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Becoming Spider-Man’s favorite person was… an adjustment. 

It only took one wrong turn down a sketchy alley after a girl’s night filled with too many drinks for things to go sideways. That is, until the masked vigilante swooped and beat the absolute shit out of a group of wannabe muggers before they could even lay a finger on you. Once the last guy was webbed to a dumpster, Spider-Man took a look at your flushed cheeks and dazed eyes and decided without hesitation that it was now his personal mission to keep you safe. 

He walked you home, steadying you as you clung to his arm (not that he was complaining—physical affection was in short supply for him), and even tucked you into bed with the patience of a saint after you somehow managed to trip three times on your way into the bedroom. 

After that night, sightings of the hero became more and more frequent until he eventually dropped the pretense of subtlety and started showing up whenever he felt like it. 

At first, he’d walk you home—waiting outside after your shifts like it was the most normal thing in the world, insisting that he’d feel better knowing you made it home safe, or popping up after a girl’s night out and teasing that he couldn’t risk another alleyway incident. Then he started showing up on your fire-escape after patrols, secretly preening under his mask at the attention you’d give him while patching up his cuts and icing his bruises. Finally, nights of playing the role of Spider-Man’s personal nurse melted into nights of sharing secrets with the masked man until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. 

Over the next few months, the two of you learned almost everything about each other—everything except for his name and what he looked like under the suit, that is. But honestly, that only made it easier for both of you to be so open with each other. There wasn’t another soul alive that knows you as well as he does, and vice versa. 

Which is exactly what led to your current argument. 

“Seriously, I’m fine!” A huff leaves your lips as you cross your arms and lean back against the armrest, glaring at the exasperated man throwing his hands up at the other end of the couch. 

You were not fine and he knew that.

“Fine? You call a massive bruise across your hip and thigh fine?” He scoffs from behind his mask. “One that you wouldn’t even have had you just waited for me to get here and help you!” 

Okay… maybe trying to put together your new bookshelf on your own was a bad idea. So what? You were bored and he was patrolling later than usual. How were you supposed to know turning around for half a second to grab the screwdriver would mean the entire shelf tilting forward and falling onto your leg? 

“It’s not my fault that you decided to show up late,” you counter, rolling your eyes. “Besides, it’s not even that big.” 

That was a lie. 

It was actually one of the biggest bruises you’d ever gotten and it hurt like a bitch. But did he need to know that? No. Because then he’d never shut up about being right. 

“Oh really?” 

A yelp flies out of your mouth as his gloved hand grips your ankle, yanking you towards him until your thighs sprawl across his. 

“Not that big, huh?” He quips. Before you can respond he leans forward, placing his forearm onto your exposed skin and lining it up beside the bruise. 

You’d changed into shorts and a tank top earlier, needing easy access to the bruise so you could ice it. However, you’d barely had the chance to shut the freezer before Spider-Man—the silent bastard that he was—had waltzed in unannounced (you knew giving him unlimited window access would bite you in the ass one day) and startled you so badly the makeshift ice pack you’d made flew into the air, smacked the ceiling, then splattered onto the floor. That’s how you ended up on the couch being lectured by a grown man in a spandex suit. A skin tight, incredibly distracting spandex suit.  

His fingertips graze your waist, barely slipping underneath the fabric of your top, reminding you of the compromising position you now found yourself in. 

“Y-yeah.” You swallow, eyes locked on the hand now pressing lightly into the edges of the purpling skin. “Not that big. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, bug boy.” 

A chuckle rumbles low in his throat, his head cocking to the side as his thumb gently swipes across the tender mark, a hiss falling from your lips at the pressure. He straightens, humming before responding. “Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, sweetheart. Because that bruise is almost as big as your mouth.” 

His cackle fills the room as you swat at him, grumbling under your breath about him being the one with the big mouth before you shift, pulling your legs back with a “hmph” and crossing your arms. The movement causes a twinge of pain to shoot through you, and Spider-Man immediately clocks the wince you tried (and clearly failed) to conceal. His entire demeanor softens, and with an exaggerated sigh he stands, making his way into your kitchen. 

“Wait—what are you doing?” 

“Making an ice pack so I can ice your gigantic bruise. Duh.” 

Your heart flutters even as your eyes roll. Smart-ass. 

“Y’know… I kind of like the idea of you being my nurse for once,” you muse, turning to watch him over the edge of the couch. 

His back muscles flex as he shuts the freezer door, a pang of heat shooting through you at the sight. Shaking his head with a chuckle, he glances back briefly. 

“Keep thinking you’re Miss Independent and I’ll be doing it every week.” 

“If I could aim, this pillow would be smacking the back of your stupid head right now. Just thought I’d let you know.” 

He laughs loudly at that, sealing the Ziploc bag he’d packed with ice before wrapping it in a small towel. He makes his way over to you, sitting back down and pulling your legs across his lap. But he doesn’t place the ice pack on you yet, instead holding it just out of reach. 

“Say I don’t have a stupid head and I’ll ice your boo boo.” 

An indignant scoff leaves your lips as you arch a brow. “My boo boo? Seriously? Am I five now?” 

Spider-Man doubles down, putting on an exaggerated baby voice. “Does the princess not want me to make her boo boo feel better?” 

You laugh despite yourself, biting your lower lip to stifle it as you shake your head. “Shut the fuck up,” you giggle, shoving his arm playfully. “Fine. You don’t have a stupid head. Fix my boo boo.” 

“Throw a please in there.” 

With an annoyed groan, you toss your head back against the arm rest before sitting up and pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“I’ll help you sound it out. Puhhh leaseee. C’mon, put it together now—“ 

Both of you are cackling now, unable to hold it in any longer. Your shoulders shake as you wipe a tear from your eye, grinning like a madman. 

“Puhhh leaseee ice my boo boo, oh mighty Spider-Nurse.” 

Finally, he relents. His hand rubs up and down your thigh once in a soothing gesture, pushing the fabric of your shorts higher before placing the ice pack over the tender mark. A small moan falls from your lips at the feeling of the ice pressing into your bruise, immediately providing relief for the throbbing you’d been trying to ignore since he got there.  

Spider-Man stiffens at the sound, the ice in the bag crunching together as his hand lightly clenches it.

Your eyes dart down at the sound, your lower lip tucked behind your teeth as the cold slowly eases the soreness. The sight of his hand practically engulfing the makeshift ice pack has you squirming, pressing your legs harder into his lap unintentionally. Since when were his hands so big?

He clears his throat, moving the ice pack higher up your thigh.

"Does that feel good?"

You're so distracted by the sight of his hand that you don't hear him. It isn't until his fingers grip your chin, lightly tilting your head up to face him, that you realize he'd even spoken. Heat floods your cheeks, a nervous laugh bubbling out as his thumb strokes your jaw.

"I uh… I'm sorry, what did you say?"

You can practically feel his eyes boring into yours through the mask's expressionless lenses. The feeling of his gloved hand cupping the side of your neck has your pulse racing—something you're sure he's more than aware of with his advanced senses. The ice pack lays forgotten on your thigh, numbing the sore flesh underneath.

"I asked if it feels good, sweetheart."

Something about his voice has your breath hitching. Gone was the teasing lilt from earlier, replaced with something low and laced with hunger.

You nod, leaning instinctively into his touch. "Mhm."

His restraint was already hanging on by a thread at the sight of you in those pajamas, but now? With you melting into his touch like some spoiled house cat? Yeah, he's done for.

Before he can stop himself, he's gravitating forward until his forehead presses against yours.

"Can I make you feel even better?"

The question hangs in the air between you, thick and heavy, like a held breath. His thumb is tracing slow, rhythmic circles just beneath your ear, making your skin prickle. Every inch of you is buzzing, alert and aching in the best possible way.

"Please do."

That's all it takes for the last shred of his restraint to crumble.

He pulls away just enough to lift his mask below his nose, going to remove it completely before your hand shoots up to grab his wrist.

"Wait! Can you—uh, can you keep it on for now?"

Embarrassment crashes into you like a wave the second the words leave your mouth. It wasn't that you didn't want to see him. God, no. You'd been dying to finally see New York's very own hero without the mask. But something about the idea of it staying on, at least for a little while longer, had heat pooling in your lower stomach.

His lips quirk into an amused grin, his brows twitching beneath the mask with the faintest flicker of surprise at the request.

"What? You think I'm ugly under here or something?" He teases, chuckling softly.

Your annoyed groan catches in your throat as his nose brushes against yours, taunting you with what was to come. "The ugliest," you tease back before your voice lowers. "I just… I don't want it to feel different. Not yet."

"And you think the mask is hot."

Of course he'd pick up on that. You should've never indulged him when he pestered you about the last book you were reading (one that just happened to include a masked character).

"…And if I do?"

He studies you for a beat before leaning in again, his voice a breath against your lips.

"Whatever you want, princess."

Then he kisses you.

It starts slow—exploratory, reverent as you familiarize yourselves with the taste and feel of each other. His lips are warm and slightly chapped, moving over yours with a dizzying mix of hunger and tenderness like he's trying to savor your first kiss and hold himself back at the same time. His hand glides from your neck to the small of your back, hefting you into his lap with an ease that leaves you whimpering against his lips.

The forgotten icepack tumbles to the floor with a soft thud, though neither of you flinch. Right now, all that exists is you, him, and the molten tension threatening to consume you both.

You shift, settling into his lap with your thighs bracketing his hips while your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit. The feeling of him pressing against you—hard and deliciously thick through the thin cotton of your shorts—has you grinding down, chasing friction to ease the throbbing between your legs.

His resulting groan has you sighing into his mouth, his tongue brushing your bottom lip in a silent plea for more. You grant his wish, the kiss turning from tentative to ravenous in a heartbeat. He grips your waist with one hand, letting the other drift across your bare (uninjured) thigh towards the hem of your shorts. The movement is careful, deliberate, like he's still giving you time to change your mind.

As if that would ever happen.

Your hips rock down into his, needing to be closer to him. Needing to feel him. More of him. All of him.

“Spidey–” 

“Peter,” he exhales against your lips, pressing another bruising kiss to your mouth before resting his forehead against yours. “Call me Peter.”

“Peter…”

The name settles on your tongue, and when you repeat it he groans before crushing his mouth back to yours. 

"'M not—" He breaks the kiss once more, his hands slipping beneath your thighs the only warning you get before he rises from the couch. "I'm not doing this on your couch. Not for the first time."

The promise of a next time—even though you already knew it was inevitable—sends a thrill rushing through you. A breathless smile plays on your lips as your legs tighten around his waist, your bodies pressed close as he carries you through the dim hallway. His hands are firm beneath you, the tension almost palpable as your bedroom door comes into view. The warm glow of your lamp spills out from under the door, casting a golden trail across the floor.

