#a complete and utter asshole | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tobeholyistobeempty · 4 months ago

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‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

��Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—�� you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

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hadesrise · 7 months ago

Text

## one true love !!

summary──── ben feels true love with you, his enemy, and finds himself able to break from the toxic masculinity he surrounded himself with.

pairings──── soldier boy / benjamin x anti-hero!male reader

warnings──── nsfw content, porn with too much feelings, fluff, slight angst, foul language, probably (very definitely) ooc soldier boy, top!reader, sub!bottom!ben, gentle love, praise kink, hair pulling, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, overstimulation, vibrator, pet names ( love, baby, pup, etc. ), short oral ( r. receiving ), love-making, mating press, missionary, riding, aftercare, light D/S dynamics, pillow talk, a lot of vulnerability, ben proposes to reader unexpectedly, enemies in forbidden love, internalised homophobia, morally grey!reader, possessiveness, homophobic slurs, canon typical misogyny, reader’s anti-hero name is lucifer, reader has magical powers

author’s note──── i might’ve made him too soft and vulnerable, so forewarning that he doesn’t show much of his asshole side in this fic. the ooc warning already says much, i guess?

MINORS DNI !!

Peaceful jazz music and well dressed crowd fills the grand hall decorated in gold curtains, men and women from different wealthy families flaunting around their riches with drinks in hand. Adorned in nothing but expensive attires that feeds off of the poor were most guests that have been invited to celebrate another success of Vought-American with a superhero movie that starred its own team, Payback, while the heroes themselves remained in their pretty little costumes for the publicity and fame.

Cameras, photographers, and journalists lurked in the corner section of the hall, where they’ve been assigned to fulfil their destiny of capturing significant moments that are interesting enough to be written on headlines or shown on television.

Nights like this were when Soldier Boy wanted to beat the shit out of Vought employees for their incapability in making celebrations entertaining. The lack of excitement and chaos infuse Ben with excessive boredom that just gives him the urge to shoot himself in the head, all of its professionalism becoming nothing but a burden and straight up pain in the ass. He’s been hardly enjoying the night, having to put up with Crimson Countess attached to his hip at all times to keep appearances, which he admits is worse than fucking a loose cunt. It didn’t make him feel better that Stan fucking Edgar was watching, making sure things are under control.

The jazz music suddenly stops short with a loud screeching sound that has everyone covering their ears in pain, startled murmurs filling the air as all eyes turned to the stage where a famous band stood, confusion also plastered across their faces. One of them repeatedly presses down on the piano’s key, frowning when it does nothing as if it lost its function all of a sudden. Sensing the panic slowly rise among guests, Stan opens his mouth to speak, only for his words to die in his throat when the lights begin to flicker.

“You know, I’m quite displeased to not have received an invitation.” Deep, resonant, husky voice littered with confidence and cockiness erupt out of nowhere as the flickering lights return to normal, an utterly familiar figure making themselves known.

Gasps, of either excitement or fear, falls from everyone’s lips to your powerful presence that almost immediately caused a shift in atmosphere. Soldier Boy’s breath hitched, feeling his throat dry as he cleared his throat and swallowed.

You don’t miss the quick look of surprise and panic flashing across Stan’s face before they were hidden behind his casual mask of greedy businessman, making the corner of your lips twitch up.

“You’re simply not welcome here, Lucifer.” The man uttered with barely contained irritation despite his best efforts to remain calm, spitting your antihero name — given by, not Vought, but the public themselves — in distaste.

Amusement emerge on your expression, completely unbothered by the antagonistic perspective Stan sees you with.

There’s an underlying overconfidence and arrogance to the way you hold yourself, a man who clearly knows how influential and threatening your own existence is and isn’t even apologetic for it. It wasn’t just for a show — you knew you mattered, knew exactly your worth, and didn’t hide behind the fake persona of a beloved public figure that pretends they’re enjoying a single bit of what they’re doing. Your ego and pride seemingly rivals that of Soldier Boy’s yet yours come more naturally, like you were born with it without the need to develop them in amidst of your life to trick yourself into feeling more relevant. You held charisma, a charm that seems to pull people closer to you despite the dangerous, deceitful, fucking jackass attitude you had that’s supposed to be driving them away. It makes Ben want to either punch your face or suck your cock like a fag whore.

“Fair enough,” You shrugged. “But I certainly make parties more fun. You could learn a couple or two from me.”

Stan’s eye twitches in annoyance at your arrogance; it’s much worse that he can’t use anything to stomp on it because your ego wasn’t fragile like the others. While most men, supe or not, wrap their self-importance in toxic masculinity in order to feel superior than they actually are, you were fully comfortable with yourself. Your emotional capacity was extremely high that developed you to become invincible against criticism or rejection. He can attempt to hurt your feelings, manipulate you, use your own ego against you all he wants — none of it will force you to surrender or submit no matter what because you, quite simply, loved yourself too much to be under power hungry maniacs.

