaps you are jealous—comes with the territory of self-esteem. To think some other young thing with perky tits and untouched hips could become a stepmother to your sons hurts you more and more when you consider potential age gaps or none between them and another woman.

Even before Vought’s attributes, Ben could’ve had anyone he wanted. You’ve seen the pictures before he joined the military. If he’d have chased you back then, you wouldn’t have said no. Not that you’re sure he would’ve. He was even more broken back then, and would never have spoken to your father or asked for your hand had you been born into that generation. Your dad would’ve said no.

“My dick’s still got more years on your meat wallet,” he says, which—charming, but “Haven’t even broken her in yet,” isn’t much better.

You cock your brow, and “Just like the furniture,” you say.

Ben hums in agreement. The tail end of his lips, barely readable bar from the twitch of his whiskers. His lashes still hold that extra sheen of moisture spilling past his tear ducts.

“There’s more where that came from.” He rolls back onto his side to face you, drawing his hand down your waist to rest on the curve above your hip. Gives you another soft squeeze worthy of a newborn.

It’s grounding, but there’s a tightness in your chest. He’s holding on to you as best he can without committing to the hug he only ever gives when he’s breaking on the inside.

“You’ll lose me one day, though,” you say, though you hate to think about it. Even knowing you shouldn’t do so doesn’t stop the thought from festering.

“Don’t.” His eyes stare into yours like they’re pulling you into a greater orbit. Amber speckles framing his irises map the only constellations you want to explore. Like the freckles on his nose, they’re the only things about him physically to change as the years go on. You look at them and you see the old and the ones that’ve grown with you the longer you’ve been by his side.

“Ben—”

“Don’t make me say red,” he cuts you off before the thought can even form in your throat, but there’s little bite to the bark, and you can’t place his tone. Playful, but somehow somber.

There’s too much distance between you, though his thumb now brushes below your ear and his breath fans your cheek. You catch every flicker and contort of muscle beneath his skin, and still you shuffle closer to feel it and to breathe it.

Your top-most thigh wraps over him, rolling your core into his. You stretch up to nip a chaste kiss on his jaw. “You know I don’t want to lose you either,” you dare say.

He lets you.

So you aim another kiss higher. The tickle makes your heart swell, caught the edge of his feral smirk with your own.

“I love you,” you whisper, though he hates it when you remind him.

“I love you, too, alright?” His palm on your cheek squeezes just short of leaving a mark. Eyes, still staring, though they move from your hairline to your chin and back to your own. Flickering as he tries to read you a little longer. Patience clearly waning with the way his brow drops. “Just say green so I can fuck you good already.”

There are so many other ways he could’ve said it, but the amount of effort it’s taken him to do so is colossal when he’s already laid his emotions so far out along his sleeves as it is.

“Amber?” Your leg slides further up his waist, stretching your pelvic floor with more than just the contraction of muscle and skin reshaping.

It’s as if the anticipation comes solely from opening yourself up more for him. If only it weren’t for the clothes on your backs. You’d feel him in all his glory.

“Amber?” he snickers. “Doll, you’re giving me the worst fucking case of blue balls on the planet.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“You’re the one who turned the fucking red light on.”

You move to withdraw your leg, but Ben’s hand snaps to the back of your knee and squeezes. “Don’t,” he says, locking your ankle firmly behind him, creeping his arm between your bodies. His fingers trail the inside leg of your panties before you’ve decided what you want to do. His advances would’ve been welcome under any other circumstances.

But your husband isn’t your husband if he’s not cocky. “I know you want it. This needy cunt always wants it.” He finds your centre still hidden beneath the fabric and touches the cotton till it fills the empty spaces. “You gonna say it?” He mouths your lips, and God, you want to. Your walls clench around nothing but ‌air, and yet still, it’s not enough. He knows it.

He teases you through the thin barrier—makes you whimper at his practiced hand being so close, and still not close enough at the same time. He’s taking advantage of the whole situation, pushing you further. Parting your folds. He drags the tip of his finger higher and finds your burgeoning clit.

“You want my fingers here?” He leans in closer, speaking right into your ear. “Or you want my cock to stretch you open?” He draws a circle over you and pulls your blood to the surface. Has your nerves blooming forth. There’s no barrier too thin or too thick that can ever deny you his touch.

“Gotta tell Daddy what you want, kitten.” His lips press into the crook of your neck and he sucks like his mouth could break your skin if he wanted to. He could leave more than a mark if you give him enough time. Each kiss, just as fervent as the next. His beard, scratching you wherever he places it. He swipes his tongue and works in tandem with his strumming fingers below.

If only you had the wherewithal for him to make you sing as much as you both want him to. Still, “Ben,” you say, and it’s breathless. Your hands paw at him. Clinging to his body wherever you find a notch large enough for you to hold.

He’s no longer waiting for you to answer his questions. He ruts his hips up and his remastered erection brushes your midriff. Doesn’t even give you a chance to protest. Just provokes your body to react as he positions you under him again. Only leaving your panties long enough to drag both your ankles behind his back, further opening you to him.

