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angellicxx · 2 months ago

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Ricochet- Chapter 3: Shattered in the Dark

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

summary: You bring Matt to prevent the deal, a shadow in the dark stops you.

warnings: tw: graphic description of cut on the wrist, mention of scarring, blood, gun, knife

w.c: 2,250

It was late– only a few minutes after midnight and the factory was still silent.

You lingered on the second floor, a lofted overhang shadowed by boarded industrial windows—perfect cover with a clear view of the floor below. Dust covered glass shards crinkled between your boots and the concrete with each small step. You stayed frozen against the wall, watching every car that passed on the silent street at the opening of the alleyway, like you have been for the past half hour.

Matt was growing more impatient with each passing moment, swinging his bully clubs in his fingers as he leaned against a pillar. It was only because he had no clue why you were spending your night camped in an abandoned building, senses on high alert. It was partly your fault, lying and saying the tip was anonymous, that you were just as clueless about the trade as him.

“They’ll be here soon.” You reassured though broken silence, your mask muffling your voice.

Matt picked his head up from being slumped against the tall stone. “How do you know?”

You held a breath from your small slip. “I just know. Hear anything yet?”

Matt tapped his stick against the pillar, shaking his head as he pushed himself to stand. “Sure this is the right place?”

“I don’t think there’s a lot of abandoned buildings in Tribeca. This is probably the last one that hasn’t been renovated.”

You felt him reading you, your timidness revealing a deficit in your story. “Strange place for a trade. Black market? Did the source tell you what this even was?”

You shrugged, trying to brush his questions away. “Just said there was shady business going on here.”

Matt’s head was tilted at the ground, but you knew he was staring at you. “Uh huh.”

Before you could form a defense against the provoking lawyer, his head tilted toward the opening. “They’re here.” He whispered, moving next to you.

Car headlights illuminated the room below, casting shadows up your face as tires screeched to a halt. Doors slammed open as a group of men filed out and diverged to the back of the van, the doors swinging open as two climbed inside. The reemerged, straining as they shared the weight of a familiar dark crate, hauling it further into the building.

Even you could hear the rattling of the guns’ metal echoing. The box clattered to the floor, left in the middle of the vast room as the men returned to the car to retrieve the next.

Matt tilted his head, observing the scene.

“This is a weapons deal.” His whisper laced with disbelief.

You were silent, watching intently to memorize the faces of the fellow Volchiy men you would be working with as they carried a second box to the pile.

“(Y/N).” An arm grabbed your forearm, yanking you back from the opening. “I told you to drop it.”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

“Matt, listen–”

“I can’t believe it.” He scoffed, stepping away as he tilted his head up.

A pang of regret hit your chest. “I know, I know– I’m sorry. It was the only way I could get you to come.”

Even with a mask on you knew Matt’s expression matched his disappointed frown. “Investigating’s one thing. Lying to me? Dragging me into this? What the hell were you thinking?”

You objected, trying to calm him down with reason. “Just– Listen. If this deal works, it cements the Volchiy to Fisk. But if we break it now, stop this transaction from happening, their contract falls through and the Volchiy remain independent. We can continue this without Fisk being involved, but only if we act now.”

“You think Fisk is going to let this go? If we intervene, he’ll probably kill every last person involved.”

“Not if we just, take the crates.” You nodded your head at the men placing the third crate in a cluster at the center of the room. “Salvatore will think Ivan shorted him, or he’s just an idiot. Either way, they won’t see him as worthy for their alliance.”

Before Matt could scold you for your stupid plan, he paused— attention pulling away from monitoring the men below and aiming it at you.

“How do you know about all of this?”

Your breath hitched before you could construct a lie, Matt’s tongue poked at his cheek with a click of disapproval. “You went to Ivan, didn’t you?”

The silence gave it away. You didn’t look at him, only turning your head back to see the men piling into the van and the door sliding closed with a loud boom. “They won’t even see us.”

Matt caught you by the shoulder before you could jump down, spinning you to face him.

“(Y/N), you’re not listening. A new girl shows up out of nowhere and their operation fails— they’re going to know it was you.”

You peered over your shoulder, breath hitching as the echo of tires screeched into the distance, fading into the hum of the city.

“They’re leaving,” you whispered, eyes locked on the lone crates now abandoned in the isolated darkness.

“Good,” Matt replied, his voice clipped. “So are we.”

“Matt, wait—please. This is our chance—”

But he didn’t stop. He turned on his heel, boots scuffing against the dust-covered concrete as he strode toward the jagged opening in the roof where you’d entered, moonlight spilling in like silver smoke, casting fractured shadows over his retreating figure.

You stayed rooted to the wall, heart pounding. Below, the crates sat in the center of the floor, exposed—unguarded. Your boot crunched over glass as you stepped forward to the opening, creeping close to the wall before you moved to go down.

“Wait—” Matt said suddenly, voice low.

A hiss of air grazed your mask and slammed into the wall. You blinked.

Embedded into the boards a breath away from your face a steel blade glinted in the low light.

You couldn’t peer your eyes away from the precise strike, catching your breath at the close call and near hit.

That wasn’t a miss.

Your head whipped into the direction of the throw— eye catching Matt lunging at a figure in the dark.

Another knife was sent careening into the air as he sent a blow into the figure's arm, both wrestling in the distance.

You looked down and saw a new van pull into the carport, doors sliding open as a group of men poured out.

Shit.

You hesitated.

You shouldn't have.

In the field, quick decisions were crucial to the integrity of a fight or mission. But now torn between the decision of stopping the deal or helping your best friend, your thoughts stopped. Two men from the group hoisted a box up, shuffling their feet as two other armed men escorted them to the van with guns in their hands.

Only one of the options mattered at this moment– the other could wait. There were still two boxes.

You rolled your shoulders, gripping the handle of the embedded blade– yanking it free as you flung the force toward the masked figure.

It caught on a raised arm about to pummel Matt, only skimming over the black material of the suit just as the blow landed.

The masked figure loomed over your knocked out partner, cocking its head to look at you.

Now unarmed, you sprinted through the dark with only the silhouette to guide you. You were caught off guard when the figure ducked down and rippled an object towards you , a hard chunk of loose concrete catching on your foot as you tumbled hard into the ground. You rolled and landed on your back, glass threatening to rip though the material of your suit as you struggled to regain the air knocked form your lungs.

Your eyes picked up on the cascading shadows from below, turning your head to see the men filing back into the van and driving away, headlight disappearing back down the alleyway. Your chance was gone— and you were now stuck in the dark. Your breath rasped as you frantically looked around for any sign of the figure, eye catching on Matt’s unconscious form slowly rising and falling with shallow breaths. At least he was alive.

A crack of glass skimmed over the floor. You whipped your head to the left to see the shadow approaching. You groaned as your gloved hand clutched onto a shard next to you, so sharp it nearly pass through the material. You managed to lift your legs, kicking yourself up and to your feet.

A hand in the dark raised, the knife glinting in the light as you flicked your arm to disarm it before the deadly trajectory was sent careening at you.

The glass flung through the air, sharp edge catching on the moonlight.

This time you knew it sliced through the fabric as the knife clattered to the floor, a second hand clutching the wrist as the figure staggered back.

You took your chance, sprinting into a leap as you swung your legs around your opponent, knocking it to the ground with you on top.

Your knees pinned the arms in place, reaching over to grasp the handle of the knocked away knife and hold it over it’s head.

You stopped mid-thrust when your eyes caught it.

Dark eyes glinted at yours.

His torso raised beneath you in tandem with his shallow breaths, black blood pooling from a tear in his sleeve at the wrist, speck of glass clinging to the dark material. Proof of life and not a machine.

It was a man. Not a shadow lurking in the dark.

The blade trembled in your grip, inches from his throat. Just one connecting strike and there was no witness to your invasion— prowling in the dark for a deal you shouldn’t have known about.

But you didn’t.

You let it hang there in the dark silence, you chests beating frantically with adrenaline as you heaved for air.

A flicker of confusion in his eyes mirrored your own.

Your conscious overcame you. A weakness. A vulnerability.

You don’t kill people.

It was a sacred cardinal rule shared between you and Matt.

Not when they almost kill you. Not even when they’re pinned underneath your mercy of a blade.

Your grip on the knife collapsed as you let it fall to the ground next to you, clattering into the glass.

Neither of you moved. Eyes locked in a quiet violence of restraint.

A groan echoed in the silence, your head turning to see Matt rolling on the floor. Your relief cracked your focus.

A mistake.

A hand hooked around the back of your knee.

In one swift pull your position was reversed, pinning you to the concrete with an overbearing force. Your eyes caught his as he sent a connecting thrust to your jaw, sending you into complete darkness.

DEX

Dex pulled off his mask in the alleyway, throwing his head back to the wall as he clutched his throbbing arm.

We hissed as he tore off his glove and pushed up a blood soaked sleeve, fragments of glass catching his skin as the wound was revealed to him.

It caught deep. Any deeper and there would have been blood spurting from an artery or caught on a tendon. That one shard of glass had tore through the thin delicate skin of his wrist and nearly caused irreparable damage to his arm. His aim could have been ruined.

The one thing that made him special— his one worthy, redeeming ability.

He cursed himself for being so careless, clutching the incision to prevent anymore blood from leaking everywhere, hissing as he felt the glass ground deeper into raw muscle.

You let him go.

Well, you let him live. But he saw it.

You restraint in your eyes, the hesitation in the easy kill.

The mysterious figure in the dark who unarmed him with skillful ease. A shadow he couldn’t catch. Someone who didn’t belong there.

A thing he would have to report from his supervision over the deal.

The man in the mask he took out with ease— he caught him off guard, his attention was too focused on you to see him strike from behind.

But you— you were interesting. Stealthy and fast, Dex didn’t expect a girl in a mask to overtake him like that.

His mind buzzed. You let him live.

Your mercy burned deeper than the wound, it scarred his mind more than the mutilation on his arm ever would.

Dex limped out of the alley, blood still warm on his fingers, making his way back to the penthouse with clenched teeth and a fractured pride.

He would tell Fisk the deal went through.

That there was no altercation, that everything went perfectly. Nobody could know what happened.

Clean. Silent. Controlled.

The Volchiy would be welcomed into the alliance with open arms as business continued.

He couldn’t tell anyone about you. You would only haunt him more.

The cut would heal.

But the scar marked on his arm would torment him.

A reminder that his life was spared, by you.

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 2 months ago

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Flesh Wound - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 2.5k words. Dr. Abbot's wife's cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself--and her bloody hand--to the Pitt without telling him.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, blood, graphic descriptions of wounds, & knives. Colorful language, per usual. Implied age gap. breaking select grammar rules because I can. not beta read.

a/n: This got away from me and is longer than necessary lmao. I’m not in love with it, but I need to get it out of my brain and drafts so it stops plaguing me. Enjoy my first Pitt fic! Divider credit!

“Fuck!” you hissed. The kitchen came to a standstill around you; your cooks, dishwashers, and wait staff suddenly focused on the angry gash on your hand.

Abby’s was your pride and joy. Back in the day, culinary school felt like a gamble and then some. Today, you thank your lucky stars that it panned out well. The restaurant you’d built from the ground up was often featured in local publications and had grown into a neighborhood hub—it was a success from the day you first opened the doors to the public.

On days you didn’t stay at work for the full evening rush—like tonight, when you had your silver fox of a husband waiting at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and the full Netflix catalogue at your fingertips—you at least made sure to come in for a couple hours in the afternoon to help set up and ensure your staff had all the support they needed for a successful night.

Amid prep work for a new dish you were piloting, you looked away at just the wrong moment when your name was called, resulting in the unmistakable piercing feeling shooting through your hand. You’d nicked yourself. Well, more than nicked yourself, because you were now bleeding at a rate that would have Javadi passed out cold on the floor.

This certainly wasn’t your first knife injury and probably wouldn’t be your last. You haphazardly cleaned up your station as best you could while holding pressure to the wound with a towel. Accidents happen to everyone, no matter how long they’ve been in the industry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing to slice your palm open in front of the staff who were supposed to look up to you.

You bit your lip and willed the tears to stay at bay after closing your office door. You tried taking deep breaths as you sat on the edge of your desk. In for 4, out for 8. In for 5, out for 10.

It didn’t help much.

This hurts like a bitch, you cursed through the unrelenting stinging. It was worse than any other kitchen injuries you’d had in recent memory. You remembered your husband rambling about how the hands were one of the most highly vascularized parts of the body. When it bleeds, it bleeds, he said to you. You were acutely aware of that now.

The bleeding wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon, even after you’d soaked through two hand towels. Jack had taught you quite a bit of first aid and then some over the years, but even you recognized that you couldn’t patch yourself up. When a little fuzzy feeling began to sink in, you knew it was time to seek medical attention from a professional who wouldn’t spiral at the mere notion of you being harmed.

Sure, you could’ve called your trauma doctor husband, who seldom went anywhere without his ‘go bag’, but that would make too much sense. You didn’t want Jack to worry about you. He did anyway, but you didn’t want to add to his stress. The salt and pepper hair suited him well–you frequently reminded him when you carded your fingers through his curls–but if he went full-on gray, you might be accused of grave robbing.

“Doctor Abbot speaking,” the man grunted in greeting. The trauma doc hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Or maybe his mind was still filled with the post-night shift sleep haze.

“Hey, honey,” you smiled through the phone despite your barely contained anxiety. The fresh towel you left the restaurant with was quickly turning crimson. The walk to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was 15 minutes, and you prayed that you’d make it there before the towel was soaked through or before you passed out—whichever would come first.

Your voice washed over Jack like warm honey. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply. Per usual, he hadn’t realized how tense he was until you dissolved his stress.

“Hello, my beautiful wife,” he flirted through the phone, the corners of his lips ticking up into a smile. Several years into your relationship, he could still make you blush.

“I know we planned to stay in tonight and watch a movie, but I’m gonna have to stay at the restaurant late. We got slammed, and I need to make sure the team has everything they need.” That counted as a white lie, right? Jack and his wife didn’t keep secrets. But this time, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, you rationalized. You would tell him once you were all stitched up, snuggling at home with him, and not pale as a ghost. You would tell him when you could laugh about it, at how silly the oopsie you made in the kitchen was. Right now you were not laughing.

Abbot nodded, though you couldn’t see it. Your dedication to making sure your staff were taken care of was admirable; you were always so attentive, caring, and considerate. But selfishly, Jack would’ve given his other leg to spend a night with his wife.

It wasn’t like you both weren’t used to taking rainchecks. Sometimes chefs called out sick and you had to step up, or put out metaphorical and literal fires. Other times, Jack’s pager seemed to be determined to set a record for most received messages.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We can do something tomorrow.” It was a promise they’d hold each other to.

Years in service to the military and working in healthcare–emergency medicine, no less–meant he was used to change and could be flexible, to say the least. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be miserable to everyone around him until he saw his wife again.

Keeping a low profile at the Pitt was damn near impossible given your reputation.

The ER staff were well acquainted with Dr. Abbot’s wife, the pretty lady who brought them food. It started when you brought Jack dinner, and then Dana too. Sometimes Robby if you caught him at the right time. Eventually, you’d occasionally drop off catering-sized orders from Abby’s to be shared amongst the Pitt staff, just because.

A concerning majority of the providers, nurses, techs, RTs, and radiology staff survived 13-hour shifts on protein bars and far more milligrams of caffeine than was considered safe for human consumption. (It was a good thing they had plenty of 12 leads and crash carts full of pharm goodies for when a staff member inevitably developed a caffeine-induced dysrhythmia.) When the smell of Dr. Abbot’s wife’s food filled the Pitt, they knew they were in for a treat.

“You got any food for us, Mrs. Abbot?” Lupe asked as you approached the thick registration desk glass, before her eyes fell to your hand cradled against your chest. Definitely not catering.

Unfortunately for you, the third towel was fully saturated by the time you made it through the lobby’s double doors. The fuzzy feeling from earlier was quickly advancing to woozy.

Lupe and Dana brought you straight back from triage, effectively bumping you to the top of the queue. Maybe it wasn’t entirely according to hospital policy, but they’d never hear the end of it from Abbot if he found out his wife was stuck in a waiting room while she bled out.

“Everything is still attached, but the cut’s deep,” you relayed to Dana, who hummed as she peeled back the towel to assess the damage.

“Your husband know you’re here?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. She knew the answer based on the fact that Abbot hadn’t tore through the damn building to get to you. Yet, anyway. She more so asked to give you a chance to reflect on your dumb decision to not inform your husband.

“I don’t want to stress him out. Please don’t tell him?” You pleaded.

“I won’t say anything, but I can’t control what happens when he sees his last name on the wrong part of the status board.” Her emphasis on when made it clear that it was only a matter of time, not if.

Of course he would pick up a shift once his evening freed up. He was a workaholic, but so were you. Birds of a feather.

When Doctor Robinavitch and Javadi pulled back the room’s curtain, Dana did the talking–nausea was setting in along with a wicked headache. You refused to look at the laceration at this point, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above you.

“BP is soft,” Robby observed. Dana nodded while holding pressure to the wound with gauze. “Let’s start some IV fluids to get it back up; you definitely had some blood loss today.” Not helping, you thought as another wave of nausea rolled through you.

“She said she doesn’t want Dr. Abbot to know, and I’m not about to get in the middle of that. Plus, provider-patient confidentiality,” Robby finished with a shrug to Dana at the nurse’s station.