He keeps you hoisted up with one hand while his other reaches for the doorknob, his effortless show of strength making you duck your head into the crook of his neck. The door pops open with a soft click, the sound punctuating the surreal silence. This was real. After months of longing and fantasizing, it was actually happening.

Once inside, he kicks the door shut with his heel before pressing his mouth to yours in a gentle peck. His forehead rests against yours again, grounding you both as you breathe each other in.

"Still want this?" He murmurs, his thumb stroking the skin of your thigh while he waits for an answer.

Your nod is immediate, the motion small but certain. "Of course I do. Do you?"

The hint of insecurity creeping into your tone shatters him. How could he not want you? You were everything he didn't know he was still allowed to hope for after being used as the Universe's personal punching bag for the past several years. He wanted this and so, so much more with you. He has from the moment he met you.

"I've never wanted anything more than I want you, sweetheart."

Gently, he lowers you onto the bed, his mouth finding yours as soon as your head hits the pillows. His fingers skim your sides, like he's comitting the shape of you to memory. Like he can't go more than a few seconds without touching you in some way.

Mindful of your bruise, he hikes your legs further up around his waist before he's pressing his hips down, letting out the most delicious grunt into your mouth at the friction the movement provides. The two of you stay exactly like that for a few minutes—trapped in a searing push and pull of grinding hips and open-mouthed kisses as your hands roam the span of his suit-clad back.

Hands tug at your shorts, managing to push them down despite his weight on top of you. He huffs out a laugh when you wriggle around, breaking the kiss long enough to help you slip out of them before tossing them carelessly to the floor. Without the barrier of your shorts in the way (not that they were blocking much anyways), the friction of his aching length grinding against you feels even more intense, the rough fabric of his suit rubbing against your clit in just the right way.

Finally, after your airy sighs have escalated to helpless moans against his lips, he pulls away to drop his head into the crook of your neck with a soft groan of your name.

“You trust me?” 

His breath is warm where it pants over your ear, his voice a low rumble. 

“You know I do.” 

Your reply came out breathier than you’d intended, causing him to chuckle as his lips trailed down your neck before he leaned back. 

“Then put your arms up for me, baby.” 

Your brows furrow as you follow his instructions, letting him guide your hands exactly where he wanted them—wrists crossed and in line with one of the posts of your headboard. A sharp thwip cuts through the air before you can even think to ask what he’s doing. 

“Peter!” 

Webbing binds your hands to the post, leaving you lying exposed for him in nothing but a thin tank top and the lacy panties you’d picked out in the delusional hopes that he’d be seeing them (and somehow, that delusion paid off). Something about it felt exhilarating. You were quite literally the spider’s prey—tied up and held at his mercy until he decides it’s time to devour you. 

“Shh,” Peter murmurs, smirking as he glides a gloved hand up the side of your thigh, causing goosebumps to form in its wake. “I’m just… providing a little pain relief. That’s all. Remember?” 

He says it so casually, as though he’s simply running you a candlelit bubble bath or popping a cap of lotion open to massage you instead of planning to make you cum so hard you forget your own name. That coy nonchalance sends a shiver up your spine and heat curling in your lower belly, anticipation gnawing at you as you wait on his next move. 

Your eyes linger on the outline of his face—the part of it that you can see, anyways—mirroring his gaze as he does the same. His jawline is defined, dusted with a hint of stubble. His upper lip is thin, the lower fuller, both kissed raw and glistening with traces of your lip gloss. And as much as you craved to see the rest of him, you had to admit it was exhilarating only being able to see a fraction of the man behind the mask. 

“God, you’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” Peter breathes, finally breaking the heavy silence as he shuffles forward to wrap your legs around his waist once more. 

Heat spreads across your cheeks as you try to turn your face into your arm, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to fight off a nervous grin. His fingers curl around your chin, gently coaxing you to face him again. The soft sound of a “tsk” escapes his lips before he tilts his head. 

“Why’re you hiding from me, pretty girl? Huh?” His thumb drags over your lip, tugging it free before tapping it once. "Let me see you."

A shiver runs through you at that as you nod, your hips arching towards his whenever his mouth begins tracing up and down your throat. Kisses trail down your body until his chin is resting on your hip, the glint in his lenses almost taunting you as he keeps his gaze locked on your face. His stubble is prickly against your skin, heightening your already sensitive nerves.

"Why'd you stop?"

It's petulant and needy, but you can't find it in yourself to care. You wanted him to touch you. To taste you. To make you forget all about the bruise that led to this very moment.

Peter chuckles, tilting his head to nip gently at your hip. "Such a spoiled thing already," he murmurs before dragging his lips across your skin, lingering just below your belly button. "Do you want the mask on or off, sweetheart?"

That was a good question.

On one hand, it felt exhilarating watching him look up at you with the mask on, like you were some dirty little secret the vigilante kept tucked away from the world. But on the other, you really wanted to look into his eyes while he simultaneously took you apart and put you back together again.

The desire to see the man between your thighs won, your curiosity getting the best of you.

"Off, please."

You felt his wolfish grin against your skin before he pulled back just enough to tug the mask completely off, tossing it to the ground with a muted thump.

The man before you is… impossibly handsome.

Peter has the kind of beauty that leaves you momentarily stunned, your jaw dropping before you can catch yourself. His cheekbones are sharp, his dark hair tousled with an effortless charm that's somehow sexy and disarmingly endearing all at once. And then there are his eyes—a deep, rich amber, layered as though he's carrying a weight he never talks about but never quite puts down either.

You manage to find your voice, though it comes out quieter than you expect. "You are… ridiculously attractive." It's not poetic by any means, and you know he deserves a better compliment, but the sight of him paired with the feeling of his breath fanning across your core has your brain scrambled.

His gaze flickers with something unreadable—disbelief, maybe? There's hesitance in his posture, like he's not used to being truly seen. Then his lips turn up into a small, almost bashful smile.

"You think so, pretty girl?"

Your heart skips at the nickname and the way it effortlessly rolls off his tongue. A smile tugs at your lips. "Duh. I thought it even before the mask came off, too." You giggle at the exaggerated eye-roll he gives you before continuing. "Honestly, it's kind of rude Spider… looking like that while being the funniest vigilante I know? You're lethal."

He laughs, dropping his forehead to rest against your thigh before glancing up at you through his lashes. "I'm the only vigilante you know, sweetheart."

"Doesn't matter," you scoff playfully, nudging his shoulder with your knee. "You've ruined all future vigilantes for me. You set a very high bar."

Peter hums, the sound vibrating faintly against your skin. "Good," he murmurs, peppering kisses across your pelvis. "Can't have someone else swooping in and saving my girl. I don't share."

Your pulse quickens at the subtle shift in his tone. His girl. You were his girl.

"Your girl, huh?"

"Yeah. My girl, my sweetheart… and, without question, the most stubborn pain in my ass," he smirks, pressing a kiss to your bruise as you squawk indignantly.

Your hips shift in his hold as his fingers trace up and down your waist, drawing his attention back to where you were aching for him.

"Now, if you don't mind, princess, I'm going to take care of you like I promised."

Peter's gaze drops as he speaks, and his eyes darken at the sight of the damp patch on your panties, tracing it with his index finger before tugging the fabric down. Once the lace has joined the growing pile of clothes, he presses another gentle kiss to your bruise with a whispered "poor baby" before easing your legs over his shoulders. His hands caress your waist for a moment, admiring the sight of you spread out for him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," you tease, trying to sound confident even though you're squirming underneath his gaze. Your breath hitches as he nips your inner thigh in retaliation.

"Why take a picture when I can have the real thing whenever I want, hm?"

A gasp spills from your lips as he leans forward, not giving you time to respond as he latches his mouth over you. His tongue laves up and down your folds, circling your clit before he groans, burying his face impossibly closer as he begins lapping at you like a man starved.

His nose bumps against your clit as he licks greedily into you, causing a desperate whimper to fall from your lips at the spark of pleasure it sends coursing through you. A groan rumbles low in his throat, his hands pressing you down into the bed to keep you still as he devours you. It's obscene—your noises blending with his to create an explicit symphony, reverberating off the walls as the coil in your stomach grows tighter and tighter with each feverish lick.

"Taste so fucking good, sweetheart," he rasps against you, his words muffled as he dives right back in, his tongue fucking into you as you cry out.

Your thighs clamp down around his head, letting out a shaky moan as he moves to suckle gently at your clit. You were embarrassingly close already, your thighs trembling as he worked you over relentlessly with his mouth.

"You can take it," Peter mumbles into your slick skin, dipping his tongue down into your entrance once more. "Cum on my face, baby. Please—"

His words push you over the edge, your climax ripping through you so hard no sound leaves your open mouth, your back arching off the bed and hands yanking uselessly at the webbing despite him holding you down to coax you through it. It was as though all of the air had been knocked from your lungs, but you didn't need to breathe if it meant Peter would keep touching you. Finally, a soft cry fills the air as your hips jerk against his face, your thighs trembling on his shoulders as he presses one last kiss to your clit.

Your chest heaves as Peter lowers your legs back down to the mattress, your face flushed as you gawk at him. His hands rub soothingly up and down your legs, pushing them open wide enough so that he can slot himself between them. His lips brush against your forehead, then your nose, then your cheeks, until they finally reach yours, hungry but gentle.

The taste of yourself on his tongue sends a shiver down your spine, your body twisting as you tug helplessly at the webs binding your wrists. You wanted to touch him—to thread your fingers through his hair, to trace the lines of the muscles that had been tempting you beneath his suit for months. But he wasn't done with you yet.

"Still good, sweetheart?"

The words vibrate against your lips before he pulls back, lifting his head to search your eyes. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your jawline. At your nod, his lips curve into a crooked, teasing grin.

"Use your words, baby."

An annoyed groan rumbles in your throat before his lips trail down your neck, effectively halting your complaining.

"I'm fine, Peter," you whine petulantly, arching into him as his body settles above yours. "Please just—touch me, fuck me. Anything. I need you."

Something inside of him snaps at your pleading. He swallows, breath warm against the hollow of your neck, then nips softly beneath your ear before pulling away. He rises from the bed, and the sudden absence of his heat prickles along your skin. A soft pout tugs at your lips, the chill of the room settling around you like a quiet ache.

Your gaze fixes on him as he unzips his suit, eyes hungrily tracing each inch of skin that's revealed as the fabric slips lower and lower. Finally, it settles in a heap around his ankles that he kicks away. His brow arches as he notices your staring, a smirk making its way onto his face as he realizes exactly what you're staring at.

The tent in his boxers is… intimidating, to say the least—long and deliciously thick against navy cotton. You'd felt him earlier when he was grinding against you, but clearly you'd underestimated just how big he actually was without his suit compressing him.