He stares down at you then. The smuggest look on his face—lopsided. One cheek, higher than the other. His eyes lust-blown into a brilliant-green.

It’s the stare you once dreamt of. Formed at a young age, when things were still black and white and the only man you thought you could trust was your father. The way he looked at your mom made you want that same look directed at you, too.

While Ben’s no Prince Charming, he made you fit with him, whether you wanted him to or not. You could burst with joy knowing he’s always made sure he never left you wanting. But you need to say his name again before you let yourself get lost in him. You say it firmer, and he cocks his eyebrow to look down between you.

“You really gonna say no to me?” he drawls.

“I haven’t said green yet.”

“Well, you should. ‘Cause I got a big fat turkey baster to stuff you full with.“ But it’s a little too close to a demand when he uses that same gaudy cadence he reserves for the cameras. You’re not behind a lens.

It’s just you and him—you told him so by the dresser. “Maybe I won’t,” you tell him now, and Ben only snickers.

“I don’t need to touch you to smell how wet you are. You really want me to—” he takes a pause; huffs, “—persuade you into submitting? You should know, as your husband, I only want to take care of you.”

“So now you drop the language?” you scoff, surprised at how easily it comes when his finger threads itself beneath the elastic of your panties.

You unwrap your legs and place your hands on his chest as if it’s the only signal he needs to stop. “What’re you doing?” You push against him, but it’s feeble. Had you really wanted to get him off, ‌you could’ve done more. Should’ve. “I’m not gonna lie here and take it like I’m some nineteen-fifties housewife, Ben. Don’t make me say it.” You glare up at him, daring him to make you do so.

Of course, he could ignore you. Like your boys, he has the power to throw you across the room. Not just shove his cock inside your cunt and hold you down as he does it.

But he doesn’t.

Cock still confined to his sweats, he hangs his head so his bangs cover his eyes again. “Christ—no, goddamit.” He removes his hand and draws it up so his fist rests on the swell above your breast. “You’re driving me up the fucking walls here.”

He takes a breath, and it’s so deep his stomach coils before he lets it out. “I fucking love you, but I don’t wanna fuck you if you’re not gonna enjoy it.”

“Do you see where the issue is?” You cup his chin, encouraging him to look back at you.

While he doesn’t deny you, he doesn’t return your gaze either. His eyes flick behind you like your son often does when you’ve caught him doing something he knows he shouldn’t.

It curls your lip into a knowing smirk, though you do your best to hide it.

“I’m not a fucking child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Ben.” Your thumb brushes the rug at the edge of his lip. “You’re so worked up, it’s hard to get into it when you’re like this.”

“Hard? I coulda nut five times already—my dick can hear you fluttering. Don’t tell me you don’t want it.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what?” He grips your waist over your tit.

“Make me want to say green.” Your thumb pinches his cheek. His fingers grip you tighter. They’ll leave a bruise, for sure. He’s no longer in check with the way he holds you. Too overstimulated to tip the scale back to gentle, yet you’re not frightened, just concerned.

There’s no murder in his eyes, but he grinds himself into you.

You raise yourself up, peck at the corner of his lips until his mouth sunders open enough to capture the bottom one with his own.

It’s reverent—lingering. Your tongue savours the remnants of something smoky and sweet. Ben has a way of kissing unlike any other guy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing before him. He commandeers you. Makes your heart trill. Your chest clenches harder than your walls below do, but it affects them just the same when Ben moans into you.

How anyone could live their lives and not experience a kiss like his is a loss for them. How you sampled the few men you did before you met him is a crime. Every time with Ben is like a first for you; stealing your breath away with the promise, straining beneath his sweats. You have the mighty Soldier Boy at your beck and call, knowing he’ll take your breath away the second you give him your word.

For a few longer beats, you keep him that way, further savouring the remnant notes of sugar and spice his tongue so dutifully lavishes you with. He’s an indulgent man, yes, but his impatience outweighs every other attribute. There’s only so far you can push him when his pelvis ruts into you the way it does.

He breaks the kiss and drops his head to your chest. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.” His shoulder blades jut out of his back like fins on a freckled ocean.

The notches in his spine are something formidable beneath the swell of toned muscle and raw power. Your hand in his hair has his lips now seeking the dip of your breasts for contact.

He nuzzles into you, even though he’s the one who pulled away. Your chest, still as clothed as his erection and your panties.

As his hand creeps down to them again, he nips at the thin satin and lace. Whiskers tickling the heated skin beneath the camisole. The moisture on his breath dampens the fabric and clings to you, the same as your entrance does to the lacy gusset.

“Just say it already.” His finger peels the elastic away from your inside leg, and you’re breathless. As ready as he is for you to give your word and have him part your folds. His touch can only get so far deeper than the places he’s already infecting at this angle.