“Who doesn’t want me to know what?” Abbot asked, cosmic timing seemingly on his side. He was here far earlier than he needed to be for his shift, but he had nothing better to do Better than sulking at home, missing his wife. He’d still miss her while he was working, but at least he’d have an active distraction. His grip was firm on the strap of his camo backpack slung over his shoulder.

Robby groaned and his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly turned to face the night shift attending. Dana answered the nurse’s station phone within a nanosecond of the first shrill ring, leaving Robby to fend for himself.

Abbot looked at him expectantly, his patience quickly waning. Robby shook his head and vaguely nodded his head backwards, simply sighing “room 4” before getting back to work. Jack didn’t press for more info, just crossed the Pitt with long, purposeful strides. His heart dropped and the world around him slowed when he saw his wife laying back on a gurney, hooked up to IV fluids with gauze around her hand.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering, yanking the curtain open with an abrasive tug. He immediately started scanning you head to toe and noted the color drained from your face, a bloody rag in the biohazard bin, and the remnants of a suture kit in the waste bin.

“Baby, what the hell happened?” Jack asked, wild eyes bouncing between the vitals monitor to your tired form. You squeezed her eyes shut and cursed the fact that PTMC was the closest ER to Abby’s.

“I told Robby not to call you,” you grumbled. Your husband grunted.

“He didn’t call me. I picked up a shift.” You knew Jack wasn’t upset with you directly. Seeing you in the same department where patients regularly coded and trauma alerts rolled through at light speed to the trauma bay unnerved him.

You felt a twang of guilt in your chest. Jack wouldn’t have come in on his first night off in a while if you hadn’t canceled date night. And date night wouldn’t have been canceled if you’d just been paying more attention in the kitchen. You extended your unaffected hand to your husband and he grasped it in an instant.

His tense shoulders and tight jaw gave him away. You hated to see him needlessly stressed, but it also warmed you in an odd way—how lucky you are to have someone care for you so deeply. Someone as weathered and worn as Jack, who has seen his fair share of trauma and then some, loves you to the point of worry. What a privilege that is.

Jack’s shift technically didn’t start for another 20 minutes. He had every intention of spending those minutes right by your side.

Saved by the bell a few minutes before shift change, Robby came back in for rounds, tailed by Javadi (who, to her credit, did not pass out at the sight of copious blood flowing from your hand earlier). “Hey, love birds,” Robby greeted with a grin. Abbot’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line while you smiled weakly back at the attending and the med student who followed him around like a little duckling.

Dr. Robinavitch gestured for Javadi to present the case to Dr. Abbot. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights at the harsh stare Abbot pinned her with. Her gaze bounced from your joined hands back to the attending before she cleared her throat and began. Javadi described the depth of the laceration and the amount of stitches required, topical TXA, IV fluid bolus and subsequent drip for hypotension. Jack forced air from his nose before inhaling again, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Princess will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork and home care instructions,” Robby winked as he left you and Abbot by yourselves. Jack snorted. There was no way in hell you’d be caring for the wound yourself, not if he could help it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jack’s voice was quiet. He wasn’t mad, but rattled. You twisted your mouth to the side, feeling a bit of shame. This wasn’t how you imagined your evening going.

“Technically, I did… on my walk here…” you offered. It sounded weak even to your ears. Jack deadpanned. It didn’t land well. You sighed and rolled to face your husband fully. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you whispered, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray you. Jack pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m always going to worry about you, sweetheart. Because I love you.” His fingers traced your jawline. Jack, who woke up with night terrors well over a decade after the war-torn atrocities he’d seen, gazed at you tenderly. You had half a mind to make a ‘Tis but a scratch joke, but figured that might send him over the edge.

“I love you too.” It wasn’t a reply, it was a promise. Jack kissed the back of your hand, your fingers intertwined until he had to go.

Dr. Robinavitch hung around until he was satisfied with your blood pressure so he could drive you home. Even if you had politely declined, he would’ve stayed. Abbot certainly wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it if his wife had to take a taxi home from the ER. Robby guided you toward the exit, holding your bag and his. Gotta keep our patient satisfaction scores up.

Jack doffed his gloves while he jogged to meet you before you reached the door. He blindly tossed the blue nitrile gloves in the direction of the nearest waste bin, not bothering to check if he made it in. But they had, because of course they would. Cocky motherfucker.

Jack wordlessly pulled you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand holding your head to his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

“Take it easy, okay?” The two of you could’ve been slow dancing in a burning room, but Jack wouldn’t have noticed. He tuned out the constant buzz of the Pitt and focused solely on you. You offered your free hand up for a pinkie promise.

If the med students and interns saw Dr. Abbot go soft—oh so whipped for his wife—and make a pinkie promise, they knew better than to say anything about it.

a/n: Reblogs & comments are much appreciated 🥰

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#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #dr. abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

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soldiersgirl · 5 months ago

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— 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲/𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨 .ᐟ

summary — the people's princess and the people's prince, that's what you were promised. the reality? he was the best worst thing to happen to you, yet.

cw — supe!fem!reader x soldier boy. payback era. 18+ smut, unprotected p in v (wrap it), spit kink, teasing, corruption kink (kinda), oral (f receiving), dirty talk, name calling (slut, whore, princess, baby, sweetheart, angel), degradation, cursing, edging, riding, drugs, drinking, mentions of manipulation blackmail, mean & soft ben.

word count — 3,844 words

you were laying there, in the haze of the moment, trying to remember a time before him, before all the chaos and turmoil. life had been calm, somewhat boring, but tolerable before being head-hunted by vought. life in a rural, suburban town had its perks; you knew everyone and everyone trusted you despite your... curse, as you called it; "powers" by everyone else.

they weren't super powers, they weren't a gift. it was a curse set upon you; the responsibility too big to bear for only a little girl when they first showed up. the mind reading and mind control. touching your mum's hand in comfort and seeing her whole life flash before your eyes; her thoughts, her wants, her sins. the same with your father.

you hadn't, willingly, let anyone touch you for 20 years, not up until you were thrusted into the spotlight and ben's experienced hands.

he had crushed the bennies with the bottom of his hunting knife on the edge of his bedside table before lining up the fine powder over the valley of your bare breasts. he couldn't coerce you into taking them with him like he wanted, so he had to resort to taking them off you instead. you lay with bated breath as he chuckles to himself before snorting the drug, his nose dragging over your full breasts; his hands cupping them softly to make sure you keep still. unlike last time, when you fucking spilled the powder all over and he had to lick it off of you like a dog, lapping at his water-bowl. you can't help but admire his hardened features as he pinches his nose and rests his head on your breast, feeling the full effect of the drugs.

the freckles that dance over his nose, his moss green eyes and the gentle wrinkles surrounding them, his plush rose lips, that both spit venom and whisper honeyed words.

for as long as you can remember, no one touched your bare skin unless it was arranged and paid for, by your parents. while you were still young and impressionable, they talked you into "using your powers for good". people paid you, or rather your parents, to make you control them, "help" them. help addicts drop their addiction, no matter what it may be. help people work harder, better to get that promotion. help politicians get votes, get laws passed. help people fall in and out of love. no matter what it was, it had a price and many were desperate enough to pay it. it was a vicious, endless cycle but you were seen as a selfless saviour to those in need.

which is exactly why vought wanted you, needed you. some recent controversies and mild scandals had landed payback in hot water with the board members and pr team. allegations of drug use, violent bar fights, bribing, sex. you name it and the members of payback had probably done it. and here you came in, to save their name and reputation.

the crowd cheered as you stumbled onto the stage, the board members sitting front row looking pleased with themselves and payback sneering behind you, their eyes silently warning you; threatening. your hair had been curled and styled to perfection and you had been forced into a, somewhat, modest lilac suit that hugged each curve deliciously; if you asked soldier boy. along with matching gloves to keep you from accidentally reading someone's mind.

it was a fear that you carried with you at all times. with just a brush or graze of your hands against theirs; all their deep, dark secrets spilled and exposed. no matter what or how much you saw, you kept it all tightly locked up and pushed deep down so that it would never spill over the surface. you could barely live with yourself anyway, but it wasn't your place to ruin others lives in return.

"mystara!" the host announced as he slipped his arms around your shoulder and shook you as you forced a smile. "small town girl coming to big town new york! us, at vought, are delighted to announce that she'll be joining your favourite team, paybaaaack!" he pointed back at the vexed members who all plastered on fake smiles, similar to yours. they all waved ceremoniously, arrogantly to the crowd. soldier boy swaggered forward, pushed the host back to replace his arm around your shoulder and grabbed the mic from the host with a smirk.

"we are more than thrilled to have such a beautiful addition to our team. especially as she is my new girlfriend!" he said through gritted teeth. vought had worked hard to ensure that the marketing was in place. pairing you and soldier boy would only increase numbers. the soft-spoken mind-reader with the brutish, rough killer? it was almost too good and too easy. "we can't wait to work with her and make her a valued member of the team. ain't that right, sweetheart?" he turned and your eyes finally met. you could barely manage to keep the eye contact, his eyes demanding your attention as he held the microphone to your quivering lips. all you could hear was crimson countess scoffing behind the pair of you.

"thank you, s-soldier boy. i am so pleased to be here, so excited for this opportunity. i owe this to my parents, stan edgar and most importantly you, b-babe." you stuttered through your PR approved speech. soldier boy planted an unexpected kiss on your cheek before hissing in your ear.

"if you ever use any of your fuckin' tricks on me, i'll destroy your fuckin' pathetic, little life. you got that, sweetheart?" all you could do was stand frozen and just nod. "atta girl." he laughs and gives your ass a small pat.

"if only they could see you now, baby, hmm?" ben sighs as he pepper kisses across your breasts, his tongue poking out and flicking at your hardened nipple, chuckling as you squirm. "not so sweet and innocent as you would have them all believe." he hums as he sucks at one nipple and pinches the other, whilst whimpers fall past your bitten lips. "who knew you could be such a whore? such a sweet, obedient whore for me..." he groans as he leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses down your heaving chest and tensed stomach.

"you're so mean." you huff in protest, arching your back to feel his lips better against your supple skin.

"shut the fuck up, you love it." he scoffs, swiping his fingers through your folds and admiring the slick that adorns his fingers. "look how fucking wet you are and i've barely even touched you." his eyes sparkle as he brings his fingers to your mouth, inviting you to taste. your defiance isn't appreciated and he roughly grabs your jaw, forcing your mouth open and stuffing his fingers against the pad of your tongue. "fuuuck, sweetheart." his voice filled with adoration as you wildly suck and run your tongue over his fingers.

he knew he destroyed everything he touched, but he just couldn't keep his hands off of you. since he first saw you, he just knew that you were the one for him. underneath your innocent eyes and soft-spoken nature, you were hungry for acceptance; for someone to love you for you and not fear you. a feeling he mirrored and knew all too well.

he pulled back his hand, a string of saliva connecting his digits to your panting mouth. he slightly slaps your clit with his spit-covered fingers, messily running them back and forth over your most sensitive spot, relishing in your pleading.

"ben, ben- please, oh fuck-" you beg, as your hands pull and tug on the cotton sheets beneath you. it only ignites ben's excitement as he roughly spits on your pussy before dragging up pointed tongue up through your folds and settling on your tortured clit. he hungrily devours you as he wraps his toned arms around your thighs and tries, but fails, to keep you still as you feverishly buck your hips against his gifted tongue.

"god, you're so fuckin' needy, aren't you? always fuckin' beggin' and pleading for me." he mumbles against your folds, his tongue still working to pull the first orgasm out of you. "you're just my lil needy princess, aren't you? does my princess want to cum on soldier boy's tongue?" you can only squeeze your eyes shut and nod as your senses are overwhelmed. "look at me." another slap against your pussy. "look. at. me." ben demands. his eyes could burn a whole through yours with the intensity of his gaze as you start to lose control and cum all over his tongue. he loosens his grip on you and let you grind your pussy against his tongue, as he smirks and savours your taste coating his tongue.

ben wastes no time climbing on top of you, smashing his lips onto yours and your tongues intertwining with one another. to your surprise, he pauses to rest his forehead against yours and stroke your cheek.

it took you weeks to settle into your room and role at payback, no one took you seriously but simultaneously they feared you. dodged you when you got too close, afraid of what you would see, of what you would think of them. ironically, you didn't care enough to want to know their secrets and regrets, you could barely carry those you already had tried to forget.

but what you had forgotten is that your life wasn't yours to control. you were nothing but a puppet to the company that had threatened to "send you away" if you didn't comply.

you would pose as a secretary during vought meetings with a wig and all, shaking hands with international elected officials and relaying the information to vought management for extortion and blackmail purposes. influencing presidents, CEOs, and industry moguls to strategically invest in vought and help pass supe-positive laws to allow more human testing and production of compound v. anything to make vought more money.

however, it didn't stop there. the more power-hungry vought got, the more you were pushed around and forced to go against your morals. over the past several weeks, you had been sneaking into the payback member's individual rooms to gain intel and to make them more... complacent to voughts ideas and suggestions. but when it came to soldier boy, you flat-out refused. no matter how much you screamed and shouted at your managers, your worries were pushed aside.

that's how you found yourself sneaking into his room against your own will and better judgement. he looked so vulnerable when he slept, his brows furrowed only slightly and his hair swept beautifully across his hardened features. you're not sure how long you just stood there and just admired him, wanting nothing more than to just reach out and touch...

what you hadn't known that night, was that soldier boy was wide awake. he wasn't surprised; he knew why you were there and what vought was up to. but what surprised him was that you just left, without using your powers on him like he had expected and defying vought.

he thought about you for days until one evening, he thought it was finally time to confront you, to get some fucking answers. it was just after midnight and all the members had gone to bed after some heavy drinking and drug-taking in the payback conference room; everyone except you. you were never invited and never expected and that suited you just fine. you had witnessed how that shit could destroy lives too many times to count and you heeded the warnings. three loud knocks rapped at your door pulling you out of your thoughts. you sat your book down, instinctively pulled on your gloves, padded over barefoot and opened your door.

"s-soldier boy." you gasped. he looked down at you with a sneer, his brows in a deep frown and his soft, unstyled hair falling just in front of his analysing eyes. he simply grunted as he looked you over; no makeup, messy hair, pink pyjama set and your fuckin' gloves. he silently pushed past you and walked into your bedroom, leaving you frozen and confused at your door. you quickly closed the door and turned to the contrasting, intimidating figure in your girly bedroom. like a western stand-off, you both stood and just watched one another, waiting to see who'd break first.

"why?" he barked at you, making you flinch.

"why what, sir?" you asked carefully.

"don't give me that sir bullshit." he snorted. "do you think i'm fucking stupid, huh? why didn't you touch me that night with your freaky-ass powers? i know you're doing it to all the others, by the way. i've seen how you sneak in and out of their rooms, how they're suddenly acting different and think everythin' vought does is just revolutionary. i see you." with each sentence, he makes his way over to you right until he's towering over you. you feel like a wounded animal at the end of a hunter's gun, silently begging for freedom.

"i- i couldn't. i was afraid of what i'll see. afraid of how you would react if you worked it out. afraid of you." you quietly admit, deciding it's better to be truthful and once you started, it was hard to stop.

"but what if i wanted you to see?" he muttered in response.

he had pushed and folded your legs tightly against your chest as he mercilessly pounded his thick cock into you, with one hand wrapped tightly around your dainty throat and the other grabbing your thigh to stabilise himself. the only sounds filling the room were your hushed begging and ben whispering the most foul words into your ear as you came undone under him.

"god, please- ben, im so close, please.." you begged endlessly and breathlessly as his grip on your throat tightens.

"always so fuckin' tight, princess. god, you're so cock-hungry, it just keeps suckin' me in. fuck." he groans as his stubble rubs against your ear. his hips snap ruthlessly against yours, your gummy walls contracting and clamping around him. "d'you wanna come, baby? gonna cum all over my cock, like the slut you are?" as your eyes roll into your head, you somehow manage to nod and let out a weak "yes, please...". his teeth nipped and tugged on your ears before travelling down and leaving sloppy kisses all down your neck before biting down on your shoulder. marking your silky skin and watching with glee as the teeth marks decorate your skin as a reminder of who you belong to.

he pealed himself away to gaze softly down at you and your completely fucked-out state. god, he was convinced that he would never grow tired of this sight, which is why he immediately stopped, leaving you high and dry. tears threaten to form and roll down your reddened cheeks as you stare at him, mouth agape and band right about to snap.

"my sweet angel, i'm not done with you yet." he hums as turns you over onto all fours and slowly starts to thrust again as he gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, starting the torturous process all over again.

he had grabbed your wrist and slipped off your glove as you fought and yelled in protest. this is the last thing you wanted. you weren't ready to face the horrors that his psyche hid. but he wanted to give you the full truth so he could pour some out and share the in the guilt you carried, together.

"stop!" you yell out. "no, fuck! don't, plea-" his fingers had intertwined with yours and everything flashed before your eyes like a bomb had gone off behind your eyes.

his abusive father, his distant mother, his trauma-filled boarding school days, injecting the compound v and the pain that followed. all the fake pr stunts; normandy beach, ww2, helping the soldiers. the drugs, the women, the drinking. killing, murders, bodies beaten to a pulp. the desperate need for approval, for acceptance, for something real. like you, his life was no longer his and he feared the worst. the last thing that appeared in front of your eyes was as clear as day: his dirty, unfiltered thoughts of you.

you wrenched your hand from his grip and staggered back, your mind a whirlwind.

"don't ever fucking do that again." your chest heaved with anger. "you don't have the fucking right to do that! no matter who you are!" you snatched back your glove and put it on.