"Jesus, Peter."

Your whisper has his cheeks reddening, his cock twitching in its confines as he kneels back onto the bed. He takes his place above you once more, his elbows digging into the mattress beside your ribs as he lowers himself until your chests are pressed together. A broken sigh leaves your lips as his hips rock against yours, the fabric dampening almost immediately with your arousal.

"You think you can take it?"

His question isn't laced with cockiness—only quiet, genuine concern.

"Make me take it."

A guttural groan fills the air, a strained laugh making its way into the space between you as he grinds against you harder. "Yeah? Want me to make you take it, pretty girl?" he murmurs, gripping your waist before pressing a feverish kiss to your mouth. "I'll make you take it."

He shoves a hand between your bodies, attempting to push his boxers off without having to detach from you. Once they're off, he breaks away, panting softly as he rubs the head of his aching cock up and down your soaking folds. His eyes lock on the sight, pupils blown as he watches your arousal coat him.

A whine escapes your lips as he finally starts to push in, the burning stretch making your toes curl. He sinks in one, two, three inches and then… stops? Your hips buck impatiently, but his hands keep you pinned to the bed as he grins darkly above you. 

"Peter—"

He cuts off your protest, easing out of you before rocking forward again. "Shhh, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good, huh? You gonna let me take care of you?"

Your eyes flutter shut at the movement, your breath catching in your throat as he repeats it. His touch, his taste, his smell… all of it had your mind reeling. You couldn't think—only feel. And God, it all felt so unbearably good.

"Fuck, Peter— feels so good," you whimper, tipping your head back against the pillows as his lips found your neck, sucking small, possessive marks into your skin.

Peter’s teeth nip gently at your pulse point as he continues his movements, teasing you with tiny, barely there thrusts that pushed just past your entrance and a thumb circling your clit until tears brimmed in your eyes. 

Breathy moans flow from your lips as your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure coiling in your lower stomach so tight it felt like you were about to combust into a thousand tiny pieces. There was just enough of a stretch to make your toes curl while he continued his torture against your clit, sparks of pleasure zipping up your spine until you were crying out and arching into him. 

You’ve had intense orgasms before, sure. But none of them had ever felt as intense as this. 

White flashes behind your eyelids as you writhe beneath him, your hands desperately clawing at the webbing because you need something to hold onto. Sobs fill the room as your legs kick helplessly around his waist, pleasure wracking your entire frame in waves. 

“Holy shit,” Peter breathes, working you through your climax with wide, reverent eyes and feather-light kisses against your collarbones. 

When you finally feel your soul come back into your body, your eyes blink open, glancing down between the two of you in confusion. Why were you so wet—

Oh. 

Oh. 

He’d made you squirt. Spider-Man himself had made you squirt. 

“I-I’m so sor—“ 

Before you could finish stammering out an apology, Peter was sinking into you fully with one smooth thrust. 

“Don’t you ever—” Peter panted, dropping his head into the crook of your neck with a whimper as he bottoms out. “—ever apologize for that, sweetheart.” 

He rocks forward once, the two of you groaning in synchronicity. He repeats the movement, squeezing your hips so harshly you knew there’d be fingerprint shaped bruises the next day, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. In fact, you secretly loved the idea that there would be physical proof of just how well Peter had fucked you.  

“God, your pussy feels incredible. You feel incredible. Did so good for me, baby.” 

His hips begin rutting into yours; hard, deep strokes that have your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth gaped open while he pants divinely against your temple. His hands are roaming your body, alternating between squeezing your hips and pulling you into his thrusts to groping at your breasts, pinching your nipples as his cock drives into your G-spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"So deep, Peter—" you pant, crying out as he drills into you.

It's all so intense, and a frustrated whine rumbles low in your throat as you tug at your bindings for the umpteenth time.

"I want—Peter, I wanna touch you. Please?"

He nods instantly, sitting back on his haunches and reaching up with one hand to rip the webbing from your wrists. The way it shreds as easily as paper from his unintentional show of strength has you moaning, your hands sliding into his dark strands and tugging his mouth to yours, desperate to be as close to him as physically possible.

His tongue swipes against yours in languid strokes, a dizzying contradiction to the blur of his hips between yours. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, hauling your legs up to rest in the bends of his elbows before he leans forward, effectively folding you in half as his hips continue plowing into you.

"You're clenching me so hard, sweetheart—fuck—" Peter grunts against your lips as your nails rake down his back, the sting only driving him to move harder. "—taking me so well. So fucking good for me."

His words have your head falling back into the pillow, cries filling the room as you writhe underneath him. Your hands come up to push weakly at his chest, his brows furrowing as he instantly slows his pace to a crawl.

"Hey, hey—you okay?" He murmurs, bringing a hand up to caress your face.

You swallow hard, nodding as you nuzzle into his touch. "Y-yeah, yeah I'm fine I just—I want—" you stammer, struggling to find the words.

"What do you want, princess? Hm? Tell me and it's yours."

The way he's practically cooing the words has you clenching around him, a move that has both of you groaning at the sensation. Even while he was ruining you, he was still sweet. Still putting you first, just like he always did.

"Wanna ride you… please?"

Peter's hips stutter at that, letting out a sharp exhale as he fights to not cum inside you right then and there.

"God, yes."

You hiss as he eases out of you, the emptiness leaving you dizzy as he maneuvers the two of you around. He props up against the headboard, pulling you into his lap. His eyes dart down to your bruise, a line forming between his brows as he frowns slightly.

"You sure this isn't going to hurt you, baby?"

"I'll be fine," you insist, pecking his nose.

Was the bruise sore? Absolutely. Did it sting when your muscles flexed? Maybe a little. But the sight of him beneath you—staring up at you like you were his entire universe—made it easy to ignore it. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd been making you feel the entire night, bruise be damned.

You shift, kneeling above him as you reach down to line him back up with your entrance. A shudder runs through him as you slowly sink down, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. From this angle, he somehow manages to go even deeper, the feeling causing your breath to catch in your throat as your hips finally meet his.

Peter's hands glide from your hips down to your ass, kneading the flesh gently as you begin to move. His head thumps back against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded but trained on you as you rock against him.

"Love watching you use my cock to get yourself off," he murmurs, leaning forward to take your left nipple into his mouth.

Your gasp has him chuckling against your skin, his tongue swirling around the peak until your nails dig into his shoulders. Your hips move earnestly now, his own coming up to meet yours in deep, hard thrusts that have your eyes rolling back into your head.

A guttural moan rumbles in his chest as he switches to your neglected breast, biting down gently as you clench around him. Your clit brushed against his pelvis with each thrust, driving you closer and closer towards your orgasm. His hands were gripping your ass tightly now, dragging you up and down his cock as he panted against your skin.

"'M not—not gonna last much longer, sweetheart," Peter groans against your skin, trailing his tongue up the column of your throat before pressing a heated kiss to your lips.

You couldn't even answer with words anymore—just wrecked little noises that had Peter's mind reeling. You were close too, just on the brink of your third climax of the night. But you wanted to see him fall apart first.

With a determined sigh, your hips rolled down into his, your walls squeezing his cock. Your head tips forward, resting on his shoulder for a moment before you whisper in his ear.

"Cum inside me, Peter. Please… wanna feel you—"

That's all it takes.

Peter's hips jerk hard, thrusting up harshly into you as he manages a choked "oh, fuck" before spilling inside of you in warm spurts. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into him as he whimpers into your neck. His orgasm triggers yours, your hips moving erratically against his as you cry out his name.

Your hips move against his until the overstimulation has you both groaning. With one last kiss, he helps to lift you from his lap, easing you off of his cock with a small grunt. The feeling of his cum dripping down your thigh has your nose wrinkling, and he chuckles, propping you against the pillows before rolling out of the bed.

Panic rises in your chest as you watch him stand, your brows pinching together as you quickly sit back up. "Wait—are you leaving?" Your words are rushed, slurred from exhaustion.

"What?" Peter blinks at you incredulously, like you've just said the most absurd thing he's ever heard. His expression softens before he continues. "Baby—no. No. I would never. I'm just going to grab a few things to take care of you, okay? I'll be right back. Promise"

Relief sags your shoulders as you let out the breath you were holding, smiling sheepishly. Right. He's not a dickhead like your ex's and actually believes in aftercare. "Oh, okay... thank you."

He bends down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Always, princess. Now lay back down."

It doesn't take him long before he's returning with a warm washcloth, two water bottles, and another makeshift ice pack. He wipes you gently, pressing a kiss to your knee when you squirm at the feeling of the rag wiping between your thighs.

"Alright, pretty girl. You're all clean. Now go pee," Peter instructs, giving your ass a playful smack and chuckling as you grumble about having to get out of the bed.

Once you come back from the bathroom, he's sprawled across your bed in his boxers, chugging a water bottle. He pats the space beside him, waiting for you to nestle into his side before he hands you the other bottle.

"I still can't believe you managed to topple an entire bookshelf onto yourself," he murmurs as he places the ice pack against your bruise. "Seriously, next time just wait for me. Okay?"

You roll your eyes but the hint of a smile betrays you as you lean in closer, resting your head against his shoulder with a quiet, contented sigh.

"Noted, Spider-Nurse."

For a while, the room holds only the soft rhythm of your breathing and the steady beat of your heart slowing beside his. Then, his voice cuts through the silence,

"You okay? Was that… too much?"

A lazy grin makes its way onto your face as you tilt your head to look at him, catching his eyes in the low light. "Better than okay, bug boy. That was perfect," you murmur. Your lips find his—light, reassuring, and full of something unsaid. He hums against your lips, arm tightening around your waist.

Neither of you says much after that. The room settles into a quiet hush—the AC whirring, the muffled noise of the city through the window—and it all feels distant. Small. Unimportant. Right now, it's just the two of you, suspended in a moment that doesn't ask for anything more than just you two existing.

His fingers move in slow, absent strokes along your arm. The steady motion makes your body heavier, like sleep is wrapping itself around you before you're ready to notice. Peter notices the way your eyelids begin to droop, grinning to himself before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Get some rest, my beautiful girl," he whispers before you can drift off completely. Your eyes slip shut as you nod against him, burying your face into his chest with a yawn before letting sleep pull you under.

clark doesn't hesitate, pulling his dirtied shirt over his head in a fluid movement. the fabric flutters aside, leaving you with sight of his bare body, lighted by the soft mood lighting from his lamp. his physique was a testament to the revelation. sculpted and sturdy, but so impossibly soft. an angry bruise blooms on his right abdomen, stark against his pale skin. you watch it in real time, in the manner the yellow-purple softens to a pale yellow, and eventually, to the usual flush of his skin.