When Stan can’t seem to muster a snarky remark, you smirk and invite yourself in, walking further into the grand hall as you snap your fingers, the white bright lights turning into colourful disco lights with your magic.

You stared at the band members on stage, eyes glowing red, and forcefully overtake their minds to play an upbeat party worth music instead of the boring jazz they did. It’s not that you dislike jazz music, it’s peculiar and beautiful on its own, you’re just not really fond of formal parties where everyone’s required to be in their good behaviours, barely having the time of their life if not to shove their riches down less wealthy people’s throat, which you don’t particularly find amusing or fun at all.

It seems to excite the guests, some of them even beginning to bop their heads to the catchy rhythm, moving their previously still bodies along with the beats. Energy surges through them, life revealing itself within their eyes that was filled with misery before you barged in.

“Let go of the fucking formality, ladies and gentlemen.” You grinned wide with your arms spread open to your sides. “It’s time for a true fun party!”

Ben was in awe when all cheered at your declaration, how quick you were able to turn this entire place into your own playground despite the hosts — authorities — being present, how much of a natural you were at gaining people’s faith and attention without doing more than show up and be yourself.

It should be making him envious; he’s doing all these heroism, model, actor bullshit and hiding behind a perfect macho-man façade to be loved and paid attention to for fuck’s sake, and yet it’s so easy for you to bend people at your own will just by being yourself. He should be pissed as he always did when others get the spotlight more than him, but Ben couldn’t find it in himself to.

How the fuck is he going to be pissed when you look so disgustingly hot doing all of it?

“He’s fucking doing it again,” Countess seethes through gritted teeth, glaring at you. Her little tug on his arm snaps him out of daze as he shifts his gaze to her. “Taking all the attention away from you. With the rate he’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if he interrupts everything you’re in.”

Ben had to pretend to irritably clench his jaw, and smiled with sarcasm. “As if I’d let him. Fucking asshole needs to be put in his place.”

He knew you heard him when the corner of your lips pulled up in a smirk, one of your brows raising to shoot him a challenging look. It sends a thrill down Ben’s spine as he scowled, giving you a death glare that everyone sees for it is; rage, hatred, despise.

“Pleasure to see you here, Soldier Boy. Crimson Countess.” You greet in a feigned enthusiasm, swiftly taking a cocktail from the waiter that just passed, and approach them in all your glory.

“Fuck you,” Soldier Boy quickly snarled as Countess spits, “Get the fuck away from us.”

Amusement instantly cross your face, nearly making both of them want to punch you. “So much for greeting lovebirds in clown costumes,” You dejectedly say with a hand over your chest for dramatic effect, in contrast to the mocking way in which you spoke. “C’mon, I just made this boring, useless party worth your precious little time. At least now you can stop being a pussy hiding behind an awfully constructed television personality.”

That strikes a nerve in Soldier Boy as his face hardened and a cold look appeared, stepping forward warningly, “I’d choose my next fucking words wisely if I were you.” Countess tugs his arm in a nervous manner while scanning their surroundings, taking notice of people watching your interaction.

You meet his glare with a calm yet daring look and leaned closer, “I wouldn’t. I know I can beat you.” Your eyes glowed in red once again as you grinned confidently.

Ben’s hand twitched, but before he could make a move, a woman approached you from behind and tugged on your elbow, interrupting the little rivalry you had going on. “I’m sorry, do you mind if we dance and have fun for a bit?” She shyly but bravely asked you, not even sparing Soldier Boy a glance.

An unimpressed look flashes in your eyes that only Ben took notice of, the subtle annoyance to the woman for cutting into your rather hostile conversation. You, however, plastered on an emotionless smile within a split second, not giving anyone the chance to see through you. “I’ll lead the way,” You barely looked at him before walking off with her to the centre of the hall where bodies swayed to the beat.

It takes everything in Ben not to square up and make a mess of this party when you started dancing with her, your body dangerously close to hers as she stares at you with a look that made him want to strangle her slim neck. As if you’re a divine sculpture created by Gods, like you’re the entire universe, most precious being to ever exist in this planet, like she knew everything about you when she, in fact, absolutely did not. But he does.

And Ben knows he’ll be screaming your name, holding you impossibly close to him, digging his nails onto your back as you grind into him — everything she wished you’ll do to her — when all of this shit show is over.

At the end of the day, no slut or pussy fucker would come home to you but him; you’ve chosen him despite the countless amount of people throwing themselves pathetically at you, and Ben will make sure he’ll forever be the only one who does.