"did you see it all?" he asked calmly. not what you expected.

"i saw everything." you nod.

"... and?"

suddenly, the towering figure in front of you had transformed into the young boy who yearned for love and understanding. he had never wanted to be feared but it was wired into his new dna and he couldn't shake it no matter how much he wanted to. you couldn't help but soften up and almost... pity him.

"and i see you." you repeat his earlier words back to him. he lets out a loud sigh and runs a hand over his rugged face. "i- i had no idea. about everything. i'm sorry." ben scoffs in response.

"i don't need your fucking sympathy. i just needed you to know that..." he hesitated. "i understand and i'm not afraid of you. you shouldn't be afraid of me. i don't want you to be." he edges closer to you, grabbing the tips of your gloves and slowly sliding them off, his eyes never leaving yours. he held your hands in his as if they were porcelain, bringing one up and kissing one of your fingertips to show the depth of his words. "our hands are weapons used against our will. but together, you and me, we can resurrect something beautiful."

"ben." you gasp, all of this unexpected.

"you know i want this. my dirty thoughts of you, they were never mine to keep." he sighed before leaning down, ever so slightly, and brushing his lips against yours. you grab the back of his neck and bring his lips to yours in a heated clash of tongues and teeth. you knew he was going to wreck you, but you wanted nothing more than to give in and seek comfort in your american psycho.

that's how you ended up here; riding ben like your life depended on it. your tight walls hugging bens cock like your pussy was made for him and his hands fitting perfectly on your hips as he guided you. he swallowed your loud moans as your lips tangled together and your tongues intertwined. his hips bucking up to match your frenzied tempo as you lost yourself in the sensation of being completely filled by him. he threads his finger through your hair and tugs on it, yanking your head back, making you yelp and hiss in pain.

"i love the way you hurt me." you rasp out in between rough thrusts and playful bites across your chest; the harsh purple bruises a contrast to your delicate nature. ben grins against your neck as he reaches around and slaps your ass with a groan.

"god, i have really fucked you up, haven't i? my baby, so fuckin' dirty." he chuckles as he leans back and folds his arms behind his head to watch the show you're putting on for him. "show me how much you fuckin' need me and i might let you come on my cock." you claw at his chest with your lilac nails, that match your supe-suit, as you grind down onto him with full force. the sweat cascading down your back and slick covering ben's thick thighs.

that was a pro and con of being supes; you could fuck for hours, but you could also get fucked for hours without room for a breather. you were sure that ben had fucked you stupid after edging you on for what felt like hours as he rides his bennie-filled high and gets to see how you fall apart under him.

"you know that only good sluts get to come on my cock, don't you?" he laughs as you notice your pace slacking, your body soon couldn't take anymore. he forcefully grabs your jaw; his pupils completely blown leaving only a ring of bright green around them. he taps your lips and you open them with a second thought, something that he programmed into you. he spits into your mouth and watches adoringly as you roll it around in your mouth before swallowing it and resuming your previous frenzied pace. his rough hands grab your hips, squeezing your supple skin as he fucks his cock deeper into you. within seconds, you're finally coming all over him as you curse and pant his name like a prayer.

"fuck- nggh, oh my fucking god, ben.. ben, ben!" you shout as he comes with you; the feeling of being filled with him was like no other. he lazily thrusts into you whilst carefully laying you on your back and adorning your face with soft kisses and whispered "good girl"'s. you share one final, deep kiss; filled with unsaid emotions and promises to one another before he lifts you up and carries you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up.

two misplaced puzzle pieces, finally belonging and forming a picture no one else could see.

you weren't sure who affected who more. you had been introduced to the world of desire and sin by ben; he was your first everything and he revelled in that fact. knowing no one had heard or seen you the way he does, fuck. it was like a whole new drug and it's potency was almost deadly. you had gotten more calculated, with his encouragement, and were using your powers for your own good and not just at the behest of whoever held your leash. you confronted your parents and had cut off the contact, although the damage was done. you were still the people's soft princess to the adoring crowds, but you had evolved into something more sinister; more selfish. and nothing could get in your way now.

in comparison, ben had gotten calmer. he didn't throw himself into women, drinking and drugs like before, only occasionally dabbling in taking a hit or two of whatever he had lying around. men like him is what love destroys and his harsh outer layer was slowly eroding. his vicious appetite for destruction and violence needed less feeding and attention. his sole purpose was to protect you and ensure that you both would never be denied the happiness he knew you deserved. he considered what was better; to be feared or to be loved. but he had come to the conclusion that "one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved."

thanks to you, he had both.

a/n: WELL. i hope you like this one too guys; it was so much fun to write and rather self-indulgent. i'm considering ACTUALLY make this fic a series, i love their dynamic. this was based on another favourite song of mine that immediately makes me think of the loml, ben, when i hear it <3 long live fall out boy

-`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @kayleighwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @doeinlace (comment or inbox me to be added)

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wchswift · 1 month ago

Text

✰ PATCH ME IN, BABY

→ summary: being the boys’ hacker means long nights, shitty coffee, and zero quiet—but being soldier boy's hacker girlfriend makes the chaos worth it, especially when it ends in teasing, softness, and good hot sex.

⤿ soldier boy x supe hacker!reader / cw: established relationship, domestic fluff + smut, light banter, slightly soft ben (for you only), kinda out of character ben.

⤿ word count! 1.2k

Your nose wrinkles at the smell of burned toast and gun oil that fills the loft.

Which, if you ask anyone else, is a disaster. But to you, it’s just home. Soldier Boy’s boots are kicked off near the door, his shield leaning against the kitchen table like it owns the damn place. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old tees—an ancient, washed-out thing that reads Support Our Troops—your laptop balanced on your thighs as you tap away.

He strolls out of the shower, towel low on his hips, still damp, beard a little more trimmed. Bare chest on full display.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, not even looking up, “ever heard of clothes?”

Ben smirks, voice low and gravelly. “Ever heard of knocking before ogling your man in his natural habitat?”

“I live here, and it's my place actually,” you deadpan. “and I wasn’t ogling. I was regretting my life choices.”

He saunters closer, towel slipping lower. “Sure you were, sweetheart.”

You snort but don’t protest when he plants himself behind the couch and leans over to peer at your screen. drops of water dripping from his hair, cool against your neck. “Whatcha workin’ on, Oracle?”

“Cross-checking security footage from that Vought safehouse Butcher wants us to hit. And don’t call me Oracle. I’m not a comic book character.”

He smirks, beard brushing your temple as he leans in. “C’mon, it’s a solid supe-name. You’re the hacker chick. The brains. The spooky voice in our ears.”

You snort. “Yeah, and you’re the dumbass who thinks brute force counts as a personality trait.”

Ben chuckles, low and smug. “Aw, come on. I’m the muscle, you’re the brains. It’s a classic combo.”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re calling you now? Muscle?”

"Look at least I’m not the one hiding behind a screen like a little princess while the rest of us do the dirty work.”

You slowly swivel in your seat to face him, raising a brow. “Princess?”

“If the combat boot fits…”

“Oh please. I could knock you on your ass without breaking a sweat.”

Ben chuckles. “Sure you could, sweetheart.”

“You’re only alive half the time because I am behind a screen,” you fire back. “I do the heavy lifting. You just don’t notice, ‘cause the only muscles you ever use are the ones in your biceps and your jaw.”

He grins, eyes glittering with affection. “And still, you’re into me. And you love those muscles. What does that make you then?”

You lean your head back, grinning up at him. “Touché.”

For a moment, there’s silence—comfortable, warm. His fingers drift lazily along your collarbone, rough thumb tracing circles against your skin like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

This is the side of Soldier Boy the world never sees. Not the snarling, posturing legend. Just Ben. Your Ben. Who makes the worst coffee in New York, sings off-key in the shower, and eats peanut butter straight from the jar with a hunting knife.

And who, against every possible odd, is stupidly in love with you.

“You done soon?” he asks, mouth brushing your temple.

You hum. “Ten minutes. Why? Got somewhere to be?”

“Nowhere but here.”

That earns him a soft smile. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Yeah, well,” he rumbles, “don’t tell the others. I’ve got a rep to ruin.”

You tilt your head up to kiss him. Just a quick thing, a peck—but he deepens it like he’s been waiting all day for it. Tongue, teeth, hand in your hair. When he finally pulls back, your lips are kissed raw.

You blink up at him, breathless. “You were saying something about ruining your rep?”

Ben grins, all cocky and warm. “Was thinkin’ I’d ruin you instead.”

Oh. He was so embarrassing but oh.

Laptop forgotten, you twist to kneel on the couch and pull him towards you by the neck. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

He likes you right here, half-naked on his lap, his shirt riding up your hips as you grind against the hard length of him beneath his towel. His hands are big and warm and everywhere—cupping your ass, spreading your thighs wider.

“You wearin’ panties under this?” he growls, tugging at the shirt.

“Nope,” you say sweetly.

Ben groans, hands tightening around your waist. “Fuck, baby. You tryna kill me?”

“You’re a superhero, remember? Thought you could take it.”

He rips the shirt over your head, groaning like he’s been denied oxygen. “You tryna take me, is what you’re doin’.”

Your fingers slide into his damp hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again—slow, deep, filthy. His beard scratches your skin in all the right ways, his chest hot and solid against yours. You roll your hips, and he hisses, low and dangerous.

“Christ, you’re wet, soaking the fucking towel,” he mutters against your throat. “Fuckin’ soaked for me, huh?”

You gasp as he shifts, letting the towel fall away so he can slide two thick fingers through your folds, teasing but never giving you enough.

“Ben…”

“Tell me what you want, babygirl.”

You grind down, frustrated and aching. “I want you. Inside me. Now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you by the hips and sinks you down onto his cock, both of you gasping as he stretches you open. He’s big—always is—but tonight you take him so well, like you were made for him.

“Fuck, you always feel good, always my perfect doll.” he pants, fingers bruising your hips as you start to ride him.

You move together like you’ve done it a hundred times—because you have. But it never gets old. The sweat, the grip of his hands, the way he watches you like you’re everything.

Like he’s not a living weapon, a goddamn legend.

Just a man. Your man.

“Ben,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “Love you.”

He kisses you hard, hips snapping up to meet yours.

“Yeah?” he groans. “Then come for me, baby. Show me.”

You do—body shuddering, walls fluttering around him as you cry out, the world narrowing to white-hot pleasure and his name on your lips.

He follows right after, with a deep, desperate sound, spilling inside you and holding you close like you might vanish.

When it’s over, you collapse against him, boneless and panting, skin sticky with sweat.

“You good?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face.

You smile sleepily. “Better than good.”

Ben nuzzles your neck. “Think I like this domestic shit.”

“Yeah?” you mumble. “Even when I hog the blankets and leave hair in the sink?”

“Especially then,” he says, and damn it, he means it.

You fall asleep there on the couch, tangled together under a throw blanket that smells like sex and old cologne, a bag of Doritos within arm’s reach and his shield watching over you like a silent, patriotic chaperone.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t change a damn thing.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

Lina's notes: hello!! this is the first part of a mini-series with independent one-shots that I was already planning and even mentioned here. I had this idea of soldier boy with a supe hacker reader based on DC's Oracle, and my god, I'm in love with them and their dynamic, so I wrote this little drabble as an introduction to them and their little story. I hope you guys like it and want to read more when I finally start the series properly <3

taglist: @blossomingorchids @rositaslabyrinth @bettystonewell @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bluemerakis @h8aaz @bruisedfig @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @bejeweledinterludes @starzify @gibson-g1rl @losers-clvb @tinas111 @amaris444 @sapphic-destiel @deansmisha (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

#꣖ ີ ꣓ writes.#soldier boy 🪽#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #soldier boy x you #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fluff #soldier boy one shot #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys smut #the boys #soldier boy x female!reader #jensen ackles fic #jensen fucking ackles #smut fic

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monicfever · 2 months ago

Note

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you��re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 3 months ago

Text

don't lie to me

part I — part II — part III

pairing: boyfriend's!dad!ben x girlfriend!reader

content warning/s & word count: 18+!, ben being his own warning, forbidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, age gap, language, toxic relationship, heartbreak, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, clitoral stimulation, mutual masturbation, squirting, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, spanking, marking, spitting, degradation, gentle humiliation), guilt, I think that's it. 7.1k

You didn't know when things started to go bad. Not really. But you remembered when they started to go good, and that felt important.

You and Jamie had been together for a long time. Too long, probably. Long enough to make leaving feel like failure. Long enough to confuse nostalgia with love.

It was good in the beginning. Golden, even. The kind of romance that made your friends roll their eyes but smile when they said you were lucky. Jamie had a casual kind of charm, easy in his skin, confident in the way most college boys were—like he knew the world would bend for him eventually. He brought you gas station flowers and kissed you like he meant it. He called you his girl and made you feel like that title actually meant something.

The first year was everything.

After that, the cracks came quick. The texts got shorter. The kisses got rarer. He stopped asking if you got home safe and started forgetting you were even coming over. You'd sit in your car outside his house while he "finished up at work," only to wait two hours and see him post a photo from someone else's party.

He always had an excuse. You always believed him.

Because that's what you did when you loved someone. You gave them the benefit of the doubt. You softened your edges to fit theirs, even when it left you bleeding.

Lately, it had gotten worse. The kind of worse that was hard to ignore. He stopped coming home when you were over. He'd call you, say he was just running errands, and then not show up until midnight. If at all.

So you started spending your time with someone else. Not by choice. Not at first. It just happened that way.

Because Ben was always the one who answered the door.

You'd knock, expecting Jamie, and there he'd be—broad-shouldered, barefoot, always a little scruffy like he hadn't decided whether to shave or not. He'd take one look at your apologetic smile and sigh like he was already annoyed with his son, then step aside and tell you to come in.

You'd sit on the couch with him, sometimes in silence, sometimes not. Watch football with a mug of tea he made without asking how you liked it. The commentary on the screen would hum in the background, but your attention would drift, eyes trailing the way he sat—casual, like nothing in the world could touch him. Like the room shaped itself around his gravity.

He was different from Jamie. Steady. Solid in a way that didn't demand anything from you. People used to say he was wild, back in the day. That he was the reason everyone wanted to party at their house in high school. Jamie used to brag about it, say his dad could drink anyone under the table and still wake up at dawn to run five miles. There was something about Ben that made people lean in when he spoke. Something sharp in his smile, wicked in his humor, but dulled by the years like a knife worn smooth by use.

He still cursed like a sailor, still called politicians jackasses and made crude jokes that made you choke on your drink, but there was a gentleness there too. One you weren't sure anyone else saw.

He always hugged you when you left. Tight. Firm. His hand splayed across your back like he meant it, like it mattered that you'd come.

Sometimes he said things that made your stomach twist.

"You could do better than him. That boy don't deserve someone like you."

You always brushed it off. Told yourself it was just a dad thing, a gruff attempt at keeping his son humble. You never thought there was truth behind it.

And even if there was, you'd spent so long pretending Jamie was still the boy you fell in love with... it felt dangerous to let yourself want someone who actually saw you. Someone who never made you feel like too much or not enough.

Ben never made you feel like a placeholder. But Jamie did. More and more.

And now, you were twenty-three, sitting on the same couch you always had, wrapped in the blanket Ben threw onto your lap without a word. Jamie wasn't home. Again. You didn't even ask where he was this time. You just waited. Like always.

Ben didn't ask either. He just turned up the volume on the game and passed you the popcorn.

It wasn't weird. But maybe it had been building for longer than you realised. You'd forgotten how easy it was to be around him.

The couch sagged a little beneath his weight as he shifted to grab the remote, muttering something about "goddamn commercials" under his breath before flipping to something less noisy—reruns of some old action flick, grainy and overacted. He always said he liked the classics. Said actors nowadays didn't know how to throw a punch without a green screen.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he settled back, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other cradling a sweating bottle of beer. His legs were spread comfortably, boots still on. He hadn't changed out of the work shirt he wore to fix the gutter earlier that afternoon—collar open, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, grease still dark beneath his nails.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep. You'd just meant to sit down for a minute. Rest your legs. Let your spine uncurl into the couch that still smelled faintly like woodsmoke and cheap detergent.

Ben was still next to you. One leg stretched out, the other bent just enough for his knee to brush yours. You weren't sure if it had always been that close. His beer sat half-finished on the table, and he was flipping through channels with the kind of concentration that made you think he'd been doing it for fifteen minutes and still hadn't found anything worth watching.

"Jesus," he muttered, "is it all just reboots and dick-measurin' contests now? Whole industry's got its head up its ass."

You blinked blearily and smiled into the throw blanket he'd tossed at you earlier. Not handed. Tossed. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn't noticed you shivering and grumbled something about "central heating bein' for soft little pricks."

He noticed everything. Just never talked like he did.

"You okay?" He asked without looking. "You were out cold for, like... four whole minutes."

"I wasn't asleep."

"Right." He snorted. "You were just aggressively meditatin' with your mouth open."

You laughed before you could stop it. A sharp little sound in the quiet. His mouth twitched, just barely.

That was the thing with Ben. Everything was just barely. Just under the surface. Just on the edge of being something else.

He leaned back, arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers drumming against the cushion behind your head like he wasn't thinking about how close they were. Like it didn't matter.

"You know," he drawled, "I always figured my kid was dumb, but this shit? Tellin' you to come over and then pulling a Houdini? That's a whole new level of dumbass. Like, Olympic-tier."

You grinned, cheeks warm. "You're not supposed to say that."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "What's he gonna do? Cry about it into his fuckin' vape?"