"it's…a lot to take in. i know."

he waits for your judgment, or your anger, self-conscious of the alien-like abilities that would frighten most.

"are you kidding me?" you rasp in a half-laugh. your palms come up to rest over the warm spot on his abdomen, brazenly dragging your fingers over the healed-bruise.

"jesus…clark." the disbelief is palpable, but amusement and awe creeps past it, "'i run everyday'," you mock in his drawl, "you're so full of shit."

he welcomes your curious exploration, offering you a rueful smile, "started running after you moved in. just…not at a 'human'…pace."

you snort with an annoyed shake of your head, "human pace. of course," your nails rake over his ribs thoughtfully. as though you're deciding which sensation in your belly should take precedence. anger, confusion, want. "you watched me struggle! running up the hill. all while you didn't even break a sweat."

his body visibly ripples at your touch. clark feels it too — the accusatory tone of yours, mixed in with hints of desire.

"i…was watching you, yes," he admits, lowering his voice in reverence, "but not to see you struggle. i was watching because i couldn't bring myself to look away."

when you shoot him a confused look, he continues, "every time you pushed yourself further. it was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen. the determination that makes you so human —"

you let out a derisive sigh, wanting to write off his too poetic take on your unglamorous out-of-breath struggle in your runs with him. "that's —"

"i was jealous," he presses, voice pitching louder for you to really hear him, "how your body pushed you, the burn, exhaustion…satisfaction of getting up there." clark's palm cases yours where it remained idle over his abdomen. guiding you higher up his chest so you could feel the pathetically quickening thrum of his heartbeat.

"it made me feel things." he says, quieter.

you ponder over his confession for a beat, your free hand connecting with his waist. "there's other ways you know."

clark lowers head, tilting in question.

"to feel the burn…" you hum, sliding it to his front, lowering to brush past the waistband of his sweats, "or satisfaction."

if there was ever a time you'd seen clark look absolutely wrecked, it was now, "yes, god yes. show me."

his warm palm slide down your lower back, pulling you as close as humanly possible. you melt into him, head tilted to the side as his lips trail down your pulse.

surprises crosses your features as the pads of his fingers graze your lower lips. demanding entry. clark watches you mesmerised when you take him in, the pink of your tongue tracing a path down his fingers.

"good gosh…" clark's barely able to contain his rasp, watching you intently. At the manner your lips wrapped around the girth of his digits. a groan rumbles deeply in his throat, forehead slumping to your shoulder. "gonna be the death of me."

his breathing remains bated, guiding his damp fingers downward, past your waistband.

"need you to tell me what you want," he mutters, warm into your skin, "please. need to know i'm doin' this right."

the reverence in its delivery sent chills down your spine, gentle touches trailing past your belly in a gentle exploration. a test of the waters. but really, it was the need in his eyes that gave you the courage.

"…stretch me open. on your fingers," you whisper, squeezing around his clothed erection, "and then give me this."

your words forced a pained groan from him. elicited, raw and desperate. curious grazes turn decisive, digits sliding past the warmth of your puffy cunt. already slick and hot to touch, clark whimpers. "feels…incredible. soft."

you twitch around his fingers, jerking into him.

"sh, shh," he urges, curling his fingers past your folds, into the right and warm entrance that pulsed for him, "i've got you."

your head tilts at the dizzying pleasure the insistent probe elicits, "ah —…shit. clar—hhrk..fuck. it's t-thick!"

clark nods to your raw praise, sending a rush of blood down south. he doesn't think he can get any harder than he was now. the pace of his ministrations intensifies.

"takin' it so well. so perfect."

his mindless rambles echoed in your mind. and you couldn't help the strained rebuttal from your throat.

"i-i am?"

"y'are. more than perfect," he chokes, panting harder into your mouth. unrestrained sounds of your whimpers, mixing with the squelches sourced from your growing arousal.

a soft and content hum leaves you, but you opt to bite down on your lips to stop the airy, relieved laughter from his praise. clark frowns at the reddened tension pulled taut on your features. he lowers his head to replace your bitten lip with the his own. tenderly parting them with his tongue to deepen it. it's only a bare moment later he pulls away, breathing carefully.

he doesn't stop the deep, stuttered flick of his wrists, stretching his fingers deep in your cunt.

"can i? he tries.

"yes, yeah. o-okay." you nod, frantically, wetting your reddened lips after he pulls away from you.

in a rather ungraceful, clumsy manner, his hand works to shove the sweats and boxers down his hips to reveal his fully erect cock. thick and daunting, soaked with his pre-cum. clark doesn't wait for another confirmation as he presses the blunt tip of his length against your entrance, guiding himself into you slowly. clark's gaze remains fixed on yours, on every flicker of your features through the intense initial stretch.

"oh gosh — oh, good…gosh," he manages, steadying your hip as you steady yourself on the edge of his dresser. as expected, a sharp, breathy whine spills from your lips loudly.

"m-my fucking god," your head tilts back, hold tightening around his forearms, "you're big. so — ugh."

"too much? i can stop —"

"don't you dare." your plea shatters his hesitation, nodding in slight relief.

he starts with slow and deep thrusts, just to get you used to his size. though his grip around the splintering dresser says otherwise, to the sheer willpower he's exerting.

"i won't. ah — …you're…feels, amazing…" clark's breath hitches, taking in the flutter of your eyelids when he grinds into a particularly pleasurable spot.

"c-can't help it. haven't been fucked in…so…so long." your confessions spills from you, fingers flexing around the sturdiness of his forearms as he steadily fucks his cock into you. the fullness of his length coats your belly all around.

"it's been a while for me too," he admits, slumping his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin deeply.

"r…really?"

"mhm…" clark lifts his head, mouthing up the column of your throat, "few years…since…before metropolis."

"nnh! hard to believe — ah, you're lasting…long."

clark's jaw twitches at your backhanded compliment; it only ignites something much more petty in him. he abandons the careful pace he's kept up, thrusts turning meaner, frenzied. your body arches into him, with broken moans unsuppressed from the weight of his hips snapping into you. each press of his thick cock rubbing right against the spot that made you see stars.

"believe me. i could do this…all…night…"

his promise rings true, in the manner he squeezes around the fat of your thighs, tugging it higher around his strong calves, fucking you in an angle that much the burning want in your belly much more potent.

"of course," you groan, tired, at the reminder of his superhuman strength, "fuck. i can't."

a triumphant grin curls at the corner of his lips, this time, his dimples feel mocking. "already?" he breathes, mouthing down your jaw, "thought you'd last long."

his tease to your confident words earlier shatters you.

"e-enough, clark — nn…gonna get me…hooked on this." you emphasize it with a lazy, intentional pulse. the flutter of your cunt around his length catches clark entirely off guard. just as he thinks it stopped, the feeling massages every cranny of him, coating him in a wave of pleasure.

he doesn't realise how quickly it catches up to him either, back turning taut, shuddering at the weight of his own orgasm. clark's full weight rests on you only for mere seconds before he catches himself, bracing his palms around the dresser to keep from crushing you.

his pupils, now dilated, meets your fucked out gaze as he cums deep in you. the thick and warm release that seemed to go on and on, clark remained in you. breathing harsh, holding himself still.

"y-you're still…cumming," you rasp, thighs quivering in the wake of your own release, and the dull, sticky coating of his release still spurting deep.

clark lets out a shaky breath, eyes shut tightly at the embarrassment actively reddening the tip of his ears. he couldn't bring himself to point out how you'd been subconsciously pulsing around his softening length, willing him to empty every last drop into you. a shaky breath rumbles his throat, body finally stilling.

he carefully pulls out of you, "i…i'm sorry. didn't mean to. was that…okay?"

you swallow thickly, a palm coming to case your belly, the warmth swirling and leaking out of your cunt. "…wow."

clark can only cringe at himself, abashed at your whispered awe. but before you get to probe further at the apparent physiological hazard of his, the efficient speed that lifts you off your feet. he plops you into the bed in a whisk. your legs are gently lifted, and you register the change of scenery at the touch of a cold towel to your thighs. he's on his knees before you, wringing the towel in a small washtub you hadn't noticed was there.

By the end of the week, three shopping bags sit on your bed and your phone lights up.

Ben:

You alive in there or did shopping finally kill you?

-----------------------------------------------------

A smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. You're suprised he even knows how to use a phone.

You:

Barely survived.

-----------------

Three dots appear immediately.

Ben:

Proud of you, princess.

------------------------

Your stomach flips. Princess. He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s harmless.

It isn’t.

You stare at the screen longer than you should.

You:

You know my dad would kill you if he knew you text me this much.

------------------------------------------------- Ben:

Your dad thinks emojis are spyware. I’m not worried.

-----------------------------------------------

You laugh out loud. He knows how to be funny. Atleast sometimes.

Ben:

You free tonight?

------------------

You hesitate.

You know exactly what this is becoming. Not official. Not said out loud. But Ben has started showing up for you. Not your dad. You. Coffee exactly how you like it. Jewelry because it “matches your attitude.” Dinner reservations under the excuse that “your old man hates sushi.”

And every time he brushes your waist or leans too close or calls you sweetheart in that rough voice, something in your chest tightens.

You:

Maybe.

------

Ben:

That a yes?

-------------

You bite your lip. Thinking.

You:

Depends what you’re bribing me with.

---------------------------------------

His response is instant.

Ben:

Use your imagination.

-----------------------

Heat rushes to your face. God.

You really shouldn’t be flirting with Soldier Boy.

Especially not when he flirts back harder.

He picks you up at eight. Because of course he does. Not a driver. Not instructions. Him. He’s standing at your door when you open it, leaning in the frame like he belongs there but then he looks at you and goes still.

“Jesus Christ.”

His eyes drag over your outfit.

You cross your arms, feeling slightly shy under his gaze. “What?”

“That dress should be illegal.” Your pulse skips. “You say that about everything I wear.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I mean it this time.”

He holds his hand out. And after a second, you take it.

Which was a big mistake.

The second his fingers close around yours, your brain goes quiet, because Ben touches like he owns certainty. Like he expects the world to respond to him.

And the worst part?

You do.

Dinner turns into drinks.

Drinks turn into a rooftop bar overlooking the city.

“You’re spoiled, you know that?” you tease as he orders something ridiculous. Because what the fuck is 'The Sacred Mountains of the Pekingese Cloud Gods"? What kind of drink is that?

The place bends around him without trying. Staff move faster and people stare, while some recognize him. Ben ignores all of it, his attention stays locked on you.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m spoiled?”

“You throw money at problems.”

“And?”

“That’s not the point.”

He leans in across the table. The space between you shrinks. “Sweetheart,” he says, “money exists to be spent. If I want to spend it on you, I will.”

Your breath catches. There it is again.

That.... shift. Heavier. Intentional. Less joke, more truth.