You crunch your stomach muscles and lift yourself up to his ear. “Green,” you whisper, but Ben’s drawn the fabric between his thumb and fingertip before the sound has even closed out on your lips.

“‘Bout fucking time.” He pulls the satin tight against your skin and tugs. Rips the stitching apart to leave you bare to him.

You swat at his chest, but you can’t help but laugh. He rolls to your side, all smug and gratuitous, taking the sheets with him, as well as your camisole in both hands.

“M’takin’ this too.” He splits the fabric down your middle before his words have even registered, leaving your heated flesh to the chill of the room. But even that doesn't last long. His lips draw your attention away from the carnage, bringing a nipple into his mouth to swirl his tongue around the budding skin.

“Open up.” He says in between the sucking and the command of his palm bends your knee up into the air. The weight of your thigh and your foot spreads your entrance wider for him. His hand trails down your thigh, dipping his middle finger through the patch of curls he insists you keep.

“I don’t fuck little girls,” he’d said the first time you gave him access to you. The two fingers that enter you now, plunge in as far as the knuckles do.

They curve like he’s scooping your slick and collecting it, setting a pace before your breath has had any time to adjust.

He’s ruthless. There’s no buildup, no scissoring, or easing you into it. Just you dripping over his hand as he’d said. The wet sounds, akin to the ones he made when he stroked himself, hit your ears. The heel of his palm grinding into your clit has your hand smoothing the empty space next to you, gripping him and the covers. Holding on tight. But neither has enough meat to cling to when he’s this thorough and getting you there. He leaves no respite between each new action he chooses.

His tongue continues to work your nipple over with practised rigour. He can’t quite latch onto you like your boys can, but he’s about to draw out some milk because the sharp pang of a letdown looming signals deep within your breast.

“Ben,” you say, but it’s too late. There’s a grunt somewhere deep in his throat as the pull funnels through you and you spill into his mouth.

It’s euphoric in the way the pressure releases and courses down through your core. You, biting your lip because something teetering on unseemly feels oh so right when he’s the one doing it. He’ll lie here with you afterwards and favour you with pillow talk, but he won’t bring this up, no matter how many times he does it. Even when he hears your reaction each time. Even though he makes a wet pop and gives you a boastful grin. And that image? Plus his fingers still strumming you below, has your thighs cinching in on his hand.

He rolls his lips, and the bristles ‘round them gleam. “That’s it. Fucking let it go.” The muscles beneath his skin jolt in time with his wrist working you. Claps—wet and smacking. The heel of his palm, pressing firmer as he watches your face contort until you barely see him. He swoops his lips over your other tit when you’re no longer paying attention.

That initial pull of you slipping ‌between his teeth has your lungs working desperately to hold the air that’s escaping them. His tongue works doubly hard to set that reflex off again.

You’re so far gone you can no longer discern Ben’s breath on your skin from the heat flooding through your core. You’re flushed—clammy. Your want just builds and builds and builds between his fingers, continually pumping in and out of you.

His name comes out in what little breath remains in your throat. You gear yourself up to tell him something more, but it’s useless. You’ve lost whatever it was before it’s even formed and comes out as a chuckle you shouldn’t even give, erupting somewhere deep within the spaces only the velvety tip of his cock has ever reached in you before.

“Fuck, Ben.”

“On my fingers, doll. Cum all over my hand so I can fuck it right back in.”

But Ben’s fingers no longer grate far enough to burst the dam that they’ve created. Your body’s so full to the brim it holds everything in until only the involuntary jolts scattering between limb and spine remind the universe that you’re even alive and on this plane with Ben.

There’s a pressure where there wasn’t. Your pelvis aches like you bear down on an invisible bubble that refuses to budge from the cage that houses it deep inside of you. Your hand now fists the sheets. The other, still in Ben’s hair, rakes over his skull until he raises himself upright and heaves away from your grasp, leaving the room’s chill to seep into your bones.

He brings his thumb down to replace the heel of his palm on your clit. The tight circles he draws over the pliant tissue, sends you into a rigid stupor. Any air you held onto syphons out of your marrow as the strain of something grander than Ben’s expansive shadow looming over you funnels its way back through your core. It breaks the levee within and forces your legs further apart. A forceful torrent gushes between his fingers.

Ben says something, but you don’t understand him. Just know that his timbre is so loud your eardrums will burst if you don’t do something soon. Your toes curl like your fingers have forgotten how to grip onto anything, even though they were spatially aware and attached to whatever they could up till this point. His hearty laughter pulls away from you, and though you don’t know where he’s gone, the coarse stripe up your centre soon gives him away.

Your thighs try to close in around his head, but his touch keeps you open. The tip of his nose brushes through your curls as he wrenches you between his lips and sucks. You don’t know what he’s doing besides lapping up your juices with the lewdest of grunts. It’s not clear if he’s enjoying the taste of you or tasting you because he’s that pent up himself he’s given into fucking you with anything he can.

You try to fight him off, but your wherewithal’s as fucked as the rest of you is. He pushes back without removing his mouth, continuing his onslaught with a smirk across the seam of your cunt.