You shook your head, biting your lip to hold in another laugh. "He says he's just busy. Work's been—"

Ben made a sharp noise in his throat. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make excuses for him." He finally looked at you. Direct. That sharp green stare like he was lining up a target. "He's not that busy. Nobody's that busy. You don't leave someone like you sittin' on a couch with a guy like me unless you're either a fuckin' idiot or just don't give a shit."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Your heart thumped a little harder.

Ben ran a hand over his jaw, rough and tired. "Christ. I didn't mean it like that."

"No, I... I know."

He shifted, tension bleeding into his shoulders like he was trying to shake it off. "You're tired. Go crash upstairs if you want. Guest room's clean. Or Jamie's, if you feel like baskin' in the smell of Axe body spray and underachievement."

You smiled, soft. "I like sitting with you."

Ben paused. Brief, but enough to notice.

"Yeah," he said, quiet. "I like it too."

And that was it. He didn't touch you. Didn't move closer. Just let it sit there between you, real and unspoken.

The TV flickered on, casting blue light across his face. The room was quiet. Safe.

Then your phone buzzed. You looked down. Jamie. Ben caught the name on the screen and went still, like a hunting dog catching scent. He didn't say anything—just leaned back a little, eyes still on the screen.

You answered.

"Hey," you said, already curling into yourself, trying not to sound too hopeful.

A laugh. Not Jamie's. A girl.

Then Jamie's voice, distant and smug: "Yeah, hey. So, I've been thinking. We should break up."

It hit like a car crash. Sudden. No brakes. You blinked at the wall, your mouth parting in disbelief.

Ben's head turned, slow and sharp. "He what?" He said, voice low.

You didn't answer. Couldn't. You were still listening to Jamie—still trying to make sense of what he was saying while someone giggled beside him, soft and syrupy.

He told you to grab your stuff and head out. That was it. No apology. No hesitation. Just a quick, "Later," and the line went dead.

Your phone dropped to your lap. You didn't cry, but Ben stood slowly, the couch groaning as his weight shifted. He didn't speak at first—just watched you, jaw working like he was biting down on something bitter.

You forced yourself to move. To smile like nothing had happened. Like you hadn't just been gutted from the inside out by a boy who couldn't even break up with you alone.

"I should grab my stuff," you said lightly, pushing the blanket aside. "Jamie's not gonna be back anytime soon, so..."

You moved to stand, but Ben stepped into your path before you could take a full breath. His hand caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you.

"Hey."

You looked up at him. His eyes searched yours, green and dark and unrelenting.

"Tell me what just happened."

You shook your head, tried to pull your arm back gently, but he didn't let go.

"It's nothing."

"Bullshit," he snapped.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't cruel. But it cut through the air like a blade. Your stomach twisted.

"I'm serious," you insisted, keeping your voice light. "It's not a big deal. We just... talked. That's all."

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm. His other hand hovered for a second, like he didn't know where to put it. Then he let it fall.

"Don't lie to me," he said, quieter now. Rough around the edges. "You think I don't know what that voice means? I've known you too long for that."

You looked down at where his fingers wrapped around your wrist, your skin warmer than it should've been. That was when you noticed it—his hands were clean now. The dark streaks of grease that had been etched into the creases of his knuckles earlier were gone. No smudges under his nails. He'd washed up when you weren't looking.

When you were "sleeping." He'd done it quietly. Without saying anything. Like he didn't want to wake you.

Your throat tightened.

"It's fine," you said again, barely above a whisper. "Really. I just... I should go."

Ben exhaled hard through his nose. Then he stepped in, close enough that the scent of clean soap and warm cotton hit you like a memory. His hand was still on your wrist. He dropped his voice.

"You're not goin' anywhere until you tell me what the hell just happened."

You hesitated. Swallowed. It wasn't even that you wanted to protect Jamie anymore—you just didn't want to see it. Didn't want to put the words into the air and make them real. But Ben's stare didn't budge. And you'd never been good at lying to him.

"He..." You took a shaky breath. "He called. From someone's car. A girl. She was laughing in the background."

Ben's jaw clenched, sharp enough that the muscle jumped.

"He broke up with me," you finished, soft and stunned, like you were still catching up to it.

He didn't speak. Not at first. His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist—once, slow. It felt like a pulse.

"Fuckin' coward," he muttered.

You didn't argue. You didn't say anything at all. Because the silence that followed felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name.

Ben didn't let go of your wrist until you blinked again. He watched you like he was waiting for you to crumble, to fall apart right in front of him. And maybe you would've, if he hadn't caught you first.

"You're not drivin' like this."

"I'm fine," you tried again, but your voice didn't hold. It cracked at the edge.

"No, you're not," he snapped, already steering you back toward the couch like the conversation was over. "You're shakin' like a goddamn leaf and your face is doin' that thing—don't gimme that look."

"I'm not—"

"Sit."

You sat.

Ben stood over you for a second, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to rip it out. Then he turned, muttering under his breath as he stomped toward the stairs.

"Little shitbag can't even grow a pair to break up with a girl like a goddamn man," he grumbled. "Calls you from someone else's fuckin' car? While she's gigglin'? Jesus Christ, what a pathetic excuse for a—"

He kept going as he climbed the stairs, the sound of his boots thudding heavier with each step. You stared at the muted television, every nerve in your body ringing. Your hands were curled into the hem of your shirt. Your chest ached.

You hadn't realised how heavy the silence in this house had gotten until Ben's voice had filled it.

A few minutes later, he came back down with your overnight bag slung over one shoulder, his jaw set, expression thunderous.

"That my stuff?" You asked, sitting up straighter.

He dropped the bag near the hallway, closer to the guest room than the front door.

"Movin' it."

You blinked. "What?"

"The guest room." He shrugged like it was nothing. "Jamie's room smells like old socks and broken promises. You're better off."

"I can't stay here."

"Sure you can."

"Ben—"

"I already called him." His voice was low, clipped. "Told him not to come home tonight. Told him if he did, I'd knock his teeth so far down his throat he'd be spittin' molars 'til Christmas."

Your mouth fell open.

"You... you didn't."

He raised a brow. "Sure did. And he agreed. Pussy little prick probably didn't want to face you anyway."

You shook your head, heart starting to beat faster. "I can't do that. It's not fair."

Ben looked at you for a long second. Then he let out a breath through his nose—tight, bitter.

"No," he said finally. "It's not. But it's the first goddamn time anyone's treated you even half as good as you deserve in this house. And I'm not lettin' you crawl out the front door like you're just some fuckin' afterthought."

Your breath caught.

He didn't seem to notice what he'd said—he was too busy crouching to unzip your bag, mumbling something about pyjamas and Advil, like this was any other night. Like he hadn't just dropped a live wire between you.

You sat frozen, replaying the words.

The first goddamn time anyone's treated you even half as good as you deserve in this house.

You weren't sure exactly what he'd meant. But something about the way he said it, the heat under the gravel of his voice, the way he hadn't looked at you after—it felt like a confession. Small. Raw. Dangerous.

You looked away, cheeks burning.

He didn't mean it like that. He couldn't have. You were just upset. You were reading into things. Making it worse than it was.

Ben was just being... kind. That was all.

Ben moved through your bag with that familiar, rough focus he had when something pissed him off. He didn't bother asking about what to grab—he just reached into it and fished out your pyjamas, a ratty old pair of flannel shorts and a loose t-shirt. He tossed them at you with a grunt, the fabric landing in your lap.

"Change. Now. I'm not lettin' you leave this house tonight. You need sleep. And if I gotta make you comfortable to get it, then I will."

You took a deep breath and nodded. Maybe you'd actually get a good night's sleep here for once—something you hadn't been able to do in weeks. Maybe it was the comfort of Ben's familiar grumbling, or maybe it was the fact that the world felt just a little bit safer when he was here.

"Thanks," you murmured, standing up and heading toward the guest room to change.

When you came back out a few minutes later, the house was still. The television had been muted, and there were two cold beers sweating on the table. Ben tipped his head toward the beers with a casual nod.

"Take one if you want," he muttered, still clearly worked up about his son. "Or if you're picky, you know where I keep the good shit."

You hesitated for a second, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Good shit. Ben's idea of "good shit" usually meant top-shelf whiskey or one of those small-batch bourbons you could only find if you knew the right people. You weren't picky tonight.

"I'll take the beer, thanks."

Ben grunted in acknowledgment, but his eyes were already back on the TV, his jaw tight with whatever thoughts were spiralling in his head.

"You know," he started, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself, "you're always so goddamn polite when you're here. Always so considerate. Thoughtful. Mindful. You don't act like the rest of 'em."

He didn't look at you. Instead, he grabbed his own beer and took a long sip, eyes still fixed on the TV.

"You're too good for him," Ben added, his voice barely above a murmur. "That kid... James, he's been a goddamn disappointment for a while now, and I've been too patient with him."

You couldn't help it—you let out a small giggle at the way Ben spoke about his son. It wasn't just the words, but the way his voice broke with frustration and the rawness of it all.

"You know," you said softly, taking a sip from your beer to hide your smile, "I didn't think you'd be so pissed."

Ben's lips twisted into something that could've been a smile if he wasn't so damn angry. "You didn't think I'd be so pissed? You must not've been listenin', sweetheart."

You shook your head. "I didn't realise how much that pissed you off."

"Don't get me started." He leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. "He's been draggin' his ass through life like a fuckin' kid playing pretend. And you? You deserve so much more than that. Always takin' care of everyone but yourself. Jamie don't appreciate you." His voice softened for a second. Then it hardened again, muttering, "Useless waste of space."

You chuckled under your breath, the sound foreign in the quiet room. Even in a moment like this, Ben could still pull that laugh out of you. It wasn't even a joke, really. But the way he spoke about his son was so Ben—raw, unapologetically real, and somehow endearing even when it was brutal.

You looked at him, confused by the sharp pang of emotion in your chest. You should've been angry. You should've been crying. But instead, you found yourself giggling, something warm in your belly, even though the weight of Jamie's call was still hanging over you.

"Why do I feel like I'm laughing at the worst possible time?" You murmured, shaking your head. "Like, I know you're furious, but..."

Ben didn't look at you right away. He just took another long pull from his beer and muttered, "Yeah, well. Better to laugh than cry, right?"

You weren't sure if he was talking to you or himself.

Then he glanced over—brief, like he couldn't help it—and added, a little quieter, "Kid pulls that shit on you, and you're still sittin' here being polite... no wonder I'm the one losin' it."

Ben hadn't stopped ranting since you sat back down.

Your beer was cold in your hand, sweating like your palms. He was muttering, swearing under his breath, one hand raking through his hair while the other gestured to ghosts in the air around him.

"Fuckin' unbelievable. Kid's got a girl like you sittin' in his house and decides to toss you aside like a fast-food wrapper." He scoffed. "Jesus Christ."

You didn't say anything. You weren't sure you could. There was a weight in your throat that hadn't moved since the call ended. But Ben kept going, voice low and sharp like a knife sliding over a whetstone.

"I mean, really—what the fuck does he think he's gonna do better than you?" He turned, finally facing you, heat still simmering behind his eyes. "You're here, lookin' like that, sittin' on my couch in your little pyjamas, and he's out there dick-first in somebody else's backseat?"

You looked up, startled. "Ben..."

But he wasn't done.

"God, if you were mine..." His voice dropped, rough and quiet, the words dragging out of him before he could stop them. "I wouldn't let you leave the fuckin' bed."

The silence snapped taut.

You sucked in a breath. Tiny. Audible. And his eyes flicked straight to you. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks instantly, your fingers tightening around the bottle in your lap, heart hammering like it wanted to break your ribs. You didn't look at him. Couldn't.

But it was too late. He'd seen it. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. Not softer—never softer—but lower. Controlled. Deliberate.

"Yeah. You like that, huh?"

Your head turned toward him before you could stop it, eyes wide.

Ben didn't smile. His expression barely changed. But he shifted on the couch, leaned in just a little, forearm braced against his knee, beer bottle hanging forgotten between his fingers.

"'Course you do. He doesn't have a clue what he had." His voice rasped, barely above a whisper now. "Didn't know how to look at you. Not really. Not like I do."

You were trembling. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From something darker. Thicker. Want. You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. His leg brushed yours when he leaned in further.

"Sittin' there in those little shorts," he murmured, eyes dropping—slow, deliberate, dragging over your thighs and back up. "All sweet and soft, tryin' to play it cool. Like I haven't been noticin' every fuckin' inch of you for months."

Your breath caught.

Ben let the silence stretch. Then he leaned just a little closer, his voice so low it felt like it was inside you.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "The little fuck ever even make you moan?"

You gasped. You didn't mean to. It slipped out of you like a secret, sharp and quiet and real. Your eyes snapped to his—wide, shocked, pleading for him to pretend he hadn't said it.

He didn't. His gaze didn't waver. If anything, it darkened.

"Or was he too busy admirin' his own reflection to figure out how to touch you?"

You stared at him, frozen.

"Bet I'd only need one hand," he muttered, more to himself than you. "Maybe two, if I wanted to be generous."

Your thighs pressed together.

Ben's eyes dropped. Noticed. His jaw ticked. He leaned in—closer now, the heat of him thick in the space between you. Close enough to count every fleck in his eyes, every scar on his knuckles, every breath that ghosted between your mouths.

"You're thinkin' about it now, huh?"

You couldn't answer. You didn't need to. Because your body already had. And Ben? Ben looked like he was about to sin for the first time in his life—and fucking thank God for it.

Ben hadn't touched you. Not once. And still, your whole body was trembling.

Your knees were pressed together, your thighs aching with tension. You could feel the way your breath stuttered in your throat, the way your grip had gone white-knuckled around your beer. He was still so close. Still watching you like he could see straight through every layer you'd ever used to protect yourself.

"You're thinkin' about it now, ain't you?" He asked again, quieter this time. Like a secret.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. But something in your silence made his eyes darken. Made the air in the room twist into something dangerous.

Ben sat back slightly, but only to set his beer down on the table. The bottle clinked. His eyes never left yours.

Then, voice low and deliberate, he said the thing that broke you.

"If I had you," he murmured, rough and slow like gravel in molasses, "you wouldn't be sittin' here wonderin' what it feels like to be wanted. You'd be fuckin' glowing."

Your stomach dropped. A sound slipped out of you—unbidden, humiliatingly soft.

A whine.

Ben's jaw ticked. And then—he smiled. Not sweetly. Not kindly. He smiled like a man who'd just won something.

"Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "There she is."

You looked at him, startled, every nerve in your body tight and humming. But he didn't move toward you. He didn't lunge or grab. He just spread his legs a little wider and patted his thigh, lazy and confident.

"C'mere."

You blinked.

"What—"

His brows lifted. "You want me to make you feel better, don't you?"

Your breath caught again.

He cocked his head, smirk widening like he could see every thought unraveling behind your eyes.

"Or you gonna sit there playin' good girl until it hurts?" His voice was velvet-wrapped sin, laced with dry amusement. "Your call."

You stared at him, frozen. He didn't push. Just let his hand rest on his thigh, palm open, warm and steady.

"Not gonna beg," he said, tone lighter now, teasing. "You want it, sweetheart, you come take it."

That did something to you. The challenge. The smugness. The fact that he was still so patient with it. Like he knew he didn't need to do anything but wait you out.

And god help you, it was working.

You swallowed hard. Shifted slightly on the couch. Heart hammering.

Ben's gaze flicked down—watched the movement. Still didn't touch you. But his voice dropped one last octave. Soft now. Almost sincere.

"You want comfort?" He said. "You want someone to show you what it's supposed to feel like?"

His hand flexed against his thigh. The invitation was silent. Waiting.

"C'mere, baby girl."

You didn't move at first.

Just stared at his lap like it might catch fire if you touched it. Your fingers tightened around the neck of your beer bottle, your pulse thudding against the inside of your throat like it was trying to climb out.

Ben just watched you. Silent. Still.

You set the bottle down. Carefully. Deliberately. It hit the table with a quiet clink. Then you stood. Moved in front of him. Stood between his knees.

He tilted his head back to look up at you, brows raised, like he was amused that you'd made it this far. Like he was proud.

His legs were spread, but not wide enough—not yet. You looked down at the space between them, at the lazy way he was leaning back into the couch, relaxed in that heavy, masculine way like his body knew you were coming before you did.

"You look like you're tryin' to solve a fuckin' puzzle," he said, voice low, teasing. "Ain't that complicated, sweetheart. You want it, you take it."

You flushed. Still, you didn't move.

Ben's voice softened, but somehow it only made everything worse.

"You nervous?" He asked, head cocked slightly. "Or just takin' your time with me?"

You glanced at him, breath shaky, and he smiled—soft. Not mocking. Not smug. Just warm.

Then he leaned back further into the couch and spread his legs wider, thighs shifting beneath the thin cotton of his sweats, settling in like a man getting comfortable.

Waiting. Watching.

"I've got all night," he murmured. "But you don't need to wait, baby girl. You want to feel better?" His eyes flicked to your mouth. "Come take it."

Your knees nearly buckled.

You climbed into his lap before you could stop yourself. Slow. Careful. Like if you moved too fast, you might spook yourself and bolt back to the other side of the room. Your legs slid over his thighs and you lowered yourself, your hands braced on his shoulders, every part of you tense with something that felt like fear and desire tied together with string.

And only then—only when you were fully in his lap, straddling him—did he touch you. His hands lifted. Large, steady palms settling on your waist like he'd been waiting years for permission.