Lewd squelching, sucking sounds fill the dimly lit bedroom of your home as the stench of sex and arousal surround the air, more prominent due to your and Ben’s enhanced senses. You sat comfortably against the headboard of your shared bed with Ben in between your legs as he sucks and slurps your cock, taking it as far as he can in his mouth and gagging. Tiny muffled moans or groans escape him occasionally, hips grinding against the mattress to stimulate his own aching dick while the vibrator you bought for him nestled deep inside his prepped hole.

“You love my fuckin’ cock so much, don’t you?” You chuckled hoarsely, almost degrading, and Ben shudders. “It’s alright, love. m’not goin’ anywhere.” Your fingers tread through his hair, gently scraping your nails against his scalp, making him groan as his hips stutter.

Maintaining eye contact with you, Ben inhales a deep breath through his nose before taking your cock further down his throat, tears gathering in his eyes when he nearly gagged. A genuine smile adorns your face when he looks at you expectantly, the most beautiful green eyes you’d ever seen holding desperation and self-doubt. Pleading expression that he shows only to you.

“You want me to praise you, pup? Call you good boy?” He whines in response — God, that fucking sound you know he’d rather die than let anyone else hear. Ben doesn’t have any idea how much it affects you, the fact that you’re the only one whom he allows a vulnerable side of him show.

Realising he has to earn what he yearns for, Ben gently wraps his hand around the base of your cock where it didn’t fit and starts to bob his head. You moaned softly, throwing your head back; the sight being such a blessing to Ben’s eyes that makes his own cock throb and needy. He swirls his tongue on the underside of your shaft, his free hand gripping your thigh for support.

“Doin’ so good, love. You’ve gotten better at this,” You cooed, petting his hair and gently thrusting up into his throat. Ben closed his eyes, a blissful look appearing on his face as he relaxed and allowed you to move instead.

The trust and faith Ben has in you makes something explode within your chest, heart swelling in love and adoration at your troubled yet adorable partner.

Building a healthy and trustful relationship with him was more difficult than anything you’ve ever done before, considering the absolute bigotry his father forcefully fed into him and all the unresolved issues he had with himself. Despite the tough and harsh exterior he constantly put on, you had seen right through him when you first met — those broken spirit that yearned to be loved or needed by people hiding behind his douche, Soldier Boy persona, a man that his imbecile of a father always wanted him to be. It amused you as much as it squeezed your chest; one of the first strongest superhero being a fucking attention starved bastard was undeniably funny, but pitiful. It’s also why you fell in love with him.

You’ve accepted that Ben was always going to have a deep rooted homophobia in him, that there won’t be a day where you’ll be seen in the public with him holding hands like star-fucking-crossed lovers, that he’ll always be too much of a pussy to be fully himself — but you never expected him to be so open, comfortable, with you like this to the extent of willingly trusting you with a needy and desperate version of himself.

Benjamin is laying his heart out bare for you to take, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to make love to him or fuck his brains out. You decided with the former.

Confusion settles on Ben’s expression when you gently pushed his shoulders to make him pull away, a sudden worry if he’s done something wrong, but all thoughts flies out the window after you passionately smashed your lips against his and guided him on your lap. Ben gasps when you pulled the vibrator out of his hole and replaced it with your thick fingers, hooking his arms on the back of your neck.

“So good, love. Lookin’ all pretty for me.” He moans at your praise, the compliment making his heart flutter rather than boost his ego.

“s’for you…” They come out in whisper from his lips, littered with slight reluctance around the edge, but you hear it loud and clear. “All for you. I— fuck… just for you,” He grinds on your fingers, crying out when you curled them just right to stimulate his prostate.

You almost feel dizzy for his words that he’s never uttered before.

The utmost pride he upholds made it difficult for Ben to completely submit to you, often being a disobedient brat that needs to be put in his place or a quiet, reserved man that’s embarrassed to be loved by another man which causes him to be tense for the first half of this activity — so seeing him like this, hesitantly yet openly letting you in to his comfort zone, spilling the thoughts he’s always been fearful of admitting, holding you tight to him as if you’d slip from his grasp if he let you go, was pleasantly surprising. Your heart flutters, butterflies filling your stomach as the urge to protect and gently take him apart piece by piece runs like electricity through your veins, fuelling your desire for Ben.

You thrust your digits with gentle pace, Ben’s hips moving on its own to chase the pleasure. “That’s right, baby. All f’me, yeah? My pretty darling?”

The gentleness of your whispered voice and your eyes staring at him with pure love sends shivers down his spine; Ben holds your face and nods, pulling you in for a kiss. You can feel his suppressed fear through his desperate lips, the doubts that lingers in his mind that you might see him differently for being so vulnerable like this, and you quickly silence his thoughts by slipping your tongue inside his mouth.