You look away first.

The ride back is quiet, and not comfortable. Tense.

Ben drives one-handed, city lights sliding over his face. He keeps looking at you. Every time you notice, your chest tightens. When he parks outside your apartment, neither of you move.

“Well,” you say finally.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “Compelling conversation.”

You huff a laugh, then the air changes again, making you quickly get out of the car.

“You know, I’m trying real hard to behave myself,” he says.

Silence snaps tight.

Your heartbeat stutters, feeling your palms sweat uncomfortably. “Who says I want you to?”

Then he reaches over, tucking your hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw.

“So pretty,” he murmurs. You stop breathing.

Nobody looks at you like he does. Like you’re something he’s already decided on.

“Ben…” “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Your brain fails. And then you kiss him. It happens before you can think. Ben makes a low sound and pulls you closer to him instantly.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes against your mouth.

The kiss turns messy fast. Heat. Pressure. Months of restraint breaking. His hand grips your waist hard. Not rough—certain. You can feel how strong he is even when he’s trying not to overwhelm you.

“Been thinking about this,” he admits between kisses.

Your face burns. “Yeah?”

“Sweetheart,” he says hoarsely, “you have no idea.”

And you believe him.

But your mind doesent work fast enough anymore to comprehend that he just sank to his knees infront of you. Not until you feel his hot breath brush against your thighs, you squirm.

"wha-"

His rough hands tug at your skirt. "Need to taste you, Y/n." You only hear him mumble breathlessly, and with that, your skirt is off, bunched up on the pavement. Hes insane, does he really want to eat you out in the middle of the street? Feeling like he can read your mind, He licks a stripe of your clothed cunt, making you shiver. The air itself is fresh, so It clashes wonderfully with the warm wetness of his mouth on your pussy. Finally, he tugs your panties to the side and latches his lips to your sensitive clit, moaning against it. Freak. One of his fingers slowly inches inside your tight hole, but you open up with ease just for him.

He flicks his tongue over your clit and curls up his finger inside of you, making your hands tangle in his hair.

He keeps up the rythm until you finally come all over his tongue, leaving you panting.

After that, things escalate without ever officially changing. Because Ben appears everywhere.

Flowers. Packages. Jewelry boxes on your counter with notes.

'Buy something decent for dinner.'

'Saw this. Thought of you.'

Miss me yet?'

He remembers everything.

Your coffee and the way you take it. Your favorite snacks. The way you hate thunder but pretend you don’t.

On a cold evening, a storm brews up. The wind bangs against your windows as you cuddle up under a blanket. And just when you're about to turn on the tv to watch something, the power goes out. Great.

You always were scared of the dark- but you'll live! -right?

Well, twenty minutes later, there’s pounding at your door. Half-asleep and mildly irritated, you drag yourself over to open it.

Big mistake. Again.

Ben stands there soaked from the rain, takeout hanging from one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. You blink at him. “Are you serious?”

“You hate thunder.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” He brushes past you like he belongs there, setting everything down on the counter while rainwater drips from his jacket.

“You remembered that?” you ask softly. It’s such a small thing. Barely worth remembering, really.

But he did remember. And somehow, that alone is enough to make the lump rise in your throat.

Ben pauses, glancing back at you like the answer should be obvious.

“Yeah. Obviously.”

“Well,” you mumble, “it wasn’t obvious to me.”

He walks past you without a word, slumping down onto the couch, leaving you standing there. 's not long before you're snuggled up in his lap tho.

Your dad notices the necklace first.

“Where’d you get that?” he asks quietly, but there’s suspicion tucked beneath every word.

Your hand instinctively rises to your throat, fingers curling around the chain. “It was a gift.”

“From who?”

The question hits sharper than it should. Who does he think he is? “Why do you care?”

“Because I didn’t buy it.” Before you can answer, Ben speaks from the couch.

“I did.”

The room goes still.

Your dad turns slowly toward him. “You buying my daughter diamonds now?” Ben shrugs, completely unbothered. “It’s small.”

“It’s still a diamond.”

“And?”

Silence streeeeeeeetches. Your dad looks between you and Ben while suspicion settles in.

Then Ben says, calm as ever, “She’s worth it.” Your stomach drops. Your dad only exhales sharply. “Jesus Christ, Ben.”

But he doesn’t throw him out, not yet, atleast.

Later, you find Ben standing in the kitchen, staring into the fridge like it personally offended him.

“You need to stop,” you say immediately.

But he doesn’t even look surprised. “Stop what?”

“That.”

“What?”

“Looking at me like that in front of him.” Now he looks at you. “Like what?”

You open your mouth—

—and absolutely nothing comes out.

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’re impossible.” “And you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Heat rushes to your face. You turn to leave before he can see it, but his hand catches your wrist instantly.

You freeze. “You nervous?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

“Liar.”

With barely any effort, he pulls you closer until you’re standing between his knees.

Too close. Always too close.

“You trust me?” he asks. That hits differently.

You swallow.

“Yes.” Something shifts in his expression then. Not softer.

Worse.

Serious.

“Then stop panicking.”

Warm. Heavy-

His hand settles at your waist.

“You think I’d let anything happen to you?”

Your throat tightens, and you cant answer.

"...No. i wouldn't. Now c'mere."

"....you know 'm not gonna stop spoiling you."

He murmurs, setting you down on the counter.

Its gonna be a long night.

Ending 's so unsatisfying, sorry guys....

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

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

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

That’s what makes you freeze.

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

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

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

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

But this.

This feels like a fever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

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

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

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

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you never fear Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eating your- What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

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

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

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

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

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

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

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

When he opens the door, you smile—because of course you do.

He’s in a button down, sleeves rolled and collar loose, looking relaxed but sharp. Like someone who always knows where he’s going to end up by the end of the night. His hair’s neat. His smile’s warm. Everything about him says steady.

He greets you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A hand at the small of your back. A kiss to your temple. The scent of something expensive still clinging to his skin.

Inside, the lights are low. Soft. The place smells like cologne and something expensive. There’s music—crackly, old-fashioned, just loud enough to feel intentional. There’s wine breathing on the counter. Plates already set out on the table. You’re so consumed by taking in the apartment that you hardly even notice that there’s not even food. 

Ben doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. Doesn’t ask anything, really.

He just turns toward the hallway, slow and sure, and glances back at you with that same unshakable calm.

“Bedroom’s through here, sweetheart.”

Not a question. Not a command. Just something said with the kind of confidence that’s impossible to challenge.

And you follow—of course you do. He’s probably just giving me a tour, you reason, he wants me to know his space.

Because he’s been nothing but perfect. Because he’s never once made you feel unsafe. Because that voice of his could talk you into anything.

You don’t even realize until later that he never looked to see if you were behind him.

He already knew you would be.

The bedroom’s warm—dimly lit, quiet. Nothing about it feels overt or pornographic. Not yet. Just soft shadows, crisp sheets, and him standing by the bed like this is simply the next part of the evening.

He turns, slow and loose, and crooks two fingers at you with that same easy calm that’s lulled you from the start. “C’mere.”

You smile before you even move. A little laugh slips out of you—nervous, pleased—and you step closer.

He brushes your hair off your shoulder, trails the backs of his fingers down your arm like he’s smoothing out static.

“Y’know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’ve really been enjoying all this time we’ve been spendin’ together.”

You duck your head, grinning. “Yeah?” you say, light and breathy. “Me too. It’s been… really nice.”

His mouth twitches like he knew you’d say that.

“You’re just—” he chuckles softly, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe his luck. “You’re a real rare thing. Classy. Sweet. Soft.”

You laugh again, quieter this time. “You make me sound like a collectible.”

He hums, amused, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “Hell, baby,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve met a girl like you in decades.”

Your chest warms at that. You preen without even meaning to, shoulders relaxing as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Well… I don’t know about that,” you say, smiling. “I’m not that special.”

His gaze sharpens—fond, intent. 

“Yeah,” he says gently. “You are.”

He steps closer, crowding your space just enough to make your breath hitch. Taller. Broader. Older. But still careful, still gentle in that way that makes you feel precious instead of cornered.

“And when you told me you’d never been with anyone…” His mouth brushes your temple. “Well. That just about drove me insane.”

You laugh, flustered, cheeks heating. “Ben—” you start, embarrassed. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

You feel him smile against your skin.

“It is to me,” he says quietly.

You still just a little, heart fluttering, and he feels it immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soothing. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

His fingers skim the hem of your blouse, slow enough that it almost tickles. You suck in a breath, half‑laughing again.

“You’re making it sound so serious,” you say softly.

“It is,” he replies, just as soft. “Doesn’t mean it has to be scary.”

He kisses just below your ear, lingering.

“But if you’re gonna give it up to someone,” he adds, voice dropping, “oughta be someone who knows what the fuck he’s doin’, don’t you think?”

Your laugh comes out smaller this time. You nod without quite realizing you are. “I guess,” you murmur, shy but smiling. “You do seem… very confident.”

That does it. He smiles—slow, satisfied.

“That’s my girl.”

Then his fingers are unbuttoning your top, methodical and practiced, brushing every inch of skin he reveals with open reverence. You let him, body buzzing, head light, enjoying the attention too much to question it.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs again, mouth warm against your collarbone. “I’ll be real good to you.”

And somehow, that makes everything feel inevitable.

It’s not until he has you stripped naked on your hands and knees on the mattress—his own knee nudging your legs apart, his hands gripping your hips like a man who’s waited for this—that something shifts.

His mouth is on you before you can even process it—hot, messy, filthy—and you cry out, twisting in the sheets, your face already flushed and slick with sweat. He groans into you like he’s starved for it.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, “look at this sweet little pussy.”

You whimper. You’ve never heard him talk like that about you before. Not even close.

“So fucking wet for me,” he says, thumb spreading you open while he presses his mouth right back to you, licking deep like it’s his.

You try to speak—maybe a gasp of his name, maybe something uncertain—but the only thing that comes out is a moan, helpless and broken.

He hums against you, pleased. “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

Then his fingers slide into your mouth—two of them, sudden and deep, pressing down on your tongue until you start to gag around them. 

“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” he drawls, the thumb of his same hand stroking the skin of your jaw.

He doesn’t rush it. Just holds you there, feeling you accommodate him, until your breathing shakily around his fingers, eyes watering, and your lips tentatively begin to close around them

“There you go,” he murmurs, pleased. “Knew you’d figure it out.”

You make a small, helpless sound around his fingers and he laughs quietly, fond.

“Easy,” he coos. “You’re doin’ just fine.”

He pulls his fingers out slowly, slick with your saliva, and before you can even process the loss, his hand slides around your front to rest in between your breasts. He presses you up, his chest to your spine, mouth close to your ear.