"Shit," he muttered, almost to himself. "Look at you."

You swallowed, your breath catching.

Ben's hands flexed against your sides. Just a little. Just enough.

"You're shakin'," he said softly.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

"Not scared of me, are you?"

You shook your head.

"Good," he murmured. "'Cause I'd never hurt you, baby. Never."

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. His voice dropped further—more gravel, more hunger.

"I'll ruin you. But I'll never hurt you."

You whimpered. Couldn't help it.

And Ben smirked, like that was exactly what he was hoping for. Then he leaned in. His mouth hovered just beside your ear, breath warm against your skin.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered, voice thick and deliberate. "Use your words."

Your breath stuttered. Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"I... I want you," you managed, quiet and trembling.

Ben's hand stilled on your waist. Then he let out the softest, filthiest little sound—something between a hum and a chuckle.

"Yeah?" He rasped, tipping his head to look at you fully. "Want me to what, sweetheart?"

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He grinned, slow and dark, eyes dragging over your mouth.

"C'mon," he said, voice a touch rougher now. "You're already in my lap like a good little thing. Say it like you mean it."

You were shaking. Not with fear. Not anymore. With the pressure of it all—of him, of you, of everything he'd said. The weight of being seen. The heat coiled so deep inside you it ached. You wanted. God, you wanted. You wanted him like you'd never wanted anything in your life.

Ben's hand slid from your waist to your hip, slow and possessive, his thumb dragging across your skin through the thin fabric of your pyjama shorts.

"Still waitin', baby," he murmured. "Thought you had something to say."

You broke.

"I want you to touch me," you whispered, breathless. "I want you to make me feel good. I want—" you swallowed, cheeks burning, "—I want you to fuckin' ruin me."

Ben's groan hit you like a thunderclap.

"Fuck," he hissed, head falling back slightly. His hips jerked once, grinding up into you so hard and slow your whole body jolted in his lap. "Christ on a cross."

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, the thick press of him beneath you lighting a fire between your legs.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, fingers flexing hard enough to bruise.

"You want it that bad, huh?" He rasped, voice wrecked. "Want my hands on you? Want me to make that pretty little body beg for it?"

You whimpered. Nodded. Couldn't breathe.

Ben's mouth curved, dangerous and pleased.

"Then come give me a fuckin' kiss, baby girl."

You didn't lunge. You leaned in slow. Tentative. Your breath caught in your throat as you moved forward inch by inch, like some part of you still didn't believe this was happening. Like getting too close might wake you up from whatever this was.

Ben didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched you.

His eyes were half-lidded, heavy, and he was breathing slow—calm on the outside, but you could see it, the storm under his skin. His hands stayed where they were, resting on your waist, fingers flexing every so often like it was taking everything in him not to pull you down the rest of the way.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through you. "That's it. C'mon. You're right there."

You inched closer. Your knees squeezed tighter around his hips. Your hands found his chest, broad and hot beneath your palms, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt—deep and steady like a drum.

"Take your time," Ben said softly. "Ain't goin' anywhere."

That wrecked you.

Your mouth hovered just above his now, your nose brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the warm, electric space between.

"Good girl," he rasped. "Now kiss me."

And you did. You pressed your mouth to his—slow, open, reverent.

He met you there. And it was everything. His lips moved with yours like he'd mapped this moment out in his head a hundred times. Deep. Unhurried. Filthy in the way it devoured your breath but never pushed. His tongue dragged against yours with a groan that left your thighs trembling, his hands tightening on your hips as your body melted down into his.

He kissed like he was teaching you something. Like he wanted you to remember this when you were alone later, wrecked and ruined and aching for him again.

You moaned against his mouth and he pulled you in tighter, his fingers bruising into your hips as he rolled up into you, slow and hard.

The kiss deepened. Wet. Heavy. Hot enough to burn. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just enough to make you whimper before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth. "Listen to you."

You ground down harder, chasing friction, and he met you, hips grinding up into yours like he couldn't help himself anymore.

One of his hands flew to the back of your neck, dragging you deeper into the kiss as his hips thrust up again, slow and deliberate. The other guided your movements, helping you rock in his lap, the thick ridge of him grinding perfectly through the layers between you.

"Atta girl," he growled against your mouth. "That's it. Just like that. Ride it out."

You writhed, panting, your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, grounding yourself as he took you apart without even needing to move.

His kisses were wet, filthy, all tongue and heat and groaning breath. He kissed like he meant it. Like he owned your mouth. Like it had been his since the first time you said hi to him at the front door and he let his eyes linger a little too long.

You cried out as he guided your hips harder, the friction dizzying, filthy sounds echoing through the room.

"You're so fuckin' pretty," he murmured against your lips. "So good for me. He ever get you makin' these sounds?"

You shook your head, dazed, lips slick and parted.

"Didn't fuckin' think so."

He kissed you again—harder this time, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your name. His grip tightened as he ground up into you again, slow and punishing, like he wanted to drag every sound out of you and make you remember it later, alone in your bed, still aching for him.

"You feel that?" He rasped, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. "That's how bad I wanted you. Every fuckin' time you walked in here, smilin', bein' sweet, sittin' at my table like you belonged there—this is what I had to fight."

You whined again, rolling your hips down into him, chasing more.

Ben groaned, hands grabbing tight at your ass now, dragging you down against him in rhythm.

"No more fightin', baby," he growled. "Not now."

And you believed him. Because whatever this was—it had already taken you both.

You couldn't stop moving. Every time your hips rocked into his, every time his hands dragged you closer, it just got worse—better—hotter. You were soaked through your pyjamas, breath coming in shallow little pants between kisses that only got filthier the longer they lasted.

Ben was panting now too, forehead pressed to yours, lips slick and pink and kiss-bruised. His hands were still on your ass, guiding every motion like he was conducting a symphony made just for him.

"You're drivin' me fuckin' insane," he groaned. "You feel what you're doin' to me?"

You nodded, breathless.

He growled. Actually growled. Then his mouth was on your throat again, teeth dragging slow over your skin before he pulled back just enough to look at you—his pupils blown wide, jaw tight.

"Off," he said, nodding toward your shirt.

You froze. Heat rushed to your cheeks.

But Ben didn't push. Just let his hands slide back to your waist, eyes dragging over your face, patient even while he looked like he was seconds from snapping.

"You don't gotta be shy," he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. "Not with me."

You swallowed, then reached down with shaking fingers and pulled your shirt over your head.

Ben's mouth parted.

His gaze dropped like a stone, dragging down your neck, your chest, every inch of newly bare skin until it landed on the swell of your breasts and stayed there. You weren't wearing a bra—hadn't expected to need one—and the second he saw that, his hands twitched.

"Jesus fuck," he muttered. "Look at you."

You shifted in his lap, suddenly aware of everything. Your breath, your thighs, the way your nipples peaked under his stare.

Ben leaned forward.

Not kissing. Not touching. Just bringing his mouth close enough that you felt his breath against your chest. His hands slid up—slow, warm, calloused—and cupped you gently, like he was still making sure you were real.

"You been hidin' this from me all this time?" He rasped.

You whimpered.

And then he kissed your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. A filthy, reverent drag of his tongue over your nipple before he pulled it into his mouth and sucked.

Your whole body jolted.

"Ben—!"

"That's it," he muttered against your skin. "Let me hear you."

You moaned, rolling your hips down into him again, needy and shaking.

He pulled back with a wet sound, licking his lips as his hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"Gonna show you what it feels like," he said. "You remember what I said?"

You nodded, dazed. "One hand."

Ben smirked.

"Damn right."

He leaned in, kissed you again—slower this time, deep and thick and hot—while his hand slid inside your waistband, knuckles dragging down over soft, soaked cotton.

"Fuck me," he breathed. "You're already drippin'."

You whimpered, hands gripping his shoulders, rocking into his touch without shame now.

Ben's fingers dipped lower, sliding between your folds over your panties, just enough to make you cry out.

"That's right," he growled, "ride my fuckin' fingers. Show me how bad you needed this."

You did. You couldn't stop. You were shaking in his lap, panting into his mouth, his hand wedged between your bodies while he stroked slow and deep over the thin barrier of your panties, never rushing, never giving you quite enough.

"Ben—please—"

His mouth was back on yours, swallowing the desperate sound as his fingers finally slipped under the fabric and found your clit—bare, wet, aching.

You sobbed into his mouth.

"Shh," he whispered, kissing you softer now. "I got you, baby. Gonna make you come just like this, sittin' pretty in my lap. Nice and slow."

He circled your clit with maddening precision, dragging two thick fingers through your slick heat while his other hand stayed firm on your waist, anchoring you there, his.

"You're already so close," he muttered, voice wrecked. "I can feel it."

You gasped, grinding into his palm, head falling to his shoulder. He kissed your neck, your jaw, your temple.

"You gonna come for me, baby girl?"

"Y-Yeah—Ben—"

"Then come. C'mon. Wanna feel you fall apart."

You shattered.

It hit fast and hard, ripping through your core like a lightning strike. You cried out, clutching his shirt, grinding into his hand while your thighs trembled around him. Ben held you through all of it—murmuring filth into your hair, groaning into your ear, his fingers still slow and gentle even as you gasped and bucked against his lap.

"That's my girl," he whispered, dragging his fingers back up to circle your clit one more time just to watch you twitch. "Fuckin' perfect."

You were still gasping when he kissed you again—deep, slow, savouring you.

"Look at that," Ben rasped against your mouth, fingers sliding lazy circles over your oversensitive clit. "Just made a fuckin' mess in my lap."

You whimpered, thighs twitching as your hips bucked into his hand again, helpless and overstimulated. "I-I can't—"

"Yeah, you can." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the sting away. "Gonna give me another one while you take care of me. That too much for you, baby girl?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest. You shook your head, breathless. "No. I—I want to."

Ben growled. Low and hungry.

"Yeah?" He leaned back slightly, eyes locking on yours, smug and reverent all at once. "Then show me."

You slid your hand between your bodies with shaking fingers, reaching down to where he was thick and hard under his sweats—obscene with how long he'd been like that. Your fingertips brushed over him through the cotton, and he shuddered.

"Fuck," he gritted, head falling back for just a second. "There you go. C'mon, sweetheart. Take it out."

You didn't need to be told twice.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers curling around him—hot, hard, heavy in your palm—and Ben groaned, loud and wrecked.

"That's it. Fuck, your hand's so small," he growled. "You gonna stroke it nice for me, baby? You gonna be good?"

You nodded quickly, already moving your hand, pumping him slow, your grip slick with the way your own arousal coated your skin. You couldn't believe how wet you still were—how much you needed more, even after what he'd just done to you.

Ben's breath caught as your fist curled tighter around him.

"Jesus," he hissed. "That's it. Don't stop. Just like that."

His fingers moved faster now, dragging tight circles over your clit, dipping down to tease through your folds before sliding up again, matching the rhythm of your strokes. You gasped, thighs trembling, your hips rocking into his palm at the same time as you jerked him in your fist.

The motion was filthy. Perfect.

Wet sounds filled the room—your slick, his cock, the breathless moans you couldn't hold back. He was panting now, fingers digging into your thigh to steady you.

"Such a fuckin' good girl," he growled. "Sittin' there all pretty in my lap, makin' me feel so fuckin' good—Jesus, keep goin', baby, don't stop—"

You moaned, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck as you stroked him harder. He was throbbing in your hand now, his hips jerking up into your fist as his fingers circled your clit ruthlessly, forcing another orgasm up your spine like he needed to feel you fall apart again before he let go.

You cried out, hand faltering, and Ben caught your jaw in his palm, kissed you hard and open-mouthed, tongue filthy against yours.

"That's it. Come with me," he whispered against your lips. "Wanna feel you squeeze my fuckin' fingers while I come all over your hand. You want that?"

"Yes—Ben—yes—"

"Then fuckin' take it."

You shattered again—your whole body tensing, legs trembling, hips grinding into his hand as the orgasm crashed through you harder than the first, and at the same time, Ben snarled your name, hips jerking up into your fist as he spilled hot and thick over your hand and into his sweats, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a desperate groan.

You were both panting, wrecked, clinging to each other in the thick, sticky heat.

Ben's hand slid from between your legs, dragging up your thigh, slow and reverent. He pressed his lips to your temple, still catching his breath.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You were worth waitin' for."

a/n: AHH! So, obviously an AU. I hope y'all liked. I liked. Just let me know what you thought... I'm kinda obsessed with this one. The dynamic feels so baddirtywrong and it's my favourite. Ew. Also, you know the craic, if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be in the next part. Hehehehe. I just needed a lil break from "eyes too close to let me" and also... I was high and this became sentient all by itself. In the words of William Butcher: you're all fucking welcome. Until the next one? Smin signing off. All the love.

Ben/Soldier Boy taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fic #soldier boy au #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #the boys fanfiction #the boys au #the boys smut #the boys fanfic #the boys x female reader #the boys x you #the boys x reader

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kamykan · 3 months ago

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☆ Mine — Shauna Shipman x Reader 🐶 ⋆｡°✩

Young!Shauna Shipman x Fem!Reader

Request: No

Warnings: Smut, Spitting, Biting, Knife play(at the end), Possessive Behavior, Overall Shauna being very delusional and toxic

Word Count: 894

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You fucked up. You fucked up big time.

After Coach Ben’s trial, you saw how defeated and broken Nat looked. So, at dinner that night, you sat with her—away from the group—comforting her to the best of your ability while the two of you ate the portion of food you were given.

Bad idea.

Your girlfriend, Shauna, watched from the campfire, her brown eyes glaring a hole into the sight of you sitting together.

After dinner, when everyone was retiring to their huts, you were trying to do the same—until someone suddenly grabbed you, dragging you away from camp. You tried to scream, but a hand quickly covered your mouth, shoving you against a tree a distance away from the others.

Dark eyes stared into yours.

“You’re choosing her over me?” she asked harshly.

“Shauna—” you gasped for breath as she pulled her hand away, finally letting you speak. “Shauna, what the fuck?”

“Answer me!” she hissed, pushing you harder against the tree.

“Y-you’re being ridiculous,” you stammered. “Of course, I’m not choosing her over you—I’m not choosing anything! She just… looked so sad, and you forced her to cut Coach Ben up—”

“It was a lesson she needed to learn,” Shauna cut you off. “And it seems you need to learn a lesson too.”

Before you could respond, Shauna’s lips crashed against yours in a harsh kiss. Her hands moved from your shoulders to your jaw, shifting your head to angle the kiss better. You tried to pull away to speak, but she shoved her tongue into your mouth. You moaned, eventually attempting to kiss back, but Shauna was too intense—too rough. She was practically dominating your mouth.

She pulled away, pressing kisses along your jaw and neck until she found a spot that made you groan the loudest. Then she bit down.

“Fuck!” you yelped, but she shoved her fingers into your mouth.

Shauna pulled back, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“That’s so everyone knows you’re mine,” she murmured. “I might even give you another one.”

She pulled her fingers out but kept your mouth open. She leaned forward and spat in it, you squirmed as the slimy liquid slid down your throat “Sh—”

“Shut the fuck up” she commanded, she traced her finger over your lips “This belongs to me. I'll piss in here if I want to”

You shudder at the thought as Shauna returns to your neck sucking and biting hickeys there. She shoved her knee in between your legs to give you something to ground yourself on, and an opportunity that you quickly take.

“Look at you” Shauna whispers against your ear, she places her hands on your hips to control the speed at which you are grinding yourself on her leg “So desperate and I've barely touched you. Did talking to Nat get you this worked up, did you want her to take care of you?”

“No” You whined “I want you, Shauna, you!”

Shauna listened to you beg for her a few moments longer. She loved how your voice sounded, how much power she had over you at the moment.

She pulled down your shorts and panties, not bothering to take them off completely “Keep begging baby, I got you”

And she did have you, a few minutes later her fingers were knuckle-deep inside your aching cunt. She fucks you hard and deep with two of her long fingers, not bothering to go slow. Shauna watches your expression twisted into pain-pleasure as she adds in a third finger “See? You need me, Nat won't fuck you like this”

“Shauna” You whine “Shauna Shauna fu—Shauna fucking please!”

“Please, what?” she teased. You were being incredibly loud right now, and she had no doubts that someone back at camp could hear the two of you. But Shauna enjoyed that idea. She rubbed your clit with her thumb as she continued to thrust her fingers in and out of your tight hole. With her free hand, she palmed at your breast through your shirt.

“Please—ah! More”

“You want more? You’re so greedy. You think Nat would want someone as greedy as you?”

With that she thrusted her fingers into you even harder and then continued to give you hickeys against your shoulder “You’re mine and no one else, not Nat’s or anyone else here—just mine. Say it”

“Yours—All yours! Just please let me cum!” you pleaded, You knew she wouldn't let you release until you did.

A few thrusts of her fingers later she let go of your chest to cover your mouth, trying to keep you from being too loud as you reached your peak. When she pulled her fingers out, you slid down to the ground against the tree, and she followed after you.

As you sat there, panting on the grass, Shauna had a brief moment of pure anger and pulled out her knife. She placed her hand over your mouth one last time as she began to carve “S S” on your thigh, Shauna Shipman

You began to tear up at the pain so she kept her hand over your mouth and caressed your cheek with her other hand “Shhhh, you’re bleeding now but once the cuts heals it’ll scab and then scar—then you'll have a permanent reminder of who you belong to.

Your body was shaking almost violently but you accepted it. After all, you were hers.