Ben mewled when you add another digit in him, now having three fingers penetrating his hole, as he breaks the kiss to breathe for air. There’s a hazy look in his tearful eyes when he meets your gaze, “Take care of me, please.”

You groan at the plea, immediately pulling your fingers out to instead align your cock with his entrance. Ben must’ve been waiting for so long because he doesn’t hesitate to sink down on it almost in an instant, a loud collective moan escaping the two of you. Your hands gripped his hips while he rested both hands on your shoulders, and fuck he felt so fucking good. The way his warm, tight velvety walls deliciously clamp around you as if swallowing your cock whole, the way his divinely beautiful body perfectly fit against yours like he was made for you.

“fuck… you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” You praised, kissing up his throat as he threw his head back in pleasure. “Completely mine, so is Soldier Boy. Everythin’ about you, Ben. It’s all mine.”

Ben nods vigorously, gripping the back of your neck and starting to ride you at a perfect pace, tiny sounds escaping his mouth. Slipping his fingers through your hair, he gently tugged on them just enough that had you groaning, and laid his forehead to rest against yours. “Y-yours- ah… Yours as… as much as you’re fucking mine,” He grunts out, possessiveness hanging onto his every word that shot excitement through your body. “No one gets to f-fucking have you… oh fuck—!” He cuts himself off with a strangled moan when you snapped your hips up.

“Yeah? Not even that slut that danced with me on the dance floor?” You teased, smirking.

His bright green eyes seem to darken as he sinks even further down on your cock, forcefully stretching himself out, hissing at the delicious pain. You moaned, wrapping an arm around him to pull him to your chest. “Fuck, especially her.” Ben almost growls, one hand coming up to wrap around your throat, feeling you throb and seemingly get bigger inside him due to it. “You… belong to me, o-only me.”

You hum, moaning softly when he squeezed your jugular just right. “Always, my love.”

Relief washes over his entire body as he begins to roll his hips and move again, leaning down to suck and kiss on your exposed collarbone. “Oh fuck… It’s— a-agh…! Tell me- tell me, please…” He whined desperately.

Ben needed to hear you say it, have the promises of you completely belonging to him nailed into his brain so he’ll never feel insecure or doubtful again. He’ll never admit it, but you always know every little thing that goes on inside his head, those haunting words of his father that seems to have a tight grip over him. You’re the only one that could see right through his soul; someone exactly opposite from his father, someone who fearlessly challenges the normality or ancient traditions, someone who actually have their shit together that enabled you to be mature, wise, unapologetically yourself.

You were extraordinary in every way possible, and Ben knew his inner vulnerable — not quite the man his father wanted him to be — self was safe with you. Always secured. Never judged nor ridiculed, instead embraced perfectly by your strong and warm arms that shields him away from the mental, emotional harm.

He knew you would catch him when he falls. You would keep him and his treasured thoughts safe. You weren’t afraid to love him loudly, wholeheartedly, and Ben allows himself to be brave just this once without thinking about his fears.

Trailing one of your hands up his nape, you pull him back to a searing kiss, pouring all the desire and love into it. Ben melted, his hand on your throat loosening as you gently twist your bodies around to lay him down on the bed without pulling out. He whimpers and chases you when you detached your lips from his, which nearly made your heart explode.

“I belong to you, my love.” You whispered, kissing down his neck and chest, thrusting your cock sensually slow inside him. Nothing quite like the animalistic sex you two usually have due to your powers, but it was more right than ever. “My heart, my body, my soul, my spirit. All for you, belong with you.”

Ben feels as if his heart would hammer right out of his ribcage from how rapid it was beating.

Your soothing yet powerful presence all over the place, hovering over him and embracing every bit of the damaged part of himself that he refused to acknowledge. There’s resistance gnawing on his skin, the unhealthy urge to push you away and guard himself again with a thick wall despite being the one who willingly showed vulnerability, but Ben uses all of his ability to shove it down. He wanted to listen to your overwhelmingly romantic and gentle words that he’s been taught men should never utter, he wanted to be held with so much care like he was your most prized possession, he wanted to be actually loved. For once, he wanted to allow himself to not be drowned in the toxicity his father had force-fed him with.

It doesn’t take you a second to notice him relaxing even further underneath your body, practically leaning onto your existence as the pretty noises escaping his mouth seems to gradually get louder, like he stopped holding himself back.

An awe surrounds your expression, genuinely taken aback by him letting everything go, and a soft sigh of pleasure falls from your lips. “That’s it, baby. You make the most prettiest sound. Don’t hold back,” Cooing gently, you adjust your hips and rolled into him, brushing his prostate at a perfect angle.