“Ben—please,” you press, but he only removes his fingers to dip his tongue lower. That same coarse surface you felt run through you dives over the edge of your pubic bone and into your sodden channel.

His name comes as a whine next. You, close to begging. Your hands back in his hair, palm at his scalp, yet you’re still unable to catch anything between your fists because any grip refuses to form. Stuck between straight and bent. Numb enough, either hand doesn’t exist in the same reality you’ve found yourself in.

Finally, though, he’s satisfied enough to haul himself away from you to sit up and find your eyes fighting to stay open. “Fucking drenched.” His beard glistens. His cheeks flushed, all round and almost rosy, like your insides must be.

He prowls up your frame to your arms that somehow open up for him. His elbows lower him down; nose bumping your own. His mouth is on yours, and you sample the tang you showered him with. Sloppy kisses that drag skin over skin and wet over wet have his lips soon clinging to yours.

Your fingers pull him in by the scruff of his neck and keep him there. The edge of his beard, curling beneath his chin, hides the softer parts no one else ever sees—but you do. No one else can get close to him like this. Not even his opponents. They put him in headlocks, but the pads of your fingers get to brush through his hair and breathe in the aromas that envelope him.

All it takes is a drop of your hand and you have easy access to his heart. You’re not strong enough to break his skin, but this has to be his weakest point. The thing that keeps him living in the physical sense, mere inches from you. Between his blood and bone.

He grunts as he settles into your body once more. His weight on your chest doesn’t even make you breathless because all the other elements are already doing so. It only leaves you wanting to push yourself further to the limit. To stay up in the clouds, beneath him for as long as he’ll envelope you. Grey sweats or not, but you prefer the latter. Your hands move to his waist, dipping the left one beneath the pinched elastic. You find his cock because it finds you first, jumping into your hand without bait or a lure. Ultra-soft and smooth, aside from the vein on the underside.

Though he strains against you, Ben groans and undulates his hips. The movement, not as harsh as you’d expect after making him wait for so long. You stroke him from base to tip. Roll your palm around the head and pull away to find his eyes again. His lips still, pout from the last caress his mouth had given.

“You want me to suck you off tonight.” You can never tell with Ben. He suggested it earlier, and he wasn’t wrong when he did.

He cocks his brow now, like he did when he’d spread out on this very bed, waiting for you. It’s still not enough to tell if he likes the idea or has even considered it with the promise he’s going to cum, anyway. Even if you hadn’t agreed to his advances, he could just as easily take care of himself and finish himself off the same way, but, “I thought I told you I was nutting in your hole tonight,” he says, and it’s definitely not a question.

“I figured you meant either way.” You let him go and remove your hand from his pants, lifting yourself up onto your elbows as if awaiting his command. You’ll move to all fours. A plan already in place to take him in your lips as far as your reflex will allow. All he needs to do is say the word.

“Either way, I’ll be using this to ruin you tonight. Might even let you nut again if you take it all.”

He withdraws himself, raising to kneel, but stretches down and slides his fingers through the mess again, admiring his work. His fingers handle your soaked folds like they’re as removable as the hairs that cover them. Still sensitive, your breath catches in your throat.

Him slipping a finger inside has your walls working to pull him ‌deeper into that part he couldn’t quite reach before all over again. You want him to pound into you and make you gush a second time with him all the way to the root. To have him split you open. To feel his full strength in each stroke and get lost in him like he often does when he’s fully seated inside of you. But—

“You wanna towel?” he says as he pushes against your springy flesh and the bone beneath it. “No point changing the sheets just yet,” he plucks a whimper from your lips over an actual answer.

He must smell the desire on you, because his smirk flickers in his eyes. It can’t just be from the reactions he takes from you when he leaves you this way daily. His gaze on you feels like you’re the only other person on Earth, let alone in a crowded room, or with your kids in any other room of the house.

Even after a fight or ‌when he’s being contrite like he was earlier, he finds you eventually. You, one in a million of the people he’s met in his long life. A blink and you’ll miss it, ordinary human.

He tilts his head, still waiting to hear if you want him to place something beneath you or not. “Towel?” he says again.

“Always the romantic,” you scoff like he’s not pulling these sensations from you. Like he couldn’t make you crumble with a flick of his finger if he wanted to.

“Doll. I’ve seen the hams my balls left behind, come outta this hole.” His thumb brushes your clit. Your pelvis arches up into his hand. “Still plan to fuck another one into you,” he says.

His words have your stomach fluttering, though he can’t knock you up even if he wanted to right now, and honestly? You can’t take much more of this. You can keep up with him as he’s proven over time, but it’s not something you choose to do. Forever impatient. Often exhausted from your day with the boys you already have on top of dealing with his antics.

You’d rather he pounds you now than toy with you any further. Rip his pants off like he did to your clothing and fuck you till you’re red and raw. Get you to the part where you feel the ghost of him still throbbing between your legs even after he’s long since dumped himself inside of you.