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An: I’m sorry if this is ass this is my first time writing smut 😥 Shauna Shipman you are the devil incarnate but I would be lying if I said that I didn't want you to ruin my life

#shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #shauna x reader #shauna shipman smut #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #Naeswriting

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sceletaflores · 1 month ago

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OH HONEY, HONEY, I COULD BE YOUR KEVLAR || FRANKIE MORALES

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 4.6k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, smoking, some spanish dialogue cutely sprinkled in, reader is ex-special forces, established relationship, implied age gap, insecurity, semi-jealous frankie mmmh, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, more brief allusions to a foot fetish whoopsies, p in v, public sex (bar bathroom RAAAHHH), creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT'S NOTE: finally got off my ass watched triple frontier and i’m a changed woman. i mean it was kind of a snooze fest but pedro pascal in a slutty little baseball hat saying “come on, baby” for like three minutes? that’s pure cinema. i’m praying that my spanish isn’t absolute dog shit, i’m still not a hundred percent fluent and dirty talk is such a struggle so please give me some grace if it’s ass and maybe some pointers! that would be very very helpful thank you love you. title from beyonce's 'BODYGUARD' because it's a beyonce summer in this house. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune! extra special shoutout to angel @daydreamingmiller for the wonderful gif!

you and the boys go out...

The bar is buzzing, alive with easy laughter and the sharp crack of billiard balls meeting in the center of pool tables.

It's a dive in every sense of the word, a real shithole. The kind of place where you can smoke indoors because the owner doesn't give a damn. The walls are littered in old road signs and vintage rock band posters.

The floor is sticky and all the booths have tears in the bright red leather cushions. Neon signs are hung sporadically, each one lit up with a phrase more vulgar than the last, drowning everything in different hues of red and blue.

It’s perfect.

It’s familiar, safe in the only way a shithole can be when you’re surrounded by people who’d take a bullet for you. Who’ve taken bullets for you, just like you have for them.

You’re not drunk. You’re not even tipsy.

You’re a couple drinks in and resting on the perfect knife's edge of pleasantly buzzed. You’re warm, a tingly kind of warmth that seeps into your skin all the way down to your bones and loosens your limbs.

The cigarette you bummed from Will only adds to it, smoke flooding your lungs and curling in wispy grey loops around your head like a halo on every exhale.

Music floats in the space all around you, a beat up jukebox is shoved in the corner spitting out song after song.

Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Guns N’ Roses. The Doors. Aerosmith.

Fleetwood Mac when that quarter you spent thirty minutes ago finally gets put to good use.

You’re standing near the same booth the five of you always pack yourselves in, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and some beat up darts in your hand. Benny goaded you into a game of 501 after his third beer made him feel cocky enough.

You’re sitting at 113. Ben’s only at 326.

He’s at the throw line, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up his aims for what feels like the hundredth time. Going Mobile kicks on as you wait for your turn with dwindling patience.

"You gonna hit the board or just warm up your wrist for later tonight?" you say over the music.

“Fuck you.” Ben doesn’t let his gaze stray from the board, flipping you off with his free hand. He finally takes his shot, but his dart hits wide—buried in cork about four inches from the bullseye. ”Damn!”

You laugh, a low, warm sound, pulled from the back of your throat. “Alright hotshot shove over, my turn.”

“Come on, Sniper.” Santiago’s voice calls from behind you. “Make it three in a row.”

Your laughter doesn’t fade as you step up to the throw line, rolling the darts in your hand to feel the weight of them. Your fingers curl around them, metal cool against your skin, the sharpness of the tips familiar. You take your stance without even thinking—weight balanced, eyes narrowed, limbs loose. It’s second nature.

The first dart hits just inside the treble thirteen. Sharp thunk. Clean.

The boys heckle you from the table, ranging from supportive—Santi and Will—to whining about the board being rigged—Ben. You don’t turn around, but you can’t fight the smug smile on your lips.

Another flick. Another hit—just right of the center. Double twelve.

“Bullshit,” Ben groans. “You said you were rusty, you goddamn liar.”

“I am rusty,” you say over your shoulder, spinning the last dart between your fingers. “If I wasn’t I would’ve beat your ass three rounds ago.”

You line up your last shot.

“Call it,” you say to no one in particular.

“Bullseye,” Will says.

You exhale slowly, wrist held high and right foot forward. You throw.

Bullseye.

The table behind you erupts. When you turn around, Ben’s groaning from where he’s leaning against Santi’s shoulder, who just gives a few approving slow claps. Will’s got that quiet, impressed smirk on his face.

You catch Frankie’s eye, he’s grinning behind the rim of his Modelo. All spread out on the left side of the booth, one leg kicked up over where you were sitting. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the dark hair scattered along his chest and the chain he bought from a street vendor in Ciudad Juárez when he was there on an assignment.

The very same one hangs around your neck, just under your collar.

You smile, a real one—small and just for him in the way it tugs your lips up. Frankie winks at you from under the brim of his hat, a look you’ve seen hundreds of times swirling through the chocolate brown of his eyes.

Later, it says. A promise.

You can't wait.

“Loser buys shots.” You make your way to the table, leaning your hip against the edge. “Next round’s on Benny.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Kiss my ass.”

You smile down at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. “Not with aim like that, Miller.”

The laughter that surrounds the table is easy. That’s how it’s come to be with them. Even on days like this, when you all feel like ghosts, carrying sand in your shoes and shrapnel in your lungs.

It started a long time ago. You met Santi first, back in Kandahar. You weren’t officially on the books with the same unit as him back in the day—your ops were blacker than theirs—but you'd cross paths on enough shared missions to get familiar. He was cocky. You were mean. He liked that.

You pulled him out of a burning Humvee with a busted comms rig and a bullet in his thigh. He paid you back when one of your jobs got blown wide open in Girardot and saved you from bleeding out in a ditch after he dragged you two klicks to a medevac sight.

Through him came Frankie. He was quieter than you expected after all the stories, and thoughtful in a way that made you curious. It didn’t take long for something to shift there—some gravity between the two of you that pulled you closer before either of you had a chance to name it.

You still aren't sure when exactly it had changed. There hadn’t been one single moment. Just a hundred small ones. Quieter nights. Warmer looks. Shared smokes in the silence. And eventually, one drunken night back in Bogotá when he kissed you outside a safehouse, the rain dripping off his cap and into your collar.

Neither of you looked back.

Will and Benny came much later. A package deal, good on their own but great together. One couldn’t exist without the other. Ben brought the noise and a young, unshakable enthusiasm. Will brought the strategy and experience.

They all introduced you to Tom when you were back stateside. He was calculated and quiet, the only man you’ve ever seen clear a building with a heartbeat under sixty.

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

When you think back to it, it’s the smell of gunpowder and the phantom ache in your shoulder from the viscous recoil on your Barrett M82. It’s kevlar squeezed around your ribs tight enough to leave angry red lines of remembrance branded in your skin long after you took it off and the sound of bullets piercing flesh.

The six of you were never an official unit. You were all off-books more often than not. Contracts, black bag jobs, unofficial recon. Nothing that would stick. But when it went bad you called each other. Always. No matter the time zone. No matter the cost.

You’ve seen the best and worst of each other—on dirt roads, jungle trails, blacked out hallways. In safehouses and active war zones and cheap motels.

They’re your people. Your family, even if the word is slick with blood and drenched in ash.

It’s family nonetheless.

So when Santiago called about recon work in Colombia, you didn’t even let him finish the pitch.

You were in.

Now, months after everything went down—the heist, the Andes, the loss and anguish you all carried home—you’re here. In a shitty bar with your family. With Frankie.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“Alright, alright.” Ben stands from the booth, carrying five empty shot glasses. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t a man of my word, what are we drinking?”

“Surprise me,” Santi says, already on his feet. “I gotta hit the head.”

Ben nods as he walks off, turning his attention back to the table. “Surprises all around?”

You shrug, stealing a sip of Frankie’s Modelo. “Works for me.”

Will shakes his head, sliding out of the booth. “Hell no, I’m coming with. This isn't spring break, I’m not knocking back any damn tequila shots.”

You watch them go, disappearing deeper into the crowd until you can’t make out their silhouettes anymore. You turn to Frankie, resting your palms flat on the table. “You up for a game, Morales? I’ll let you win if you promise to make it worth my while back home.”

Frankie laughs. “Only if you throw it just bad enough I don’t notice,” he says, chin dipped low, voice just rough enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are fixed on yours—warm, focused, like he’s already replaying whatever making it worth your while might look like. Probably more than once.

You smirk, pushing off the table. “No promises.”

You make your way over to the board, plucking the darts out one by one. You’re alone for the first time all night, almost.

“Are you always this good, or is tonight just for show?”

The voice is unfamiliar—low and a little too close.

You glance over your shoulder. Young, younger than you–early to mid-twenties if you had to guess. He’s tall, lean and muscular in a way that screams college wrestling. Sharp jawline, white teeth.

You give him a polite smile. Nothing that invites, but nothing too rude either. You’re good at being nice. Trained for it. There’s strength in it, control.

“Used to be better,” you say, turning back to the dartboard and yanking out the last one. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Wasn’t just a compliment,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a great arm.”

He’s not the only one.

Frankie’s watching you. You can feel it before you see it. Like a hum under your skin. A pressure point at the base of your neck.

“Thanks.” It’s as dismissive as you can make it, a clear send off.

The guy doesn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink, maybe we could play a round? I’d love some pointers, I’ve never seen a girl throw like that before.”

A girl. You don’t even flinch.

“I don’t think you could keep up.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes rake up and down your body with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I’m a fast learner.”

You keep your posture relaxed, but your hand tightens a little around the dart. “Maybe, but I’m already here with someone.”

His eyes follow the way yours flick to Frankie out of habit, sizing him up unashamedly. He snorts, turning back to you with a cocky grin. “Is that your dad, or something?”

You don’t even blink, just cock your head and smile—sharp as a blade this time. “Careful,” you say, voice overly sweet and saccharine. “This girl might just lay you on your ass for that.”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not joking. Your tone is calm, flat, with that old edge you haven’t used in years. When it sinks in, his eyes narrow, mouth working like he’s deciding whether to double down or cut his losses.

Smart boy chooses the latter. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he mutters, taking a step back.

You toss the darts on a nearby table. “Then don’t,” you say, and turn your back on him.

Frankie’s standing by the time you reach the booth, he’s already got that look in his eyes. Quiet, a little withdrawn. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. You close the space between you, laying your hand on his chest.

“You mad?” It’s soft, quiet enough so only he can hear it.

He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “Of course not.”

His arm slides around your waist, big hand spreading out possessively over your stomach. He’s not lying, you know he isn't. It’s not you he’s mad at, it’s not even the jackass slinking his way back to his buddies he’s mad at.

He’s angry at himself.

You can see it still simmering under the surface, and it’s not real anger. Not entirely. It’s something else entirely—the insecurity he carries. The one that creeps in late at night when he’s lying behind you in bed, one arm slung heavy over your waist.

The kind that whispers in his ear that he’s not good enough when he sees someone younger—someone who hasn’t been through what he has, who doesn’t have a road-map of scars or night terrors or hands that still shake sometimes when they’re too still for too long. Someone without graying hair or creaking joints or the softer gut that comes with love and recovery.

Frankie still doubts himself, even after all this time. He doubts that he’s really what you want, that you’re not just stuck with him out of guilt or some fucked up version of shared trauma that ties you together.

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching up to hold the side of his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice is gruffer now, lower. The furrow of his brow makes the skin in-between crease, you rub your thumb over it a few times until he relaxes his face.

You’re always struck by how handsome he is, even in the shitty neon lights bathing you both. His round, chocolate brown eyes stare down at you with so much care and love that it makes your chest ache.

“Get in your own head. You really think I’d be out here flirting with some college guy when you’re sittin’ twenty feet away looking like this?”

Frankie shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m fine, baby. Just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s all.”

You lean into him, pressing your chest to his so there isn't an inch of space between you. “You’re the only one I want. You’re it for me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t speak, his lips pressed into a thin line as he holds your unwavering gaze. You hope he can see the look on your face, that he can hear the truth and the weight of your words.

He wraps his arms around you and he breathes you in, pressing his nose into your hair. The tension in his shoulders eases the way it always does when you’re close.

It’s nice, a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. Not yet. You can still feel the stiffness lingering in his body, the way he’s holding you more out of possessive worry than relief—like he’s still scared you’ll bolt at the last second.

You bite your lip, an idea sparking to life in your mind. It’s a risk, especially when Frankie’s feeling like this—but it also has an undeniable warmth flaring up in your stomach, phantom flames licking their way up your legs.

Besides, you’ve never been one to back down from risky situations. You made a career out of it.

You pull back, only slightly, just far enough to catch his eye. You notice the second he sees your pupils, blown out and dark as an oil spill. His brows furrow again, but it’s different than before. It’s curious, a silent question you’re more than happy to answer.

“If you want…” Your hand trails down his chest languidly until you’re toying with his belt buckle, hooking your pointer finger under the band of his jeans and tugging gently. “I could show you just how much I want you.”

Frankie’s eyes darken, his lips parting on a shocked breath. His arms twitch around you, fingertips digging into the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t even wait for him to respond, your patience fizzling out into pure, blinding need.

You grab his hand and pull him behind you, slipping into the crowd without a backward glance. You lead him down the narrow hall past the pool tables, past the jukebox playing Dream On, until you reach the dingy single-stall bathroom.

The door’s not even all the way closed before Frankie’s on you. He backs you up against the graffiti covered wall, mouth already on yours—hungry, possessive, a little desperate. You love it when he kisses you like this, like he’s staking a claim.

His tongue licks a dirty stripe over the seam of your lips, fucking into your mouth when you moan. He tastes like beer, like lime and salt and something under it all that’s just him. It’s addicting, you can’t get enough—you never can.

Your hands are greedy—yanking his hat off and letting it topple to the ground carelessly, your fingers tangle in his curls, nails scratching along his scalp.

“You’re mine,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing you again, hands skimming down your body.

He presses you into the wall harder, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him already. Hard, thick and aching through his jeans. Your pussy leaks wet and sticky into your panties, impatient and wanting.

“You really think I’d want anyone else?” you whisper against his jaw, licking the stubble, biting it. “You think anyone could fuck me the way you do?”

Frankie groans, hips jerking forward. His hands dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to ache in the best way. You hope that it takes, that your skin is bruised come morning.

You rut against each other like you’re still overseas, like there’s mortar fire behind you and you’re stealing time you don’t have.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you breathe, arching up against him. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Wanna taste you,” he says roughly, voice thick. “Muero por saborearte, princesa.”

Heat rushes through you like an electric shock, lighting up every inch of your body. “Fuck, yes–”

Frankie drops to his knees before the words leave your mouth, hurried hands not even bothering to unbutton your jeans before he’s yanking them down your hips. He groans when he sees your panties—damp and clinging to your folds, soft cotton pulled tight.

“Que cosita linda...” It whispered, soft and almost secretive—like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You brace yourself against the wall, one hand gripping the chipped edge of the sink, the other in his hair when he mouths you over the fabric. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, the hot drag of his tongue through the soaked material making your knees threaten to buckle.

“Frankie,” you gasp, hips twitching toward him. “Don’t tease—”

He hums like he likes hearing you beg, like he needs it, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one swift, greedy motion.

The moment you’re bare to him, he’s buried between your legs.

He licks up your slit, slow and obscene, tasting everything you’ve made for him. He groans like it hurts, like your pussy’s a salvation and a punishment all at once. He spreads you open with thick fingers and dives in, eating you like he’s starved.

“Fuck—Frankie,” you gasp, knees almost giving, fingers fisting tight in his curls. He only groans, the vibration making your hands twist his hair tight in your grip as his nose bumps against your clit.

It’s loud, the way he devours you. He’s always been messy with it—and soon the filthy sounds of his mouth fills the bathroom, dirty slurps and sucks bouncing off the walls. Your head thunks against the hard brick behind you when you toss it back on a broken moan, you hardly notice.

You lift your foot off the ground, not hesitating as you press it against the thick line of his cock still tenting the front of his jeans. Frankie shudders, his eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into it, chasing the pressure.

“Shit, Frankie, I—” You whimper, dizzy, aching. “Need more—need your fingers—please—”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and molten. “Show me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, teeth scraping along the delicate skin there. “Show me what you want, hermosa.”

Your hand trembles as you reach down, slipping two fingers through the wet mess of your pussy. Slick and saliva coats your skin, eases the way as you circle your clit—once, twice—before you push them into yourself with a soft moan.

Frankie watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. His hands knead the muscle of your thighs, his hips jerking up against the sole of your boot like he can’t help himself. “Mierda…look at you. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You fuck yourself slow, wrist twisting—and just as your thighs start to shake, you slip your soaked fingers out of yourself, strings of slick catching in the air, and bring them to his mouth. You don’t say anything, but there’s an unspoken order that fills the air between you.

Frankie’s a good soldier, he’d never disobey a direct order.

He looks up at you, gaze dark as he slowly parts his lips—his hot breath fans over your skin. Eyes locked on yours, he takes them in, sucks them deep, tongue curling around them lewdly. He moans at the taste, hand closing around your ankle to keep you in place as he grinds up against your foot harder.

You press your fingers against his tongue, rubbing the taste of yourself over his taste buds. Your pussy clenches weakly, pulsing with pleasure and emptiness.

Frankie pulls back, your fingers falling from between his lips with a soft pop. “Sabe como cielo.”