Ben keened, arching his back. “Fuuuck… oh, please. Deeper.”

You obliged, keeping the same slow and sensual pace but pushing further inside. “You’re made for me, aren’t you? Just as I’m made for you,” You sharply snap your hips once to emphasise, and he cries out. “We’re one, my love. No one can have me, I come home to you and only to you no matter what.”

His breath hitched, the pleasure and your words sending explosions of euphoria into his brain, nodding mindlessly at your promises. “Y-yes, fuck… I’m- I’m yours, too— ah, hng…” Tears spill from his beautiful green eyes as he spread his legs more wide, one hand grabbing your wrist that was propped beside his head to stabilise your body, almost clinging onto you while the other scratched against the mattress. “F-fucking Christ, always- always yours.”

“I know,” You softly acknowledged. “Always mine, no matter how much some part of you can’t accept it. I can see right through you, love. I understand everything about you.”

“I- oh yes! There, fuck!” Ben sobs when you start picking up your pace, hips bucking against you. “Y-you do… God, you a-always fucking do.”

That causes a grin to spread across your lips before you leaned down to devour him again.

Truth be told, Ben was afraid of how much you saw everything he’s been trying to hide all his life. It takes a bit of his soul every-time he learns to be indifferent, more sick and twisted. The innocence in him had died out long ago, but the desperation of a child never vanquished — the pathetic, ruined and heavily deprived of any love someone that he always forced himself to forget or get rid of, was seen entirely by you without much effort. He didn’t need to say anything, you always understood all the hidden insecurity, longing, pain, and fear nested deep in his mind. You also understood why he was the way he was, why he does what he does, who he had to become.

To be loved is to be seen and understood, he guesses.

A love he’s never thought he’ll ever experience from anyone, let alone his supposed enemy. You gave it to him, though. All so willingly, happily, like he was meant for it, like he was always meant for you.

Strangled, loud moan was forced out of him when your hand wrapped around his achingly hard dick, making him feel dizzy from all the overwhelming desire and pleasure. Every bit of love that emits from your touch sends a frying electricity through his veins, fulfilling his inner thirst that was supposed to be unquenchable.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck—!” Ben wails, arching his back and digging his nails on your forearm as your thumb rubbed his sensitive slit and smeared precum all over. “C-close… oh, Christ! Cummin’, cummin’, please—”

“It’s alright, Ben. I got you,” You purred, slamming your hips down on him. “Let go, cum for me.”

As if that’s all the permission he needed, Ben instantly tumbles over the edge with a loud breathy whine as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, sticky loads shooting out from his cock to his stomach. Body spasming and head thrown back, letting his mind-blowing orgasm wave right off of him, still clinging onto you. You gritted your teeth when his hole tightened impossibly around you, feeling yourself throb and ache to release.

Ben — in spite of his cloudy, mushed state of mind as well as hazy and cock-drunk look in his eyes — suddenly wraps both strong legs around your hips to keep you in place, which forces you forward to bury yourself deeper inside him, eliciting a growl of curses from you.

His mouth splits into a dumb, shit-eating grin. “Inside, baby. Fill me up… give me all you got. I need you.” He moves his hips and squeezes down like a fucking expert prostitute, and it’s enough to have you let out a guttural groan as you spilled inside his tight hole.

Ben released a shattered breath, moaning delightfully at your warm cum that taints his insides, his hand that was gripping your forearm moving down to caress his belly where he could feel you finishing.

It makes your breath hitch; the action sparking a deep hidden desire and possessiveness within you that you’ve had shackled for so long in order to not be too greedy.

But Ben, oh your precious Benjamin, pressed down on his perfect belly and whined so brokenly that tugged the strings of your heart, as if he wanted something so unreachable. He attempts to bury his face on the pillow in what you recognised as shame and you quickly hold his face to keep him from hiding from you, subtle concern glimmering in your gentle eyes.

“What’s bothering your mind, love?” You whispered with such carefulness, afraid speaking too loud would break the bubble of sensitivity that surrounded the two of you as you pressed a light kiss on his temple. “You can tell me, Benji. It’s not embarrassing nor shameful.”

Ben’s heart swells at the way you cage him in your protective arms and words, the back of his eyes stinging from the tears that threatened to come out. He doesn’t deserve you; he never did, but you’re so good to him and he doesn’t think he can live without you. No, he knows he can’t live without you.

What would he do without your captivating eyes looking at him with so much passion no one ever gave him before, your gentle voice uttering such carefully crafted words that embraces rather than cut through him, your big and muscular yet warmly protective arms holding him like he was a treasure to behold, your soul healing and rebuilding every damaged bit of his spirit like it was your purpose? What would he do without you?