His other hand comes around to your jaw, thumb settling at the hinge, tilting your face just enough.

“Open,” he says softly. Not a command—an expectation.

You do.

He spits into your mouth—unhurried, deliberate—watching it land like he’s savoring the moment. His thumb strokes your cheek, grounding, approving.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

You gasp, overwhelmed, and he keeps his hand there, steady, making sure you don’t pull away.

“Swallow,” he adds gently. “C’mon now, be good, sweetheart.”

You do, because of course you do.

He smiles against your ear, satisfied.

“See?” he says quietly, guiding you back down to rest your weight on your palms. “Nothin’ to it. You just needed someone to show you.”

You don’t know why your thighs are shaking so hard. You don’t know when he started spanking you, either—sharp, rhythmic cracks to the side of your ass between long, indulgent licks of your pussy—but it’s blurring, all of it. His mouth, his fingers, his voice.

“Why…?” You ask breathlessly, your voice is soft and high pitched and whiny. You’re not even sure what you’re asking about at this point, everything that’s happened since your clothes came off has felt odd and overwhelming and other worldly in the weirdest, best way. 

“Because this,” he says between licks, “is what people do when they love each other so very much.”

Another slap. You jolt, whine, clench around nothing.

“And you do love me, don’t cha? I’m so good to you, sweetheart.”

You’re nodding, babbling, your voice wrecked.

“Yes—yes, I love you—”

You don’t even know if you mean it. You think you do, you’ve thought about it an awful thought recently. Ben was like your dream guy–well, you thought he was. You’d even imagined this moment, but you don’t think your imagination ever could have come up with something so… dirty like this is. You thought your first time would be sweet and soft, maybe that it’d even hurt a little bit. There’s nothing sweet or soft about what’s happening right now.

His hand slides up your back, palm splayed between your shoulders, pinning you down.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmurs. “That’s why you’re lettin’ me do all this nasty shit to you.”

You should be humiliated. Heck, you should be alarmed—but you’re not. 

Because this is still Ben. 

Because his voice is still calm. His hands are still sure. And somewhere in the blur of praise and filth, you believe him.

“That’s my perfect girl,” he says, mouthing over the back of your neck like he’s claiming you. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you. But fuck if you’re not made for this.”

You whine, gasping into the sheets.

“No wonder you never let anyone else get a taste,” he growls, lining himself up behind you now. “You’ve been waiting for me, huh? You knew I’d take such good care of you, no other limp dicked haircut could come close.”

And by the time he’s fucking into you—deep, rough, like he owns every inch of you—you’re so far gone you’d believe anything he tells you.

Even when he says:

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong about this, baby,” he murmurs, breathing heavy at your ear as he drives into you again, rougher now that he’s close. You can almost here the smirk in his voice when he speaks, “this is what true love looks like, afterall.”

Your whole body’s shaking, every nerve lit up and pulled tight. You’re gasping his name, fingers clawing at the sheets as the pressure coils and snaps all at once. It hits you hard—too much, too fast—and you cry out, hips jerking back against him as you come undone around his cock.

“That’s it, baby” he groans, feeling you clamp down, losing whatever control he had left. “Fuck—just like that.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down. Just fucks you through it, chasing his own end with short, brutal thrusts until his breath stutters and breaks.

“Fuckin’ christ—” he growls, voice wrecked as he spills inside you, pressing deep and staying there, holding you open while it hits him in waves.

For a second, neither of you moves. Just heat and weight and the sound of both of you trying to breathe.

Eventually, he pulls out slow, deliberately, and groans like he’s never felt anything better.

You’re practically limp beneath him, face-down and trembling, your thighs still twitching, breath all hiccupy and uneven. There’s slick everywhere—your inner thighs, the sheets, his lower stomach and dick and thighs—and he just watches his cum drip out of you like it’s the best part of his night.

“Fuckin’ look at that,” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the mess, rubbing it in with a low whistle. “You made such a pretty mess for me, sweetheart.”

You whimper into the comforter.

Ben laughs—soft, pleased, wrecked in the best way—and slaps your ass once, light, just to feel the bounce.

“Goddamn,” he mutters again, sitting back on his heels. “Didn’t think you’d let me take it that far, to be honest.”

You shift onto your side, stunned, your cheek hot against the cool comforter. “What the hell just happened…?” you breath softly, but your voice is raspy and cracks at the end.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly closer. His palm lands warm against your face, thumb at your jaw, turning your head so he can see you fully. “You alright?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, a little slack-jawed. You nod, but it’s faint—a dazed little gesture that barely gets halfway.

Ben coos. Actually coos.

“Aw, there she is. Still in there.”

His thumb strokes over your cheek, his hand big and solid under your chin, holding your face like it’s something delicate.

“You did so good, baby” he says, voice dropping low. “Y’ didn’t cry. Didn’t have to ask me to stop. Just laid there like a good girl and let me take care of you.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead—slow and heavy, like he means it—before flopping back on the bed beside you with a satisfied groan. His cigarettes are already waiting on the nightstand. He lights it in one motion, takes a drag, and exhales toward the ceiling, totally at ease.

“You want one?” he asks, holding it out to you.

You blink again. “I… I don’t smoke.”

“You didn’t fuck either, ‘til tonight,” he says easily, sliding the cigarette back between his lips. “You’re on a roll, why stop now?”

You’re quiet for a while until something crosses your mind and you can’t help but ask, “… is it always like that? Like, for everyone?” You muse absentmindedly, your eyes soft and unfocused

“Yeah, if you’re lucky and find someone who knows shit about sex.” He shrugs, giving your cheek a playful tap. “And you, sweetheart, are the luckiest girl in the fucking world for finding me. You should start buying lotto tickets.”

You laugh—sort of—but it’s more breath than sound. Your whole body still feels like it’s floating. Heavy and light at the same time. He watches you like he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

Then he reaches for the drawer in the nightstand and grabs a small orange pill bottle, rattling it with one hand.

“You need something to help take the edge off?”

Your head lifts, barely. “Something to take the edge off what?” You narrow your eyes at him in confusion.

“Klonopin,” he says slow, clearly amused. “Takes the edge off the comedown. Smoothes it all out, makes everything feel like glitter.”

You blink at him, still trying to catch up. “I don’t do drugs.”

“I know you don’t, sweetheart, but that’s what everyone says at first,” he says, all grin and no shame. “Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

He tosses the bottle back onto the nightstand and picks up a glass of whiskey you hadn’t even noticed was there before—not that you’d exactly had a lot of time to take in his end table decor.

“Last offer,” he winked, “you want a drink?”

You sigh—this you could do—and reach for it, but your hand’s wobbly, so he guides it to your lips and watches while you take two slow sips. Then he pulls it away and downs the rest himself, smirking as he wipes his mouth.

“Atta girl, baby”

He leans back, one arm behind his head, the other reaching out to tug you into his chest like it’s automatic. You go without resistance. You’re too loose and warm and entirely out of your depth.

“You know,” he drawls, bringing his cigarette back to his lips, “I’ve been on my best fuckin’ behavior for you,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he speaks. “Since day one.”

You hum, dizzy and relaxed, letting your fingers trace lightly along the edge of his ribs.

“Didn’t lay a hand on you,” he continues. “Barely even let myself flirt. Made myself real fuckin’ tolerable.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck.

“You think that was easy for me?”

You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. You’re curled into him, pliant and trusting, and he knows he’s got you. 

“Worth it, though,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re so much better than I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks? I think?” You say confused, even more so when he just laughs.

His hand slides down to your hip, not to start anything—just to touch. To feel the body he just wrecked.

He’s still stroking your hip when he shifts, rolls you closer like he’s just getting comfortable. His voice, when he speaks, is soft again—warm and low and perfect, like all that filth never happened.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “we look fuckin’ great together.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted like you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Can’t wait to show you off,” he adds, smiling like he means it. “Red carpets. Cameras. America’s fuckin’ sweetheart and her soldier.”

Your cheeks heat, even now. You laugh, breathless and a little shy. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

There’s a pause. His thumb brushes the swell of your cheekbone.

“So what do you say, sweetheart?” His voice is warm again—sweet, almost bashful, like he didn’t just fuck you into the mattress. “You wanna be my girl? Officially?”

Your lashes flutter. It sounds so simple when he says it. So earnest.

Like you didn’t give him everything already.

You nod slowly, lips parted on a dazed little smile. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

Ben grins—beams, really—like he just won the goddamn lottery. His hand squeezes your hip, thumb brushing the dip of your waist like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

“That's perfect, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Knew you would.”

He lets the silence stretch a beat, just long enough for your pulse to settle, your breath to come back, for the ache in your thighs to really bloom.

Then, all easy charm and casual affection, he cuddles you even closer and asks—

“You still hungry?”

You blink, slowly. He’s already reaching for another cigarette from the nightstand like this is totally normal. Like this is just a regular Tuesday.

“Figured we could go out instead, maybe get some steaks,” he says, like it’s nothing. “There’s this little place up the block—old-school joint, real butter-heavy, they know me. You’ll love it.”

You can’t even process it. You’re still leaking him onto his sheets, still raw and sticky and half-drunk on the sound of his voice.

But his tone is light.

"After all, I did ask my girl over for dinner," he winks, "can't let you starve. 'Specially not after how brave you were for me tonight, sweetheart."

His smile is easy. And the way he’s looking at you—like you’re already his everything, like this is routine—makes your stomach flip in that dangerous, fluttery way.

You nod again, slow and dreamy.

“Steaks sound great,” you whisper.

He kisses your forehead and smiles.

And just like that, he’s got you all over again.

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It’s not like you were planning to do anything wild, sure you were young and practically had the green light to do whatever you wanted… Personally? You preferred simply enjoying the freedom of a house all to yourself.

The first couple days were simple enough– pizza on the couch, TV up until ungodly hours, practically no clothes on dress code…– the dream of a young twenty-something year old with her own space. It was officially night three of your freedom, you’re sprawled out on the mattress, bare legs propping up your laptop as some rerun of a sitcom plays in the background. Too awake to keep still on the bed, you decide to make your way downstairs to the kitchen. You’re so immersed in your own thoughts, you don’t notice the dim glow of the game coming from the living room. Your feet have barely grazed the floor when a gruff voice makes you flinch.

“Kid, what’dya doin’ up, huh?”

Ben. Dad’s friend, Ben. The same Ben that’s been in every family event since you have memory, the same Ben who patched up your scraped knees with a ‘ain’t even that bad’ and a pat on the head, the same Ben who sneaked you your first beer… Same Ben who you’ve subconsciously started squirming around whenever he looks your way too long, thighs rubbing together whenever his green eyes lock on your with the kind of intensity that makes you fear he sees right through you.