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he’s on his feet again, surging up like a man possessed. His hands grab your thighs, lifting you with ease, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your boots clatter against the stall wall with the motion, the dull thud-thud-thud drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right here?" he pants, rutting against your slick heat through his jeans, the zipper catching on your swollen clit. "Right here, in this filthy fucking bathroom where anyone could hear us?"

You nod frantically, arms looping around his neck. "Yes—yes, fuck, Frankie, please—"

"Say it again," he growls, teeth scraping over your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

"Please, Frankie," you whimper, biting his earlobe. "I need you to fuck me. Right now. Right here.”

That’s all it takes.

Frankie fumbles with his belt, one-handed, the other arm bracing your ass, keeping you pinned to the wall like you weigh nothing. The second his cock springs free, it slaps hot against your thigh, smearing precome across your skin. Thick and flushed, angry red at the tip.

You glance down and moan, already slick for him, already open.

He fists the base of his cock, running the head through your folds once, twice—and then he’s pushing in, slow and deep.

The stretch makes you cry out, back arching off the wall as he sinks in slow, his hips flexing forward inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re soaked and open from his tongue, but he’s still thick enough to sting just right. You feel all of him—every vein, every twitch.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist to drag him as close as you can.

"Mierda…tan apretadita," Frankie groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat already dotting his temple. “Siempre tan buena pa’ mí.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as your pussy flutters around him. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and erratic against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding up into you slow and deep. “Nobody else gets to feel this. Nobody else gets to fuck this pussy.”

“Only you,” you manage, voice thick. “Just you, Frankie—fuck, please—”

He starts to thrust, hips snapping into you with filthy, wet smacks, the obscene sound echoing in the tiny stall. The sink creaks beside you, the mirror rattling in time with every thrust. You’re soaked, dripping, cock-drunk already.

Frankie captures your lips in another dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and stealing the breath from each others mouth. “¿Que sucia, te gusta eso, eh?” He whispers against your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. “You like taking it like this, with all those people out there? Anybody could walk by and hear us, baby. They could hear how good you're taking my cock.”

You whine into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, you can feel the thin material of his shirt straining under the force. The silk is so delicate, so fragile. That much more strength and you’d tear it clean down the middle. It makes your stomach clench, the idea of Frankie walking back out into the bar with his shirt in tatters, the angry red welts your surely leaving on his skin on full display.

“Tell me,” he pants wetly against your cheek. “Dime la verdad.”

“Yes,” you whine. “I love it. Fuck—I want everyone to know. Want them to know how good you fuck me, how good you make me feel.”

Frankie groans, a deep, almost animalistic sound. He grips your thighs harder, burying his face in the sweaty column of your throat.

Your whole body jolts when he pounds into you deeper than before, the angle filthy, punishing. The dark hair around the base of his cock scrapes meanly against your sensitive clit with every thrust, teetering just on the edge of too much and just perfect.

You’re gonna come—you can feel it already coiling inside you, white-hot and snapping.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come, Frankie—” you cry, clutching his curls.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

"That’s it, baby," he pants against your throat, licking the sweat from your skin. “Dámelo. Come for me. Let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a gunshot—fast, brutal, and all-consuming. Your thighs tremble around his hips, your boots slam into the wall, and you clamp down around him so tight that Frankie lets out a raw, strangled groan.

“Dios,” he groans, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “You gonna let me fill you up?” His voice is a snarl now, hips slamming forward. “Gonna let me come inside you, baby? Gonna walk out of here dripping with it?”

“Yes,” you beg, drunk on it. “Come in me—fill me up, Frankie—want you to come inside—wanna feel it—”

“Fuck.” He slams into you one last time and stills, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he spills inside you with a rough groan. You can feel it—thick and warm, leaking down your thighs even before he pulls out.

You stay like that for a long moment—both of you panting, trembling, stuck together with sweat and come and something sticky-sweet that lingers in the silence.

When Frankie finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are soft again. Warm and full.

You reach up, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Feel better?”

He nods. Kisses you slow this time. “I love you,” he says against your lips, almost shy.

“I know,” you smile, cupping his face. “Now help me clean up before someone breaks the door down.”

“…I’m not pulling out yet.”

“Francisco—”

“I just got in a good mood, bebita. Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh into his mouth, still full of him, still dripping down your thighs, and it feels like the first time all over again.

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! i had a lot of fun with this one love you chickens <3

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0ccvltism · 3 months ago

Text

Your first moments of awareness and thought are not entirely pleasant.

The sounds, the smells, they are familiar.

Ben, Soldier Boy, was a lover of many vices - sex, drugs, liquor. You recognize the first two in the first seconds of your sentience. The air is heavy with the familiar smoky smell, and you are, unfortunately, facing a very familiar, yet very unfamiliar sight.

That's his uniform - Soldier Boy's Vought-issued uniform, all well-kept leather (less well-kept now in its age, in a state he never would have kept it), latex, and shiny, smooth, emerald green fabric, embossed with little metallic stars - but it is spread over a body that is most certainly not Ben's, and for a moment, you eye the body - aged, wrinkled, heavier - with an idle sort of disgust, irritation, and displeasure all rolled into one.

"Christ on a cross," You drawl, sounding so, so very like the callous, bloody-handed man that had wielded you like an additional appendage for decades, "you aged like shit."

They - the older man, graying but familiar, and the woman, young, perky, movie-star blonde and looking utterly panicked - seem to realize you're there for the first time. There, naked, arms crossed in not-so-silent judgement, back pressed to the textured wallpaper.

"What the fuck -...?!" He starts. You recognize him, at least, from - well, it would be easier to list what you don't recognize the asshole from. Managing supes for Vought, you had gathered over the decades, was a full time job. Ben had to have been the worst, had spent the most afternoons across from this same man in his younger years, a desk between them, deep in discussions turned to bickering, bickering turned to arguing, until you were slammed down on the table like a not-so-thinly-veiled warning -... And then tempers would settle, vices would be indulged, with you as the tool of choice for crushing pills, cutting lines, and the cycle would repeat the next week.

Or maybe the next day.

"Oops," The tiny blonde barely more than mouths, looking frantically, fearfully around the room, as if looking for more of you - more items turned to living, breathing beings, more things of plastic and metal turned to flesh and blood by her inexperienced hands in her moment of pleasure. He - The Legend himself, still clad in bits and pieces of the Soldier Boy uniform, the less important bits discarded, finally seems to put two and two together. He groans.

"What did you do?" He demands of the woman, though his exasperated, resigned tone implies he already knows. Of course he does - retired or not, you are sure he knows Vought's new talent well; the talent he'd made a very flexible rule of not sleeping with. You shift, looking down to examine what bits of the uniform are left at your feet. Helmet. Boots. Belt. The shield is missing. You frown, idly wondering where, exactly, that has gone. Silence reigns. He speaks again, impatient now, and you look up to find his eyes on yours, exasperated. "What the fuck were you?" He demands, and the question might have been funny, were it not a very valid one. It speaks, you suppose, to the reality - he does know, very well, exactly what his little lover is capable of, and what she has done.

"He called me sweetheart." You offer, one brow rising slowly. You see his face fall - smart man, good memory, putting two and two together so quickly, remembering the muttered endearment to a sharpened, polished blade.

"Jesus Christ," He groans.

You stare at him a moment longer, idly examining the way the fabric of the suit strains over a body it was not made for - one whose metabolism no longer keeps up with bad habits that his body never showed a hint of. "Take the fucking suit off," You order. "You're stretching it, and not in a good way."

He stares at you like you've grown a second head - or, you suppose, more accurately, like you are a combat knife that has just gained sentience and a pair of tits and is ordering him around in his own home - before he finally splutters, "A little privacy?" Like it's the most obvious request in the world.

“I don't have any fucking clothes.” You point out the obvious, shifting slightly against the wall. He stares at you blankly, like that's the furthest concern from his mind.

“We'll find -... Christ - just get out.” He starts one sentence, finishes another, and jabs a finger toward the door. When you don't move, he repeats the motion a bit more forcefully, waiting until you finally push off of the wall. “The knife? Really, the knife?” You hear him complain as the door clicks shut behind you.

Author's Note: Hi all! I'm here to join the party! May I present Char, my contribution to @daylighted 's object!reader-verse! A very short intro, but I wanted to get something up for her! I love and hate her in equal measure so far.

Please do not copy/repost my work

#ben's knife!reader #the boys fanfiction #soldier boy fanfiction #0ccvltism Writes

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xxsinisterbunniexx · 4 months ago

Note

could you do one with the creepy pasta boys where maybe a victim somehow manages to catch them off guard and the reader sees and without thinking nd just out on instinct they end up killing the victim and saving the creepy pasta boys and how they would react to that and seeing the reader covered in blood for the very first time? i’m sorry this is really long😭😭🙏

Wow very cool ask 😮 sorry this took me a bit, I started writing this as headcanons and then I realized that it functioned better as mini ficlets so that’s what I did

Creepypasta boys seeing reader covered in blood for the first time ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus, Tim/Masky, Brian/Hoodie

Jeff

You had been seeing Jeff for a while, and though you had an inkling about the type of work he did, you’d never pressed too much for details. Knowing what you did about Jeff, even if you had pressed he probably wouldn’t tell you much. But the curiosity was killing you, so you went against your best judgment and followed him, desperate to know the life he led when he wasn’t with you.

He had just corned his victim, starting with a few slashes to get them riled up before he went in for the kill. You weren’t the best at hiding. Very quickly, you caught his eye and he was completely thrown off. You weren’t supposed to see this.

Taking the distraction as a chance to escape with their life, the victim attacks Jeff, knocking his knife out of his hand and tackling him.

Oh no.

This was all your fault, you shouldn’t have came but… now you needed to do something. In a flash, you had picked up his weapon without thinking, guttural screams erupting from you as you stabbed it into the victims back, over and over until they weren’t moving anymore. Jeff was stunned, seeing your face covered in blood as you panted. The adrenaline wore off and you crumpled to your knees. He pushed the body off of him, not knowing what to think as he looked at you.

In a way, he almost felt… emasculated. He totally could’ve handled it if you hadn’t interfered. Did you think he was weak?

On the other hand, seeing how far you’d go for him only filled him with more adoration for you. He never wants you to do it again, but it was endearing that you’d do it at all.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to interfere.” You were stumbling over your words, feeling so panicked.

“Didn’t realize you were so stuck on me.” He said smugly, drawing you out of your head. He pulled your body close to him, lifting your chin. “I can’t lie though, you look pretty hot like this.”

Now your heart was racing for a different reason.

“You’re not mad at me?” You asked in a small voice.

God, he loved you to death. You’d just witnessed him about to murder someone for the first time and you were worried about him being mad at you.

“Of course not.” He pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “But don’t ever do that again. I can handle myself just fine, sweetheart.”

Toby

Toby didn’t mind bringing you on missions. In fact, he kind of loved it.

As long as you didn’t get too close.

He’d never want anything to happen to you, so he made sure you’d maintain distance if you came with him. Which was never really an issue. You had an incredible ability to just block out what Toby was doing.

He could just pop some headphones on you and leave you in the car and you’d sit there patiently until he was finished. Other times, you were allowed to watch from a short distance, so long as you were out of the way.

Today, you were perched up in a tree, watching from above as Toby took care of his victim down below.

Toby was the type to “play with his food” so to speak. He would often chase his victims around, making gashes and cuts in their arms and legs until it got too hard for them to run.

This victim was particularly vigorous, despite the extensive damage to their body, they were still fighting tooth and nail for their life. Toby didn’t mind that really, he couldn’t feel any of the pain they were inflicting on him, so it was all the same.

It wasn’t uncommon for Toby to sustain a bit of damage after a mission… but this time it was getting bad. They were really getting some hits on Toby, and while he wasn’t flinching at the damage, you were. An anxious feeling was rising in your chest. You knew Toby had no way to gauge when the damage was too bad.

After a particularly harsh blow, you couldn’t take it anymore. You dropped down from the tree, grabbing one of his hatchets that he dropped earlier in the encounter.

In a flash you had bolted toward the victim, swinging the hatchet at their throat. The blood spattered all over you, and yet you felt nothing as their body sunk to the ground, finally lifeless.

“Why -fuck- did you do that?” Toby eyed you with giddy curiosity.

“They were hurting you.” You said simply, tossing the hatchet to the ground. The weight of your actions hadn’t reached you yet.

He bit his lip, grabbing your body and trapping you in a bear hug. “This is almost better than seeing you covered in my cum.”

Your face went red at his vulgar comment, but you couldn’t help but just sigh, sinking into his hold.

Needless to say, he was obsessed with you, even more than before. While he had no problem taking care of his own kills, he’d definitely need to see you do that again.

Eyeless Jack

Murder was a sin you’d never even think to commit. You hated the idea of it all together, and anyone who would do something like that.

But ever since you met Jack, you understood that sometimes it could be a necessity.

He was so gentle to you, so loving. It wasn’t his fault that his body could only survive off organs. You’d come to accept long ago that, in order for this man you loved dearly to live, others must die.

But you never thought you’d be fully confronted with that reality.

Jack came to you one day, horribly injured, barely clinging to life. You were shocked and horrified. He was a demon. How could anyone even inflict this much damage on him?

Slenderman had found out about his relationship with you, and as such Jack was punished. The evil entity had harshly reminded him that proxies weren’t allowed to find love outside the mansion.

Your eyes filled with tears, holding him in your arms. “Jack I’m sorry…. I shouldn’t have…. I don’t know…” you were at a loss of what to say.

He lifted his hand, gently cupping your face. “Don’t be. I’ll never regret loving you.”

“What can I do…? I… how should I help you?” You asked.

He’d already bandaged up the wounds, using his knowledge to stop the bleeding, but there was another problem.

How would Jack hunt?

You could never kill someone, but what could you do in this situation? This time it was necessary. Jack needed to eat. You couldn’t watch him writhe in agony like this. He’d never heal if he was starving.

You didn’t even dare raise the question. You knew he’d just tell you it would be fine. But you knew it wouldn’t be.

So you did what needed to be done.

When you came back, covered in blood, Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“I brought you something…” you said in a small voice.

His jaw was dropped open. “How did you…” he trailed off, knowing he already knew the answer.

He was so unbelievably grateful, but he was almost in tears. He never wanted you to have to do that for him.

He was so conflicted by the sight of you covered in blood. You were so delicate, so gorgeous. His heart swelled with adoration for you, knowing you were more important to him than anything else in this world.

However, at the same time, he etched the image into his mind. He’d make sure he never saw you like that again.

BEN drowned

Ben loved you. He truly did. That’s why he liked to push you sometimes.

“If you really love me, you’ll kill for me.”

Your jaw dropped when you heard the words he’d said.

This wasn’t the first time Ben had tested your love for him. All the other times you didn’t mind to do as he asked. He needed the reassurance, and you didn’t mind providing it to him.

But this was…

He wanted to see how far you’d go. He wanted to see if you were truly as devoted to him as you claimed to be.

Would you throw away your humanity for him?

You swallowed hard, finally directing your eyes to the person tied up in the corner of the room. Their body was completely bound and their eyes were blindfolded. You could only hear muffled whimpers coming from their duct taped mouth.

You felt sick. You couldn’t imagine how scared they must be.

“Ben, I-I-I just can’t.” Your voice shook as you stumbled over your words.

His face fell, his expression looking so deeply hurt. It made your heart twist, but the thought of doing what he was worse.

“I’m already making this so easy for you. I’m not asking you to hunt someone down and dismember them. All you have to do is slit their throat.” The knife is his hand gleamed in the light.

Your body just shook. What the fuck were you supposed to do?

“Fine. I’ll help you do it.” He pushed your body closer to your victim, handing you the knife.

You whimpered as he grabbed your hand, guiding it towards the person’s neck. It was so much quicker than you’d expected. Your knife sliced through their skin, blood splattered all over you, and in just a matter of seconds they were dead on the floor in front of you.

You couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. You were horrified, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, covered in blood. You felt so disgusted, trying not to puke at the sight.

But Ben had never seen you look prettier.

X Virus

The lab was such an intriguing place to you. Not only because Cody was there, but because of the type of work he did in there.

You could never really understand all the stuff he talked about, but you were learning little by little, and you were fascinated by all he taught you.

You were perched up on top of one of the lab tables when Cody came in, the newest victim slung over his shoulder. He put them down on the table, their chest still rising and falling.

This one was just asleep, not dead yet. He was patient today.

If you were lucky, like today, you actually got to see Cody test new viruses. It was an experience like no other, seeing all the effects on a persons body. It exhilarated you. Well, for the most part. Just up until the death.

You didn’t love that part but… it was a necessary sacrifice. The work he was doing was so important. He needed subjects to test on, so you’d long accepted that this was part of the process.

“You contained yourself today.” You smiled.

He set his bat down, coming over to pat you on the head. “I really wanted you to see this one.”

You were already buzzing with excitement. “Well let’s see it.”

“Just one second. This formulation has to be kept at a very specific temperature.” He went to go retrieve the mixture while you tried to wait patiently.

You eyed the victim, noticing them start to stir a bit. They weren’t bound at all, completely free, lying on the table.

“Cody…?” You called.

There was no answer.

Suddenly the victim jolted up, fully alert and awake. They screamed until their eyes settled on you, and then they immediately lunged for you.

You dodged quickly, your heart racing. The adrenaline had you acting quickly, picking up Cody’s bat.

You swung and swung, and by the time you were done the lab was covered in red. You panted, sinking down to the floor.

Cody finally returned, almost dropping the vial when he saw the state of the lab. But then he saw you, and he immediately set it aside and dropped to the floor, holding your body.