And fuck, everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t a fucking man. If he wasn’t such a pussy who’s afraid of risking everything.

You gently roll your hips against his, slow and steady, as if to comfort his nerves and overthinking thoughts with a soft pleasure.

Letting out a quiet, breathy sigh, Ben holds your face close and internally fights back against the restraints that wanted to keep him from opening his soul up to you. “We’d be… We’d be so much happier if I wasn’t a fucking man,” His whispered voice breaks at the end.

His heart ached and so did yours, a realisation dwelling on you of how serious Ben actually was with your relationship. It comes off as an unexpected admittance. While you knew he did love you like you love him, you didn’t think it was to this extent of imagining the countless possibilities if either of you was a woman instead, much less he’d think of himself to be the woman. It was odd and so unlike him — true love brings out something within people, you suppose.

Tears glimmered in his green eyes that’s filled by storm of emotions.

Ben hated this, hated you for making him such a crybaby and a pussy, but he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts. He doesn’t know what triggered him to be an annoying, pathetic, insecure loser the moment you held him. God, he’s Soldier Boy for fuck’s sake!

Then, you look at him with so much tenderness like he hung the moon and was the only thing that grounds you down to earth, and Ben realises it’s this.

“You’re such a fucking fool,” You affectionately cursed with a tone barely above whisper before pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. “I wouldn’t have spared you a glance if you weren’t. Women never captivated me, love. Only you.”

Wrapping his arms around your back and burying his face on the crook of your neck, Ben inhales your scent as you gently rock your bodies together. “Love me more,” He almost demands, voice low and trembling.

You smiled, “Of course, Benji.”

Pressing a sweet kiss on his head, you grab the back of his thighs and push them to his muscular chest, Ben’s flexibility despite his well defined physique making it easier for you to fold him. In a swift motion, you slam down on him, beginning to pound away the loud thoughts that made home in his mind. Angelic, high pitched sounds escape Ben’s mouth with each rough thrusts, bordering on pornographic. The blissful look across his face enhance his already ethereal features, and you can’t help but stare intently at him.

“You look so beautiful like this, love. Taking me in so well, letting me cherish you.” You praised, earning a needy whimper from the love of your life. “My Benjamin… my brave soldier.”

At the unexpected pet name, Ben’s body jolts and a choked sob erupted from his throat, suddenly pushed over the edge as he cums undone on his stomach. “F-fuck!”

“G-god, baby…” You groaned, shuddering in pleasure at the way his gummy walls spasms around your girth. “Drivin’ me insane, y’know that? Cummin’ with just my words alone? Shit, wanna fuck you hard and love you at the same time.”

Digging his nails on your back, Ben attached his lips on your collarbone with an intent to leave several possessive marks, making you jut your hips forward. “D-do it, fuck me.” He mumbled breathlessly.

That’s the only permission you needed to let go of your own self-control and just rut into him like an animal, thrusting your cock with more vigour and roughness that forced the headboard to repeatedly bang against the wall. Feeling the way your shaft practically drill into and rearrange his guts that brought immeasurable ecstasy, Ben finds himself finally unable to make out a coherent thought as drools drip down his chin. The two orgasms you milked out of him already left him sensitive enough, his thighs quivering under your grasps.

Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and wet squelches filled the room, accompanied by feral noises of both of your moans and grunts.

It’s nearly incomprehensible how you’re able to quickly switch between loving him and treating him like a slut next, a perfect balance to Ben’s constant yearning for admiration or appreciation and his tendency to always be an inconsolable brat that needs to be put back in his place.

He feels so complete and whole, so loved. And so so fucking dumb for your cock. He could stay like this forever without heavy expectations weighing over his head all the time, just taking you whole and letting you ruin his body, looking all pretty and beautiful for you. Yeah, he can do that. Being pretty and sexy has always been a talent of his, after all. He can even learn to cook for you like a fucking perfect, pretty housewife, maybe you’ll stuff him full of your cum again while at it and tell him to keep them in. Fuck, he can do that too. He wants to do that.

“Oh fuck, Ben…” An almost pornographic, low growl rumbles from your chest when he squeezed down on you, his warm walls fluttering against your girth from the imagination. The coil in your stomach tightens as you twitched inside him, too close to your high.

“I- ah—! Please, pleaseplease—!” He babbles, one hand shifting to press your ass and push you in deeper, syllables slightly slurred from how cockdrunk he was.

Understanding his wordless signal, you increase your pace with an angle that drives your instincts wild, a chill running through your spine from the overwhelming pleasure. Seeing Ben completely fall apart and surrender underneath you gives your ego an infinite boost, the powerful man such a sobbing, wrecked, pretty little mess just because of your cock. Drunk in every little euphoria and precious love you feed him. Oh, how fucking adorable and gorgeous he was.