“What’re you waiting for then?” You palm his pant leg, tugging at the fleecy fabric, only getting so far with his hand up in your snatch the way it is.

He slips in another finger to join the first, dragging both over the spot that makes your eyes roll. “Think you’re ready to take me?” His thumb applies more pressure to your clit. But his free hand curls over your fingers and yanks his sweats down with your grip still in his.

When his cock springs free, he hauls your fist open and wraps it back ‘round the base, squeezing you and it. Driving your hand down to the angered tip, and over the beads of pre-cum he’s been leaking throughout the evening.

“See what you’ve done to me? Been teasing me all night, I’m ready to fucking blow.” He continues to drag your hand over him in time to his fingers.

He’s not wrong. He throbs in your grip; has your walls fluttering again. The angle’s not quite right to tip you over. Just enough to leave you desperate and wanting to pull him down and guide him into you.

“You still wanna suck me off, or you gonna let me fuck you till you’re so full of cum you can taste it?”

“I’ll taste it either way.” You grin.

Ben would snarl at that, but all you get is a twitch of his lips. His chest heaves above you before he smacks you square on the clit and leaves your skin on fire, like he’s pulled a rope through your centre. He removes his fingers only to slap them against you again before he grabs both hips and lifts you up to flip you over, arranging you as he pleases on all fours.

Your shins are in the mess you left behind. The mattress, dipping beneath you as he walks closer on his knees, till you’re perfectly lined with his waist. There’s no time to breathe before his hips guide the blunt head of his cock through your cunt. His palms on your rear, spreading your cheeks apart to rub himself further through your opening as he watches on.

But then he finds your backdoor and presses himself against the tight ring, not enough to sheath himself inside, but enough to feel the pressure build where you don’t want it to.

You lean forward, trying to pull away. It’s not new to you, it’s just—not when he’s like this. You’ve already used red once, but he’s tipping you towards amber as much as you don’t want to call it. The evening, already overwhelming enough, you need this as much as he does to feel that connection with him again. To release the anxiety and the heavy tension that comes with all the complexities of your relationship you’ve brought up since Ben came home.

He grips you firmer; would almost seem unkind, guiding you back so his tip kisses the wrong door again, and it’s no longer a matter of time, but remembering how to draw the air into your lungs. Tension heightened to new heights, and you have to warn him again, because surely he wouldn’t?

“Ben?”

“Told you I’m not fucking you if you’re not gonna enjoy it.” His hand smooths your left flank and down your side to the expanse of your ribs. Thumb, swiping the underside of your breast. Fingers, not quite over your heart, still beating because he’s still there, pressing himself over the tight muscle again. The rest of your muscles clench with it. The damn exhilaration of his threat, even though he said he wouldn’t do it, makes you crave the attention, and he knows it. He has to.

“Just a shame I can’t breed you this way. Might make you more obedient if I did,” he says before dragging himself lower, spreading himself through your lips and coating himself with more of your juices. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you, doll?”

He gives a little shove, testing the waters. Not enough for you to lose your gravity, but enough for you to press your forearms into the bed and steady yourself.

It doesn’t help that your body still thrums for him. Your legs struggled to keep you upright even before the added display of dominance he chanced. “Depends on what you want me to do.” You try your best to sound confident as his hand reaches further, tit to mouth; thumb, now brushing over your lips only to force its way inside.

“Suck,” he says. You oblige, skirting your tongue around him. Treating it like it’s the same as him bobbing between his legs and yours, as Ben focuses his attention below.

He drags himself down past your entrance and back, catching himself on the thin piece of skin covering the hole you want him to penetrate.

His name on your breath again has him chuckling. You, ready for him to plunge into you. Body rocking as best it can within your current limits, hoping he’ll copy. The sooner he’s sheathed inside, the sooner he won’t go far, forever wanting to keep you full to the brim—you want it too. To cum wrapped around him. To have him buried so far deep inside you that when your body invades the sliver of space that separates you, you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.

Ben calls it cock-drunk. But you’re not. You’re at the point long before alcohol and pleasure accumulate. Thirsty for that end result, yes, but it’s the call to it that fuels you. Needing the drink so badly, he doesn’t need to lead you to the water—you’re chasing it—living through that thrill that comes with searching. Desperate to feel the buzz swirl through your insides. The taste of his breath on your lips. His sweat, sticky against your skin, almost melding the two of you together, turns every thought ‘round and spits it out before any of them can linger and weigh you down.

It’s just the crown, but his groan covers your own when he finally does push inside you. Your jaw, going lax, his palm, full of your left cheek, digging into your pliable flesh.

His thumb smooths the hollow space where your thigh and outer lip join. “That’s it,” he sighs. “So needy for me to fuck you after all that carry on.”

You’d say his name, but he parts you to the hilt in one swift stroke.