“Uncle Ben!” You yelp in surprise, the term he’s insisted you call him escaping your lips without much thought. “What are you doing here?”

“What d’you think m’ doin’ here?” He scoffs, turning his back to you to face the TV once more– a silent invitation for you to join him on the couch. “Heard y’ were all alone this week, someone oughta keep n’ eye on you– wouldn’t want y’ sneakin’ one of those wimp ass pussies y’ hang round with all the time.”

It would sound normal– responsible even– in anyone else’s mouth, but from Ben, it sounded weird. More like he was focused on keeping guys your age away, rather than genuinely keeping an eye on you.

“I wouldn’t sneak anyone in…” You huff under your breath, walking around the couch to join him. He pats the spot next to him, watching out of the corner of his eye as you plop down beside him– folding your bare legs under yourself while pulling the (what you now realized is one of Ben’s) old T-shirts over your thighs.

“Atta girl.” He hums absentmindedly, taking a gulp from the beer he’s been nursing for the past hour, his big hand almost engulfing the bottle. That’s one of the things you’ve been finding yourself more and more focused on– his big, strong hands. God how many times you’ve thought about those hands when touching yourself, your thighs press together at the memory.

He must’ve noticed your ogling cause after placing the beer back on the coffee table– he leans back against the couch, manspreading without sparing a second thought towards your comfort when his thigh pushes against yours, hands rubbing over the denim of his jeans.

“Personal space much?” You hum with a hint of sarcasm, trying your best to focus on the TV. He scoffs at that, patting your thigh dismissively, squeezing it twice.

“Sorry sweetheart– had to get comfortable.” You both knew he wasn’t sorry at all, especially given the fact that neither his legs nor his hand had moved an inch. Despite trying to stay concentrated on the game, you couldn’t help but steal glances in his direction, wetting your lips at the images that cross your mind.

Get a grip. Jesus Christ woman, this man has watched you grow up and you’re getting horny from a hand on your leg. Yet again, lately, everything about Ben made you horny– much to your internal shame.

“Y’ gon keep squirmin’ all night?” The gruff, blunt voice cuts your inner turmoil, making you look up at him with wide eyes, heat creeping up your neck as he calls you out.

“Oh– uhm, sorry… I was just getting comfortable” Really? The same excuse he’d just given you five minutes ago? Originality much?

Ben didn’t seem to notice nor care about your shitty excuse, simply hoisting you up into his lap– the firm expanse of muscle welcoming you warmly.

“‘ere ya go– now quit squirmin’ doll” He hums simply, like that hadn’t made everything ten times worse. You try to focus on anything else other than the heat of his chest against your back, his rough jeans against your thighs or the hand that now rested dangerously high on your leg.

A couple minutes passed with y’all sat like that, the dim light of the TV and the occasional commercial break being the only interruptions in the otherwise silent room. You had to admit, his lap was way more comfortable than the couch, but it wasn’t helping the wet mess pooling in your panties ever since you walked down those stairs.

“So, any of those pussies from your school taken y’out yet?” His voice rumbles against your back, breath fanning the back of your neck with every word, his stubble scraping the skin there. You shake your head no, still leaning against his chest.

“Went out on a couple dates but nothing more than that– guys my age aren’t exactly poster boys for relationships…” It’s a poor attempt at humor, but right now it’s the best you’ve got.

“Good,” he grumbles, shifting under you, “those snivelin’ pussies only want to stick their shrimp sized dicks n’ ya– you’re better off here with me.” Once again– reasonable message, weird fucking way to put it– turning you on, much to your disdain. For fuck’s sake, if someone your age said some shit like that to you, you’d think they are a pervert or a bigot– why is it that when Ben says it, you feel like you want to crawl onto your knees and let him use you?

“Y’ ever had sex yet?”

Did you just hear that right? Did ‘Uncle Ben’ just ask about your sexual life– or lack of it, thereof. You must’ve taken too much time to answer for his liking, cause his big hands are turning you around to face him in his lap with concerning ease. “Hm?” He insists, green eyes tipping to find yours. God did your soft shake of the head ‘no’ make his chest puff out smugly a̶n̶d̶ c̶o̶c̶k̶ s̶t̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ p̶a̶i̶n̶f̶u̶l̶l̶y̶  at the same time that your cheeks reddened under his piercing gaze.

“Well that explains why y’re rubbin’ those thighs together like y’re startin’ a goddamn campfire when uncle Ben looks at ya.” If the lewd words weren’t enough to make you stutter, the way he shamelessly ogled at the plump skin of your thighs right below where his borrowed shirt was riding up– definitely was.

“Y’ gon get all shy n’ me now, kid?” He drawls, clearly enjoying your embarrassment, the term of endearment now sounding dirty in his mouth. “Actin’ all sweet n’ innocent when I bet you’re makin’ a mess of those scampy things y’ call underwear.” Ben scoffs, fingertips hiking the hem of your shirt higher– exposing the lace of your panties to the night air, a damp patch already obvious on the front of them. That earns a hearty groan from him, “would y’ look at that,” he hums with faux surprise, “all nice n’ ready for me…”

Before you could question what he meant by that, his hand is cupping your jaw, thumb tugging your lower lip (which you eagerly let him do) his green eyes focused on the way your mouth automatically took the finger in, warm tongue lapping around it greedily.

“Eager thing aren’t ya?” He rasps, free hand pulling you flush against him– groping your ass while shamelessly letting you feel his boner through the denim. “Good thing s’ me who’s here to take care of ya– one of those cum guzzlers from your school would’ve creamed their pants at a pretty thing like y’ sittin’ on his lap, all wet n’ needy like some cheap hooker.”

You should probably feel offended, but for some sick, messed up reason– it makes you moan around his thumb, hips greedily grinding down against him.

“Brat.” He scoffs, pulling his thumb away to spread the spit over your lips. “Y’ that horny y’ need to hump me like a dog?” God he was an asshole, but Hell if that wasn’t turning you on all the same– if not more. “Well then sweetheart, have at it” Ben scoffs, leaning back with his arms spread over the back of the couch, giving you full permission to use him like a humping pillow with a smug smirk.

You wanted to snark something in response– fight for your dignity– but his dick was rubbing deliciously against your core and God did that make all pride jump right out the window. Your hips start circling against him, needy little humps while your hands gripped uselessly at his broad shoulders. Maybe it was the lack of experience, maybe it was the mix of feelings bubbling inside you or maybe it was that Ben just had that effect on you because you’re already on the verge of an orgasm just from some grinding. You were close– so close– but Ben had to go and throw you off, a mocking chuckle escaping his lips.

“Sweetheart y’ better not come just from this.” He was so smug, proud of having you squirming on his lap just from his filthy words. You whine in protest, any sense of dignity completely gone and replaced by utter need. “Words doll” he drawls, enjoying your humiliation shamelessly.

“Ben– please” the protest is not as firm as it is a whiny breath.

“Look who remembers her please n’ thank you’s” Ben muses teasingly, hands trailing over your ass to hook at the waistband of your underwear– stubble scratching your face from the closeness before he finally closes the distance, lips hungrily mashing against yours.

Your panties are ripped off in seconds, not even bothering to pull your mouths apart when doing so. He chuckles condescendingly when you fumble with his belt, big hands diving in to unbuckle it for you with a mumbled ‘there ya go sweetheart’...

Ben pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes when his fingers start rubbing over your slick folds, teasing and probing at your entrance to watch your reactions. “Think she’ll be able to take my fingers?”

“Mhm” You nod– truly, you had no idea if you'd be able to– but right now Ben could ask you for anything and you’d say yes.

“Mhm?” Ben hums amused, so deeply proud of himself for getting you all pliable and docile for him. “Guess we better test that out then…” His index finger pushes into you in a slow, slick stretch, matching groans escaping your lips. “Christ n’ a cross, kid– if you’re suckin’ my finger in like this– imagine how y’ll stretch round my cock,” he scoffs bitterly.

He starts working you out, another finger quickly joining his index into the warmth of your cunt with surprising precision– his thumb starting to work tight circles over your clit at the same time. You’re a squirming mess, soft pants and moans escaping your parted lips.

“Y’ close, doll? She’s squeezin’ the Hell outta me” you nod, nose scrunched up sweetly as your orgasm crashes over you, thighs squeezing around his hips in a silent gasp.

When you come back to your senses, Ben’s cock is standing proudly against his bare stomach– long, thick (God it was thick) and glistening with precum.

“Y’ gon stare all day or y’ gon let me stick it n’ that pretty mouth of yours?”

Condescending, smug asshole.

That’s what you should say, instead, you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch fingertips grazing over his shaft, watching how it twitches under your touch. Licking your lips in anticipation you finally lean in, mouth wrapping around the weeping head of his cock. He barely gives you time to adjust– hips slamming up, hand pushing your head down until your nose grazed his happy trail– head thrown back with a low groan.

“Atta girl– knew y’ could take it” he rasps between ragged breaths, manhandling your mouth to his pleasure without any second thoughts– not caring about the tears rolling down your cheeks from the strain or the filthy gag around his length. The squelching, lewd noises of his dick sliding down your throat were almost enough to make him bust right then, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips at the thought. Before he could come– he pulls away, hand tangled on the back of your head to pull you back up onto the couch.

“Ain’t about to waste a perfectly good load when I have such a pretty pussy cryin’ for me” Ben hums condescendingly as he pats your slick pussy, pushing your face down onto the cushions while hiking your ass up for what he’d call ‘admiring the view’.

“Big stretch” he warns with an arrogant, proud groan against your back, pushing into you slowly– letting you feel all of him– every inch, bump and vein. The thrust pushes all the air out of your lungs, mouth open and drooling all over the couch.

“ ‘ve barely fucked you n’ you’re already all cock-drunk for uncle Ben” He’s so fucking gross, boldly calling you out while reminding you how messed up this was. “Lettin’ your daddy’s friend fuck y’ stupid the moment he leaves town? –such a needy, horny, pretty thing y’are” He’s rambling, grunts and groans spilled into your ear which you’re too out of it to even reply to.

“Y’ gon let me use you from now on? Y’ gon let uncle Ben fill this pussy up whenever he wants?” God he knows just how to play your strings, his hand snaking up to grip your neck– not squeezing (yet) –just anchoring, reminding you just how broken down he’s got you plus, using it as an extra grip to pull you back into his punishing thrusts.

“Yes– God, yes–” you babble in response, needy, embarrassingly lewd moans escaping your parted lips as he keeps his steady pace.

“Course y’are– you love this cock” Ben scoffs mockingly, free hand finding your clit and rubbing it mercilessly. “Y’ gonna come all over your parent’s couch with their friend’s cock stuffin’ your pretty pussy full?” You nod, his hand pressing firmer around your pulse point and beard scratching under your jaw as he kisses it in messy, sloppy, hunger. The multiple stimulation, plus the grossness of his words send you over the edge for the second time tonight– walls clamping around him and juices gushing out of you.