Before long, Ben feels you throb inside him and pulls you in with what little willpower he had left, clumsily slipping his tongue in your mouth, overwhelming you with different sensations of his body against yours. It’s enough to have you harshly ram your hips down in one swift motion and empty yourself inside him, a loud wail of your name leaving Ben’s lips as he finishes as well. You feel his body tremble violently due to overstimulation, breath stuttering.

“You look so fucked out,” You laugh breathlessly, hips softly grinding to ride out your climax. “Still fuckin’ hot when you’re all dumb n’ mindless.”

Petting his disheveled hair, a soft contented hum leaves Ben as he closed his eyes and nuzzled to your touch. The entire erotic sight of his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat, tears staining his cheeks, hazy look across his eyes, and swollen lips sends amusement and satisfaction through your veins — you definitely fucked whatever self-loathing thoughts he’s had out of his head.

Having completely spilled inside him, you moved to pull out only for Ben to groan in protest. “Stay the fuck in,” He grumbled, panting to catch his breath.

“I need to clean us up, love.” You gently say, but kept yourself sheathed inside him as your lips attach to his neck. “Wanna take care of you properly.”

Ben quietly sighs in content, “You already do.” Before he tilts his head to capture you in a passionate kiss. You slowly pull out of him in amidst of the moment, holding his face and reciprocating with equal passion.

He breathes low and heavy when you start to wipe him up with a wet towel you magically conjured up, running it across his body gently as your other hand massaged his sore hip with such tenderness. Your eyes taking in every part of his physique feels much more innocent now compared to before, deep appreciation and subtle awe flashing across your irises the more you stare, which causes his cheeks to tint slightly. You find it adorable how shy or embarrassed he gets whenever you look at him like he’s something born out of the stars in contrast to the overinflated cockiness he displays when others compliment him; it just proves he feels different, more special with you.

You shoot him a gentle smile that makes his brain shut down and his heart jump.

Christ on a cross, just what did you fucking reduce him into?

“Will you marry me?” The words had left his mouth before he could even process.

You froze, eyes wide as you snapped your gaze to him at the same time his own widened in shock. Fuck, did he just say what he thinks he did? After you fucked him ‘til he couldn’t even speak properly? God, his legs feel wobbly after all that delicious pounding of your dick in his tight little—

His distracting thoughts were interrupted by your hands cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at you. There’s a bit of doubt lingered across your expression, worried that you mistakenly heard him, and Ben’s gaze softened. “Will you marry me?” He repeats quietly this time with genuine emotion, wiping away your worry.

Excitement and happiness seem to explode within you as you beam; “Yes! Fuck, yes, I’ll marry you.” However, your smile slowly deflates and a foreign look of insecurity replaces the joy surrounding you. “Are you… are you sure? You’re not pushing yourself?”

Confusion spreads across his face, “Why would you think I am?”

“It’s just not that easy to break away from all the homophobia, love.” You softly remind him. “You’re still having a hard time accepting it, could barely even call yourself the right term. You’re afraid, and that’s fine. We can continue on like this. You don’t have to marry me because you feel obligated to.”

Ben frowns, his hand pulling you down to the mattress at his side as he props up on his elbow and stares at you incredulously. “You think I wanna fucking marry you just ‘cause I’m guilty about hiding this? Did it ever occur to you that I actually fuckin’ love you?”

You smile to yourself; what a long way it took for him to just be able to admit that. At least he’s letting himself know he can be vulnerable with you now, compared to when he was convinced you’ll despise his inner self — a big fucking pussy, he says — and completely shut himself off in the beginning.

“Hey,” He grabs your chin to make you pay attention. “I know I still don’t do enough to show you, but I do. I really fucking do, baby.”

You look into his captivating green eyes for a second before releasing a deep breath, “I know. Trust me, you don’t have to do enough to show it, I can already tell. And I love you too.”

Ben nods and kisses your lips, lying down beside you. Your hand instinctually attaches to his waist, caressing his soft skin and shooting warmth throughout his body.

He can’t help but stare at your features, the way you look different now from how you looked at the party you crashed earlier. A certain amount of coldness, hostility and displeasure usually lurked your expression in a daily manner — hidden behind the undeniable charisma and obnoxious arrogance — directed at others that told exactly what their worth to you was; nothing. Ben hasn’t seen a day you were even remotely pleased by someone in the long years of knowing you, the people who attempted to get in your good graces often ended up screwing everything up instead and irritating you enough to kill them off.

But with him, you wouldn’t even spare him a cold glance. Your gaze twinkling with a pleasant spark, always warm, always comforting, always proud. God forbid you look at him with hatred like you’re supposed to. So affectionate for a man who’s been named after the Devil by the idiotic public that only sees what you let them see.