“There we go.” Those three words rattle through you, his chest and your spine as he settles his weight further over you, and you cry out. A note full of surprise from the pressure, though you should be well familiar with the way he stretches you by now. Your fist grips the sheets below you as his other hand bears down on your spine, forcing your breasts into the bed.

Ben angles himself deeper, demanding your walls extend for his girth. The rim of your cunt distended so much, your skin burns like it’s threatening to tear.

The cotton sheet drives you into an intense rapture. Bordering on pleasure and pain, as coarse as sandpaper against your nipples. Your deep breaths, anticipating his next move, drag them back and forth, yet you don’t want it to let up. Only for him to move and pull you deeper under his spell until your head’s spinning and you can’t lift yourself up without feeling like you’re about to crumble head-first into whatever’s there to catch you.

“Fuck—Ben.” The whine you make is breathless. “Please.” Your heartbeat goes rabid.

“Look at you. Already begging me for it?” He withdraws and slams back right back in. “My perfect cock-slut. Pussy’s taking me like a glove.”

You’d ask him to stop talking, but then you’d be denying yourself the way his words get to you. He can talk and fuck at the same time; he just loves to draw things out and hear his own voice. He’ll marvel at how huge his dick is next, not that you’re denying he’s big—just—need him to use it and make good on his promises.

You roll your hips as best you can over him. Stretching your cunt, trying to drag the blunt tip over that sweet spot, help it loosen again and again until you’re gushing over him.

“Fucking needy little thing. You that desperate to milk me?” He grinds his pelvis into the space where you join.

But it’s still not enough. “Just need you to hurry and fuck me already,” you relent.

He has to be as pent up as you are by now. What with him being the one complaining, you wouldn’t say green fast enough. If he’s not? Then you don’t know who the hell the man seated within you is if it’s not Ben drawing back and sliding home, a second, third and fourth time. Each stroke, following a grunt, blending into the sharp clap his hips make against your skin.

Your elbows are like wings beside you, bracing the brunt of his thrusts. Chest and chin doing little to stop you raking forward over the bed. Lips, from pursed to a grin you can’t quite contain, every time his hips snap.

“Y’want me to hurry the fuck up,” he grits between his movements. “Need my cum that bad?” His fingers grip your waist so hard, the bruises already bloom deep beneath the surface. “Or you just wanna get off and leave me dry? ‘M about to fucking burst from all the teasing you’ve been putting me through.”

He sets a rhythm only his stamina can keep up with. His pace never falters, no matter how the years pass him by. The man you married, still the same as he was the day he met you, thanks to Butcher’s incompetence. Dirty words, unprotected, but on the pill. Giving you his all because he’d been so long withheld from the world. Confused by your ‘lack of bush,’ though you kept yourself neatly trimmed back then.

He came harder than you expected. Made you cum first before he spilled his load into you. You, sore for days after; now used to the pounding he subjects your pussy to—almost daily.

His hands paw at your tits, rough handling them beneath his broad palms. Only he hoists you up. Fingers dig into the swell of their mounds until he’s cupped you fully and drawn you back against his chest with no other warning than the squeeze. The rumble he makes from the exertion traverses up your spine, still realigning to the right shape.

He spreads you open wider with his thighs until you’re seated in his lap. Legs bent over him. Your knees groan in protest to his weight, still leaning into yours.

“Ride me,” Ben says, though he ruts up into you. His breath, bouncing off the nape of your neck, does little to cool your skin.

The press of his tongue leaves a wet trail almost as identical as the dressing you coat his cock with. You flex your chin down. See the way you glisten over his softer skin. Your hips rising far enough to sink back down on him and push it all back up inside.

Though Ben’s strength possesses him, it possesses you too, knowing he could snap you in two if one squeeze squeezes you too tight. Instead, the supe makes crass calls to your body. Every mark he leaves on its expanse sinks into memory. Every grunt and groan and guttural dive already mapped in the spaces of your heart you keep for him to expand upon.

Underneath, you swell. The pressure of the pot, contained by tense muscles that pull like the build you wanted him to increase with his fingers.

Your middle finger comes to your clit—mimics the way Ben rolled it. Your walls try to stitch the two of you together, even though he glides out and in.

There’s suction, rather than there’s a clamp or flutter. Your sluice lubricates him. Makes each clap against your cunt sound more explicit than any ordinary smack from Ben’s hand on your rear.

He fists your hair, forcing your head to turn so he can watch the spots overtake your vision. “That’s it, doll. Gimme another one,” he grunts between his words. “Sweet little pussy’s so greedy. Wants me to make her squirt again before I fill‘er up.”

His nostrils flare and he grits his teeth. Thumb and finger roll a nipple between them. But it’s his thrusts ramming you sharper that spur you on. His length hitting your cervix. The angle of you being impaled over and over has his size warping your judgement. He’s bigger—wider than you remember—the more you close in around him.

“Oh, fuck—Ben.”