“Did y’ just squirt?” He scoffs mockingly, “can’t even handle a cock without pissin’ all over yourself? Such a dirty, fuckin’ thing you are, sweetheart.”

You can’t even focus on his degrading tirade because his hands are suddenly gripping your hips, fingers leaving deep imprints on your supple skin as he pounds into you, chasing his release. All but highpitched, pornographic sounds escape your mouth. His brows were furrowed tight, soft lips parted in a long groan as he spills into you– thrusts slowing, but not stopping as he works his cum into your womb. Ben stills, pushing all the way into you before slowly slipping out in a wet slide– thumbs spreading your asscheeks apart to admire his spend leak out. He slowly pulls your panties back onto your hips, a gentleness surprising in his hands as he maneuvers you carefully back onto his lap. “Y’ did good sweetheart– real good…” He hums, big hand cradling the side of your face as he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.

“Be right there!”

Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.

Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off. 

Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.

They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.  

You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.

But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.

“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.

“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“

“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”

Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”

“But- I got work I needed ya for-“

“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.

Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.

“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.

Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.

“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“

“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”

Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”

Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”

Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.

He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.

“You’re good at punching?”

“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Hm.”

You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.

“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.

“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.

You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”

Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were  skimming through them. Through him.

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”

Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.

You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.

Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.

Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.

“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.

 Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.

“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“

“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.

“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.

Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”

That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”

“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”

You shrugged. “Hero worship.”

Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”

That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.

“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”

You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.

“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”

He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.

But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”

Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.

“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”

“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.

If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.

“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.

“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”

Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.

You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.

This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.

It wouldn’t fuck off.

Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.

You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.

But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.

“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

“Do you need help with another-“

“No.”

You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in. 

“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.

But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.

And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.

“What book?”

“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”

He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”

“Fiction or Nonfiction?”

Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”

That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.

“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.

You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.

“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”

Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.

“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.

“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”

“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”

You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”

Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”

He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.

But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.

“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”

You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.

Then we’ll talk, you’d said.

You’d talk to him, if he read this.

Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.

It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.

“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.

“None of your fucking business.”

Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“

“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”

Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.

“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”

“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.

No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-

“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.

“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.

“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”

Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.

“I read most things multiple times.”

He snorted. “Jesus.”

That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.

Interesting.

“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.

Your heart did the little stumble again.

Jackpot.

“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”

You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.

“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.

But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.

“What kind of books do I like?”

“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”

You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.

“Why?”

And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.

“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.

“Because why?”

“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“No one ever just wants to know.”

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”

You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.

“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.

“Everything, huh.”

You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.

“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”

And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.

Since when had he not wanted easy.

Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.

He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.

“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.

“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered. 

Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.

“I have something for you, next.”

Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.

“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.

He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.

Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”

You blinked, and he sighed.

“My name is Ben.”

“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“

“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.

“Right. I- I knew that.”

He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.

“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.

Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.

You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-

He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.

Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes. 

Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer. 

He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.

He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.  

“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.

“My thing?”

“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”

A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.

“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.

Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.

You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.

He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.

You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.

Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.

“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”

Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.

“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”

Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.

You.

He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-

“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.

“Do what? Fight?”

You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.

“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.

“You want me to leave, doll?”

“No.”

You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.

“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.

“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“

“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”

He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.

But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.

“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”

“What does better look like?”

You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.

Better looked like you.

“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.

“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.

He did too.

You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.

Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.

And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.

Ben was surprisingly endearing.

It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.

“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.

So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.

Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.

You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.

Not yours.

No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.

He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.

You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.

Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.

“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”

You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.

“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”

Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“

“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”

You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.

You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.

But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.

He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.

He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.

Obsessed.

Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.

But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.

You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.

He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.

“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”

Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”

“When.”

“In the future.”

“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”

You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”

“You?”

He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.

That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.

“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.

“Doll-“

“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“

Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.

“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“

Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.

“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.

But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.

“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”

Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“

“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”

“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“

You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.

“You want it to be you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.

“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”

You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.

“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”

Ben frowns. “Doll-“

“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“

He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.

You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.

“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”

“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.

“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.

And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.

“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”

You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”

Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“

“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”

Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.

“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”

“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“

“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”

“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.

“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”

He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.

“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”

You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.

But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.

Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.

“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”

You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.

“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”

“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.

“Yeah?”

You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.

His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.

“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”

Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you. 

You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.

So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.

It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.

“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”

Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”

“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”

“And you- You never-“

“You’re the one who said to be sure.”

His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”

You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.

He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.

“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”

“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“  

“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.

He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”

Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.

Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.

“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”

You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.

Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”

You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.

“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.

But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.

“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”

“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“

He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.

“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”

You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.

“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”

God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.

“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”

You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.

“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”

You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.

“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”

You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.

Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.

“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.

You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.

But he does’t make it fucking easy.

Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.

“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“

He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.

Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.

He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.

Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.

“The fuck did I say about moving?”

“I- I didn’t-“

“You did.”

He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.

“You wanna cum, doll?”

“Yes- Yes, please-“

“Then be fuckin’ good.”

He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.

This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.

You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.

Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.

He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.

Then it stops.

Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.

“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”

You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.

“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”

He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.

“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.

You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.

“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”

You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.

Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“

Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.

Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.

But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”

He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.

He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.

“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“

“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“

The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.

“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“

Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.

“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“

Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.

It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.

He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.

“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.

You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.

You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.

“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.

So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.

Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.

How he really does feel the exact same way.

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”

And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.

“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.

“Date me first, smart guy.”

He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.  

✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben—”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

soldier boy/ben taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx <3

He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you. 

He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.

In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces. 

But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.

He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.

He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.

He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.

Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.

And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.

You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”

He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”

Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy. 

“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”

Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.

“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”

You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.

“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.

“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”

“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”

“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.

“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”

“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”

Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.

You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction. 

“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation. 

Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.

It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.

“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.

“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”

“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”

He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.

And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t. 

Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)

But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.

“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”

Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”

Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him. 

But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.

“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”

You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.

“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.

“Wanna bet, kid?”

The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting. 

Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.

“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”

There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.

And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard. 

“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.

No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”

You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission. 

“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”

There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.

Before it shatters into a million pieces.

Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.  

“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”

Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”

“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”

“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”

He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.

Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.

“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”

Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else. 

Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.

“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.

“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”

“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.

“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.

When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”

“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming. 

You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain. 

You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.

He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.

When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.

Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.

“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”

You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation. 

When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.

He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.

He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.

“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”

Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.

Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.

“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”

“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”

“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.

Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.

You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal. 

By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.

It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual. 

Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.

Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny. 

“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”

In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.

“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”

His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.

“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”

When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.

“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”

“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”

He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”

When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”

You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.

“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”

He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.

You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to. 

“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”

He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”

There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.

“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”

You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.

“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”

“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”

You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.

“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”

Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-

“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”

And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.

Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering. 

He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”

He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.

Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.

But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”

“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Why? You just got back from a mission.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.

“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”

You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.

“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.

You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”

You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”

“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”

He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.

“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”

“Then cancel.”

You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.

“No.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”

He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”

That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”

The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?

“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.

“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”

“I’m not- hey, stop.”

You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.

“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.

“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”

He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.

“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”

He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”

“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them. 

“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”

how i felt after writing this:

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468

You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.

He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.

A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least

You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem. 

Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job. 

And you are good. That can’t be denied.

But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.

You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.

It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.

“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.

You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.

“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”

“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”

“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”

You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.

“Let’s go.”

Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile. 

On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.

When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.

“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.

You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.

Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.

And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.

There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.

But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood. 

You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.

You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.

Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor. 

You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement. 

When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.

“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.

“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.

“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”

“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”

His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.

“God, you’re-”

You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”

You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.

“Steve?”

He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.

“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”

You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.

You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.

The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.

You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect. 

“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”

“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”

“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.

You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.

You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that. 

Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.

“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”

You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.

“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”

“Why?”

“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”

“A couple.”

“And how were they?”

“Good.”

You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”

“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.

“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”

“I’ve had no complaints.”

Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.

You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles. 

“Why did you and Mike break up?”

Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”

“Tell me.”

You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”

“What? Relationships?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”

“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”

Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”

“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”

“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”

“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.

“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”

“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”

All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.

“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”

He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.

You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it. 

Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.

Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.

Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.

You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind. 

You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.

“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.

You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.

You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip. 

You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.

You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.

What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.

He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.

“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.

“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.

You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor. 

There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.

You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.

You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.

Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.

The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.

A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow. 

You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.

Your pulse spikes.

There’s a shooter. 

You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.

In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss. 

The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again. 

The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.

You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.

You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.

The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.

For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.

Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”

You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.

And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.

It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit. 

It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.

So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least. 

You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.

Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.

In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve. 

You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.

Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.

“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”

Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.

“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.

“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”

She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”

“Another- what?”

Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.

“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”

“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”

“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.

Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning. 

“Where is he?” you ask at last.

“On assignment.”

“When will he be back?”

She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.

A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it! 

Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk. 

The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.

“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.

You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”

“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”

“Mm.”

It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.

But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.

Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work. 

That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.

Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.

And not just at him either. At yourself too. 

Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.

The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.

And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.

“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”

“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.

“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”

You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.

“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”

She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”

She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit. 

HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks. 

There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.

You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.

You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.

You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.

He breaks the silence first.

“You’re here late.”

“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”

His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”

That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?

You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?

“You got me kicked off the team.”

“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”

“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”

“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”

“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.

You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”

The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level. 

“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.

“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.

“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”

He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.

“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”

He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.

“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”

You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.

There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face. 

And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.

Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric. 

Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.

He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.

Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.

“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.

“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”

“I know.”

“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.

“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.

It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.

He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.

“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.

“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”

Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.

How can you do anything but give in?

Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.

His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.

“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”

He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.

Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”

Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”

He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow. 

His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.

“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”

You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.

When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.

You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.

“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.

His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.

His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.

“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits. 

He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.

He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier. 

He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.

He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.

“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”

You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it. 

“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”

Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.

He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs. 

Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.

You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.

You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.

Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.

“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.

“I can,” you confirm with certainty.

“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.

His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”

You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.

It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”

“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”

“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.

His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.

“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.” 

If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.

“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”

You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.

Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.

He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”

You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.

Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.

You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this. 

A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.

Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.

So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down. 

Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.

You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak. 

The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.

“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.

You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.

Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls. 

Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.

You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.

But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.

“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”

You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.

“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.

When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.

“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”

You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.

“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”

“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”

You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”

His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.

“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”

Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.

He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.

“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.

“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”

That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks. 

Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole. 

And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.

Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.

You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.

You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection. 

“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”

“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.

“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”

“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”

“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”

He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.

“Because you want me?”

He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.

“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”

You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.

You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.

You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.

NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse

NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.