It is then had Ben realised; to him, true love is you.

True love is when you embrace a part of him that he deems undesirable, mend his broken soul, and melt the ice of deep rooted trauma surrounding his heart — it is when Soldier Boy doesn’t drive you away from seeing Benjamin, an ordinary boy from South Philadelphia who desperately wanted to make his father proud. You see them as one, as equally significant parts of him.

Good fucking Lord, he was a gigantic imbecile if he didn’t want to marry you, even if the idea still makes him feel quite… odd. Fuck’s sake, he really needs to learn how to deal with this homophobia bullshit, doesn’t he?

Ben licks his lips anxiously, reluctance plastered on his face. “I… I actually got the rings,” He hesitantly admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You did?”

“I- Jesus Christ, of course I did! I know I don’t fucking do shit like that, okay?” He snapped before quietly muttering, “Just wanted you to believe me when I propose.”

“I do,” You don’t miss to give him comfort, grabbing his hand. Ben’s nerves soothes at your touch. “I just thought we still have a long way to go and you need more time to figure yourself out.”

He shakes his head, “Gotta claim you before some fucker decides you’re free for them.”

“Yeah?” You smirked, raising one eyebrow. “Could’ve gone with a collar, y’know. It would get your point straight across. Plus, it’s more visible.” Tapping your neck to emphasise, which made Ben swallow.

Yeah, you’ll look good with a collar in his colour. You can even wear both. That’ll definitely get his point across to anyone that even looks at you. Maybe next time, he decides.

A mischievous smirk spreads across his lips, “That’ll fucking work best. Think I could put a leash on you too?” He teased, letting out a chuckle and sliding his hand up to your neck and hold you there.

“Mhm, fuck yes,” You almost purred from how pleased you were at the idea.

Ben laughs, lightly squeezing your neck in affection before turning around to rummage through the cabinet on the side of your bed, pulling out a velvet box that’s in the shade of his green. You could tell he was enthusiastic and overwhelmed with emotions from the way his hands slightly trembled, though you made no mention of it to avoid bursting his adorable bubble.

His grin was as bright as the sun on a sunny day when the ring perfectly fits around your finger, already snuggling comfortably on your skin and bringing a weight of new purpose in life. You slip the other ring on his as well, feeling the entanglement of your destiny with one another, the red strings of fate on both of your pinky fingers thickening. It’s a sacred oath that ties you to each other forever.

Warmth spreads around your chest at the fact it’s his first time giving you a gift and it’s something so unexpectedly intimate. A silver engagement ring with a ruby in his shade of green and his name engraved on the inner side; practically a part of his soul, settling itself home around your finger. You shift your gaze to the one he wears — the same silver ring but with a dark red ruby instead, your signature colour, and you assume also have your name engraved on the inner side as well.

A big, significant step for a man who’s constantly afraid of what others think about him, and you couldn’t be more prouder.

Lying back down on the bed together, Ben turns his back on you and scoots closer to your chest, making you smile when he grabbed your wrist to pull your arm over his torso. He always loved being hugged by you from behind despite the fact he’ll never admit it out loud; as much as it sounds pathetic and unmanly, he doesn’t argue with himself of how it gives him safety and protection from the harsh judgmental world. Being in your arms always dissipated the cruel words of his father carved in his mind.

You gently pulled him closer to your body and pressed a kiss on his shoulder blade. “Don’t have to rush about coming out, love. It’ll take more than a simple courage to be open about something considered taboo by our society. You’re still dealing with personal issues, we’ll focus on that for now.”

Ben’s heart warms at your consideration, unable to resist the urge to stick to you like a glue as he leans back on your chest. “How the fuck did you do it? This feels like a pain in the fucking ass,” He muttered disdainfully, though there was a hint of willingness in his tone, like he’s willing to make an effort just for you.

You shrugged, “m’not exactly shaped by my childhood trauma, Benji, and I didn’t like my parents that much. Never really gave a fuck about somethin’ that has no benefit to my life whatsoever.”

“Entitled asshole,” He laughs.

“So are you,” You teased, making you both erupt in loud laughter.

I could get used to this, Ben thinks as genuine happiness glows bright in his heart, your love anchoring him and providing a solid land for him to stand on. Dealing with his own problems doesn’t sound so bad when you’re there for him every step of the way. With your protective arms around his body, both Soldier Boy and Benjamin knew their heart will always be safe with you.

For once, Ben believes he can finally learn to create a family of his own.

Until disaster struck and life suddenly decides to not be fair on someone as fucked up as him — ripping his world apart into shreds in the form of coward, betraying bastards known as his fucking teammates.

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