His chest sweats on your back. His knees stretch your thighs further. The joint between your pelvis and your legs burns like a knot that doesn’t go away from massaging alone. It requires time and effort. It hardens what flesh there is between. Even your lower lips feel a burn that only hums more with each swirl of your finger over your clit.

Your hand not rubbing yourself grips Ben wherever you can reach as your knees buckle. Hips, rock and roll, to hold your position upright. You’re not even sure which direction they pull you in, just that it’s Ben’s own grip on you that stops your physical fall.

But the climax? The pinnacle you’ve been chasing since Ben wrung your first orgasm out of you, ensnares your limbs and crumples the walls in your mind. It makes way for those surrounding Ben to stall and constrict. To go lax as he continues to pound for his own end. And then the flood thrums through you. A wave that curls ‌over itself and forces you to bear down on the pressure. Your jaw tenses, yet somehow your throat still produces a cry.

While Ben responds with a chuckle, the words he says have no bearing. You’ve lost all feeling, though every cell sounds its individual placement through a roll call you were never invited to because your body is no longer your own. It’s Ben’s.

He surrounds you, then he doesn’t. His chest is on your back, and then you’re under it. A wet patch under you.

His mouth lavishes yours with his kiss, just as sloppy as his cock continuing to draw all autonomy out of you. But it’s all too much. The feeling you lost, too overbearing. Insistent that the place he spears you open and then withdraws from is indeed a part of you, as much as you’re a part of him.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, grunts. A louder, more desperate one springs from deep within the pit of his stomach. “Fuckin’ take it,” he says again as he stills, splaying a strained grin across his face that pushes his gaze to the ceiling. He grunts one last time as the first ropes of his cum spurt into you. Followed by longer tendrils that soon leak out the sides, molten against your braised skin. Dripping—pooling with the rest of the mess your rear wallows in.

Ben chuckles and collapses into you. His lips on your cheek, a tender touch.

“Christ, I fucking love you.” If only those who question your relationship could hear the way his lungs wheeze through his wrought lips.

You close your eyes and rest your head against his whiskers, inhaling all that’s accumulated since his fingers stretched you open.

Woody, tangy; sweat and sex lace through the air with Ben’s scent at the forefront. The smell of his exertion. The film his presence leaves on the pillows, clothes and the other soft furnishings you have throughout your home, long after he’s left for the day, coaxes your soul to relax.

You have the world’s strongest man intoxicated above you—loving you, regardless of anything else, but all you see is a man made of the same trimmings as any other. A son born to his mother, like your boys were born to you, letting you cling to his arms and return his touch unguarded.

It’s rare to be here like this with him. His refractory period only ever offers you a few extra minutes of grace, lying tangled beneath him. Your husband, choosing to stay, though he contends he isn’t soft. Least not till he withdraws, he keeps you full.

The cool air nips at your exposed chest and leaves you disappointed. The drag of him leaving you empty has you wince. Your overused muscles and the rawness of activated skin that’s covering them, also exposed to both your spending, sting against the room.

Worse still, he doesn’t roll over, but stands and walks away. Doesn’t even glance back before his ass disappears behind the bathroom wall. You’d say it stings the most, but he never leaves you long.

You will yourself to sit up, crunching your stomach again and listen to him taking a leak. You should probably do the same, but you don’t think you can with your legs as unstable as they are. Ben will be back soon and you can lie with him so more before you attempt to stand or get him to help you.

You close your eyes and rest your head behind you once more, not bothering to find a pillow or scoop up the scattered sheets that were tossed on the floor. They’ll need to be changed. You’ll need to get dressed first. You should keep a spare set or a plastic guard like the one protecting the three-year-olds mattress. Ben’d love that.

His bare feet sound the second he shuts the faucet. “What’s so funny?” he grouses to the way your lips curl.

“Nothing.” You stare up into his gaze as the bed dips to his naked ass. He scoots up against your hip to sit beside you, handing you a glass of water. He tucks his hand behind your neck to lift you up enough to take a much needed sip. But rough fabric, gliding over your abused hole, has you choking on it.

“Don’t be a baby,” he says, though he pulls the intrusion away and flattens ‌his palm across your lower abdomen.

You glare back at him, eyes wide, trying to hold the tears back. “Did you rub that over your balls first?”

Ben snickers. “There’s nothing left of my balls. You made sure of that. Nut so hard, if you weren’t taking those little pills, you’d be giving me another brat in nine months.” He squeezes your flesh like he’s willing your womb to do just that, too confident for his own good.

He pats the small pouch of your stomach with his fingers. The space where he’s just been and where his son’s stayed soundly before. This time there’s definitely a flicker of reverie in his eyes. “Still might happen.” He winks.

You'd tell him to keep dreaming, but the man is still an enigma. Who knows what he’s really capable of if he sets his mind to do it.

It’s not that it’s off the table. It’s just a ‘not right now.’ There are things he needs to learn from that are still fresh in your mind.

Still, your hand joins his own and your thumb draws over his knuckles. “Maybe it will,” you humour him—but it didn’t. Not then, at least.

A little over a year later, though, you’re on a different bed. Feeling just as sore down below.

You’re not as wrecked as the first two times you delivered your sons, but it’s true what they say: the third time’s the charm—and your daughter’s quite the charmer. She had Ben on his toes as you laboured with her. He almost didn’t make it to the hospital in time. She wanted to arrive earlier than expected, but he made it to your side, just as she was crowning.

Less than a day old, he hasn’t left her alone. Still holding her when your eyes gave in, just as he holds her now as they open and adjust to the light of the small room. His shirt, removed so her bare chest snuggles into his own beneath the blanket she’s half swaddled in.

“She probably needs a feed, Dad.” Your throat cinches through your words. You try to sit yourself up, but your body ignores all your ideas. Leaves you no choice but to relax your arms by your sides once more and wait for Ben to take your hint.

“She needs her beauty-sleep, just like her mother. Got lungs like her, too.” He steps with slow and steady movements, standing beside you, glowing at you with pride. “Fucking trooper she is.”

He leans down and presses his lips to your temple. Your daughter’s hand flinches as he shifts. If she notices her back facing the ground, she doesn’t care. Only makes a soft grunt when Ben straightens and perches on the sliver of empty bed next to you.

“How you feeling?” He loops his arm behind you, drawing you closer to his side. Gives you a clearer look at her scrunched-up face, still red and waiting for her first bath.

You breathe her in, even though it’s her tiny feet that point towards your nose. Ten perfect little toes hide beneath the stars scattering her covered behind. That newborn smell, powder and most likely remnants of your waters, has you missing your boys more than you expected. Memories of them, so tiny and cradled under Ben’s solid arm, have your eyes threatening to weep—again.

“Like I wanna hold my baby,” you say through a rueful smile, though your head still finds his shoulder and buries your face in his bare sleeve.

“And you can have her when she’s wailing for your tit.” He clicks his tongue and squeezes your side, pulling you closer against him. Careful not to be so rough. Holding you like you’re a piece of fragile china. His callouses might scratch your skin. “Right now, you should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

Ben locks down and cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who just pushed this little lady out their hole.”

You’d swat him, but your fingers burn the last remnants of your energy, brushing over the wispy tufts of her hair.

Dark brown, just like both her brothers had as newborns. Before they took on your complexion and turned into mini, albeit male, versions of you.

“Your boys are going to get jealous when they see her getting all your attention.” You nudge him, gentle enough not to disturb her.

“They wanted to come here now so they could hold her,” Ben says, and it perks you up.

“You spoke to them?”

“They were worried about their mom.” He presses his chin into your hair, whiskers parting the strands like a comb, only it stills to breathe you in the same as you sought after your daughter’s freshie scent.

Your tears swell. The first drop on your cheeks has Ben sighing above you. “They’ll live, doll,” he mumbles, but his thumb makes up for the gruffness as it draws patterns across your skin.

You can only assume that he called them. Part of you regrets leaving them at the house with your mom the way you did.

“They must’ve been so scared.” And you must’ve scared them. But the contractions came on fast. There was no time to explain what was happening without scaring them further with the pain taking shape across your stomach and your spine.

Your belly is still inflated—pudgy, where it was once firm. Feels weird she’s no longer in there, even though you’re seeing her with both eyes now.

“They’ll be here in the morning.” His Adam’s apple bobs against your skull. “You can coddle them then,” he grunts as his hand flexes over your arm again.

His impressive bulk surrounds you, as tense as his stance was when he entered the birthing suite. Though his last words were sweet enough in Ben’s own way, it’s the barely there whisper you wouldn’t hear if he wasn’t holding you this close that has your heart running rampant in your chest all over again.

“Most important thing is you’re safe,” he says, kissing your hair once more. “I got here just in time,” he whispers next. You don’t even feel him move. Even as the evening turns into day, he just stays beside you through feeds and diaper changes and a first bath.

You’re not surprised Ben’s this way when he was like this with both your sons. It’s the facade he doesn’t show to the world. The one he forgets to show you sometimes, but he always comes back to you, eventually. He reminds you why you stay with him and why you love him. And why you wouldn’t change your life for any other, even when he is a horny asshole.

Once again, my ability to stick to a PWP story has failed 😂 seriously—how did all those words get there?!… This idea came to me while I was playing Lego with my own “hams,” hence more fictional children—I need help, not more sticky fingers... It's also my second attempt at Soldier Boy, but a first to write some smut for him.

Would love to know what you think - ❤️

*Title was inspired by the song Green Light by Lorde, and the lyric “those great whites, they have big teeth.”

Soldier Boy Taglist:

@ambiguous-avery @artemys-ackles @girls-alias @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fuckingdamnitdean @jollyhunter @hobby27 @impala-dreamer @lyarr24 @middleearthislife

@my-stories-vault @roseblue373 @sepho @soullessambs @sra7riddle-malfoy @thewinchesterwench @zepskies

For other works: check out my Main Masterlist

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