“What happened?”

“They just suddenly got up and started attacking me. I didn’t know what to do.” Your voice was panicked. “I’m sorry… the experiment…” you trailed off.

“Hey, it’s okay. You did the right thing.” He shushed you, gently petting your hair. “I’d never want any harm to come your way.”

He was shocked honestly, he didn’t think you were capable of doing that. At the same time, he was so impressed with you. You were so much stronger than he thought.

Tim/Masky

Tim always wanted his lives to remain separate. Masky’s existence made that pretty easy for him.

That was until you became a part of his life.

He loved you. He couldn’t stand being away from you, even when he wasn’t himself. It seemed Masky had grown pretty fond of you too.

But like all good things in his life, everything became tainted by that vile entity. It loved finding new ways to torture Tim.

A mission right in the area you live in? Great. Just great.

He had his victim in an alleyway, hoping to get this over quickly. Having you see him do this was his worst nightmare.

“Tim…?”

He was filled with dread to see you stopped right in front of the alley, just as he was about to off his victim. Your eyes went wide and his stomach dropped.

He froze, completely unable to move. You quickly regained your senses after the shock, flying over to Tim, holding his face in your hands. “Tim…! Tim….!”

You were trying to get him to respond to you, but he was stuck. You heard a groan and looked over to the victim that was still lying on the ground next to you two.

You were at a loss of what to do. You needed to get Tim out of here, but suddenly something he had told you in the past had popped into your head.

If Tim didn’t finish out his jobs, he would be killed.

Your stomach dropped. You grabbed Tim’s shoulders, shaking him a bit. “Tim… please….!”

It was no use. You realized what you had to do. You grabbed the metal pipe that Tim had dropped earlier, hoping you could make this quick.

Tears streamed down your face as you finished Tim’s job, crumpling to your knees as soon as it was over.

Tim watched you in shock, trapped inside his own body, helpless to stop you but forced to watch.

After that night, you hadn’t seen Tim.

He couldn’t bring himself to be near you after that. The image of just how much he had tainted you haunting him. He wasn’t worthy of being around you, not after what he forced you to do.

You wondered if it was your fault. Endlessly reaching out to him with no answer.

After weeks without hearing from him, you started to feel restless. You didn’t know how you were feeling, unable to discern what was bringing you back to the alley where you’d bludgeoned someone to death.

But it was the last place you saw Tim.

You walked into it, just a plain old alley. You scoffed, not even sure why you had come here. Until you looked up and saw him.

“Tim…?” You almost didn’t believe your eyes.

He wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry…. I shouldn’t…. But I missed you too much.”

“It wasn’t your fault just… please don’t ever leave again…” your voice was choked up with tears.

“I won’t.” His voice was certain as he held you close to him.

Brian/Hoodie

Brian was never afraid to show his true nature to you. He’d long accepted that Hoodie was a part of him and that murder was a part of his life.

Which is why he knew it had to be you.

From the moment he’d met you, he could see it. Just something different about the way you carried yourself or maybe it was that look in your eyes.

Something told him you wouldn’t flinch at the graphic displays you’d surely witness if you were around him often enough.

Sure enough, he was right. You didn’t seem to mind the nature of his work, even to the point where he could bring you while he did it.

You’d take any excuse to be with Brian anyways and Hoodie was pretty exciting to be around too. Overtime, as your adoration of Brian grew, so did your interest in his work.

You’d never had these urges before, but something about seeing Brian do it just made it seem appealing almost.

You tried to keep it under control. What would Brian think? I mean yeah, he did it, but he was also kind of inescapably bound to an evil entity that was forcing him to do so. You didn’t have a reason. Maybe he would be disgusted with you. There was no way you could tell him how you were feeling.

Although you thought you were good at concealing your interest, Brian had started to notice it pretty early on. He wondered when you’d get the guts to ask him, but months had passed without a word from you.

One day he had brought you on a mission. It was a fairly easy kill, the victim would be easy to take out.

Just as he was going in for the kill, he stopped, turning to you.

“Wanna give it a go?” He asked, extending his arm out to you, holding a knife.

“What…?” You were so thrown off. Had you heard him right?

“I said, wanna give it a go?” He reemphasized his words.

You hesitantly took the knife, still unsure if he was playing a joke on you. But when you looked at his face it seemed like he was serious.

You hesitantly stepped forward, looking over the victim before swinging the knife down quickly, stabbing them.

You loved the feeling, repeating the action over and over until you were covered in blood, panting from the exertion. You were so hyper fixated on the kill that Brian’s voice startled you.

“Wow, I didn’t know you had it in ya.” He chuckled, ruffling your hair.

“I…” you were embarrassed about how into it you had gotten.

“You look very cute like this.” He smiled, taking your hand and helping you up.

Your heart fluttered. He accepted you. You couldn’t believe it.

“Alright, now let’s take care of this junk.” He joked, lightly kicking the body.

Hope you enjoyed!!!! :3 sorry if this doesn’t fit the prompt exactly, I wanted to switch up the scenarios to make it fit the characters a bit better

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lila-lou · 7 months ago

Text

✨Peanut✨

Summary: Stuck in a safe house with Soldier Boy is a test of patience—and nerves. He’s sharp-tongued, cocky, and impossible to ignore, pushing your boundaries just to see you flinch. You try to keep your distance, but he has a way of getting under your skin. You’re supposed to keep him in check, but the real challenge might be keeping yourself together.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Nickname, Shy!Reader, MENTION!Reader was touched without consent, Ben being as cocky as ever, some kind of fluff i guess

Word Count: 10523 (long ass shit here, lol)

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

The room felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to make the next move. Soldier Boy—Ben, as Butcher had instructed you to call him—sat at the battered wooden table in the middle of the safe house. He was grinding pills into powder with the flat of his knife, muttering to himself, the motion aggressive and precise. Every scrape of the blade against the wood sent shivers down your spine.

You kept your eyes fixed on the television, not really watching whatever rerun was playing. It didn’t matter. Nothing could drown out the weight of his presence. The way he dominated the space even when he wasn’t speaking. Even when he wasn’t looking at you.

You didn’t know why he tolerated you. Out of all the people who’d tried to babysit him since Butcher hauled him out of whatever Russian nightmare he’d been buried in, you were the only one still standing. Maybe it was because you didn’t push him. Or maybe it was because you were too afraid to even try.

Two years ago, your fear of supes had been planted like a landmine in your chest. One night, one supe, one scar across your soul. That was all it took to change you forever. Now, being in the same room as one, especially him, felt like walking barefoot through a minefield. One wrong step, and everything could go to hell. Literally, in his case.

Ben scooped the powder into a neat little line, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “You don’t have to sit there like a deer in headlights, you know”, he drawled, not looking up. His voice was gravelly, tinged with a roughness that made you want to shrink further into the couch. “Not gonna bite”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. “I’m fine here”, you said quickly, your voice thin and brittle.

“Sure you are”. He leaned back in his chair, his shirt unbuttoned enough to show a glimpse of the skin of his chest. That chest. The one that could, and had, turned entire blocks into ash. He tapped his nose twice before snorting the line with practiced ease, sighing as he leaned back again. “You’re terrible at pretending, you know that?”.

Your breath hitched, and you cursed yourself for it. He noticed everything. “Pretending what?”, you muttered, eyes glued to the TV screen.

“That you’re not scared shitless of me”, he said, his tone almost amused now. “It’s cute. Kind of pathetic, but cute”.

Your stomach twisted. The urge to snap back at him rose like bile, but you shoved it down. Provoking him was the last thing you wanted to do. Instead, you focused on keeping your voice steady. “I’m not scared of you”.

Ben laughed—deep, low, and sharp enough to make you flinch. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart”.

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as you tried to keep your breathing even. This was your job. This was what Butcher had asked of you. Watch over him, keep him in line, don’t let him blow anything up. Easier said than done when every fiber of your being was screaming to get the hell out of there.

Ben finally looked at you, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you”. His tone softened—just barely—but it still sent a shiver down your spine. “Not unless you give me a reason to”.

That didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but you nodded anyway, not trusting yourself to speak.

He reached for another pill, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You know”, he said, his voice quieter now, “it’s exhausting, being treated like a goddamn bomb all the time”.

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his gaze fixed on the table as he rolled the pill between his fingers. For a moment, he almost seemed… human. Vulnerable.

But you didn’t know what to say. Didn’t trust yourself to say anything. So you just stayed where you were, curled up on the couch, watching him out of the corner of your eye and praying you wouldn’t be the one to set him off.

Ben tossed the pill back, swallowing it dry like it was nothing before reaching for the whiskey bottle on the table. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up. For one fleeting second, you thought he might leave the room, give you some space to breathe. But no—he grabbed a bag of popcorn from the counter, ripped it open with his teeth, and made his way to the couch.

You tensed immediately. There were at least three other places he could sit, but no, he dropped himself right beside you. Not just close—touching. His thigh pressed firmly against yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your jeans like a live wire.

Your body locked up, your heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. If he noticed your discomfort—and of course, he did—he didn’t let on. He shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth, his eyes flicking toward the TV screen before turning to you.

“Whatcha watching?”, he asked casually, his voice a little softer now but still holding that rough, unshakable edge.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… whatever was on”.

He snorted. “Riveting choice”. Another handful of popcorn disappeared into his mouth, and he leaned back, spreading out like he owned the place. Which, let’s face it, he kind of did. Every room he entered felt like it bent to him, like the walls themselves were trying to make room for him and his ego.

As the minutes dragged on, he kept up the small talk. About the shitty popcorn, the weather, the ancient couch springs that squeaked every time one of you shifted. His tone was light, conversational, but his eyes… his eyes were anything but.

He wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. He was watching you. Really watching you. The way your shoulders hunched in on themselves like you were trying to make yourself smaller. The way your hands fidgeted with the hem of your hoodie. The way your legs were pressed tightly together, like you were trying to disappear into the cushions.

“You’re tiny”, he said abruptly, almost thoughtfully, his gaze dragging up and down your frame. “Like, seriously. How are you even a person? You’re what, a buck twenty soaking wet?”.

You stiffened, your face flushing. “I’m… normal-sized”, you mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes.

He chuckled, low and gravelly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Normal? Sweetheart, if I even looked at you wrong, you’d probably snap in half”.

Your stomach churned at the words, at the casual way he said them. Like it wasn’t a threat, just a fact. And maybe it was. He wasn’t wrong—he could break you without even trying. Supe or not, he was built like a goddamn tank, and you… well, you weren’t.

His gaze lingered on you, sharp and appraising, like he was trying to figure you out. “What’re you so scared of, huh?”, he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. “You think I’m gonna hurt you?”.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too big, your fear too loud.

“Relax, doll”, he said, leaning a little closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “If I wanted to crush you, I wouldn’t need to waste my time sitting here talking to you, now would I?”.

That didn’t make you feel any better. In fact, it made your skin crawl. But you nodded anyway, because what else could you do?

Ben smirked as he leaned back, stretching his arm casually over the back of the couch. He popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving you.

“So”, he drawled, cocking an eyebrow. “Got a boyfriend, Peanut?”.

The word caught you off guard, and you glanced at him sharply, your confusion momentarily outweighing your fear. “P-Peanut?”, you stammered, the nickname so unexpected it almost made you forget how close he was.

He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his scruffy beard. “Yeah, Peanut. You’re tiny, right? Probably weigh, what, eighty-five? Ninety pounds tops? I could pick you up with one hand, and you’d barely be a snack”. He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, like he found the whole thing hilarious. “Peanut fits”.

Your face burned with embarrassment, but you didn’t say anything. What could you say? He wasn’t exactly wrong, but hearing it said out loud—especially by him—made you feel smaller than ever. You tucked your legs up under you, trying to create some kind of barrier between his imposing presence and your body.

“C’mon”, he said, his voice lighter now, teasing almost. “You seriously don’t have some guy waiting around for you? Someone to take care of you? Feels like you’d need a bodyguard just to make it through the grocery store”.

You shook your head, your voice barely audible. “No boyfriend”.

He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “Huh. Surprising. A thing like you? I’d think guys would be lining up”.

His words weren’t comforting. They weren’t meant to be. They carried an undertone that made your stomach twist, a reminder of how easily he could take you if he wanted to. You shifted uncomfortably, pulling your hoodie tighter around yourself like it could somehow shield you from the heat of his gaze.

“What’s the matter, Peanut?”, he asked. “I’m just making conversation. You don’t have to look so freaked out all the time”.

“I’m not freaked out”, you lied, your voice trembling just enough to betray you.

He snorted, clearly not buying it. “Sure you’re not”. He leaned forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing himself closer to you. The smell of whiskey and faint cigar smoke clung to him, mingling with something sharper, something distinctly him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Told you already, didn’t I?”.

You nodded again, but the tension in your body didn’t ease. If anything, it grew worse as his eyes traveled over you again, lingering in ways that made you want to sink into the couch and disappear.

“Man”, he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re wound up tighter than a fucking spring”. He reached for the popcorn bag again, the casual motion a stark contrast to the intensity of his words. “I don’t know what the hell Butcher was thinking, sticking me with you. You’re not exactly intimidating”.

You bristled at that, a tiny flicker of indignation breaking through your fear. “I wasn’t supposed to intimidate you”, you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… here to keep an eye on you”.

He laughed—loud and abrupt, the sound startling in the otherwise quiet room. “You’re supposed to keep an eye on me?”. He leaned back again, throwing one arm across the back of the couch again and grinning down at you like he’d just heard the best joke of his life. “Fuck. That’s rich”.

You didn’t respond, biting your lip to keep the words locked in. You couldn’t afford to snap, couldn’t afford to give him a reason to escalate. Not with how close he was. Not with how easily he could overpower you.

Ben’s laugh faded into a low hum, almost as if he were talking to himself, but the words were loud enough to reach you. “You know”, he muttered, swirling the last of the whiskey in the bottle before setting it on the floor, “I could help you relax. You’re all wound up like a little bird that flew into the wrong fucking cage”.

The comment made your stomach tighten, your pulse spiking as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. His gaze wasn’t on the TV. It wasn’t even on the popcorn anymore. It was on you. Slowly, deliberately, like he was working through some kind of internal checklist, his eyes dragged from your face, to your neck, to the way your hoodie hugged your body.

“Yeah”, he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher.

“I’d probably crush you. Tiny little thing like you. But…”. He leaned his head back against the couch, as though considering something deeply. “I could figure it out. Work on my self-restraint”. He exhaled sharply through his nose, almost like a laugh, but it didn’t carry any humor. “Not sure you’d survive, though”.

Your throat went dry, and your mind raced for something—anything—to say to steer the conversation somewhere less terrifying. But the words wouldn’t come. It was like your brain had shut down entirely, overwhelmed by the weight of his presence and the dark, unsettling undertone to his words.

“I mean, shit”, he went on, almost lazily, like he was just idly musing. “It’d be a tight fit, no doubt about that. But I’d manage”. He turned his head toward you, one eyebrow quirking as though he was waiting for some kind of reaction. “What d’you think, Peanut? Think you could handle me?”.

Your heart felt like it might explode. You shifted slightly, trying to put even an inch of space between you, but the couch offered no escape. He noticed, of course he noticed, and the smirk on his face only widened.

“Relax”, he said again, though this time it sounded more like a command than a suggestion. “I’m just messing with you”. He leaned back again, popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth like the last thirty seconds hadn’t just happened.

But the tension in the air didn’t dissipate. His words lingered, sinking into your mind like oil, staining everything. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too loudly, your entire body coiled as tightly as a spring.

Ben glanced at you again, his expression unreadable now, the grin gone. “You really gotta lighten up, Peanut”, he said, almost absently. “You’re making me feel like a fucking monster”.

You wanted to tell him he wasn’t making it easy. That his very presence was suffocating. That every word out of his mouth only fed the gnawing pit of fear in your stomach. But you couldn’t. So you stayed silent, staring at the TV and praying that he’d get bored soon. That the night would end without him pushing any further.

Ben shifted slightly on the couch, the springs groaning under his weight. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if lost in thought, but you could feel his attention still anchored on you, heavy and unrelenting.

“You know”, he started, his voice low and casual, “I heard Butcher and that cum-guzzler talking about you”. He popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth, chewing slowly as though giving himself time to savor the words that would follow. “Something about why you’re so jumpy around supes”.

Your heart clenched, and you went rigid. You hadn’t realized Butcher had told him—why would he? What purpose would it serve, giving Soldier Boy ammunition? You glanced at him sharply, trying to gauge his intentions, but his expression was frustratingly neutral, save for the slight quirk of a smirk playing on his lips.

He chuckled, low and gravelly, shaking his head. “Can’t say I blame you”, he continued. “Sounds like you had a real shitty time of it. Some asshole supe gets a little too handsy, decides he’s owed something just because he’s got powers. That about right?”.

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt like it was closing, the weight of his words pulling every horrible memory to the surface.

Ben didn’t seem to need a response. He let out a long breath, his smirk fading as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees again. “Here’s the thing, Peanut”, he said, his tone quieter now, almost contemplative. “Guys like that… they give the rest of us a bad name. Not that I give a shit about my reputation, but, you know, principle and all that”.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why… why are you bringing this up?”.

He shrugged, the motion casual, but the intensity in his eyes betrayed him. “Just thinking out loud. If that’s the only experience you’ve got with supes… well, no wonder you’re scared shitless. That’s the memory you’re stuck with”. His gaze slid to you, sharp and probing. “But maybe I could fix that”.

“Fix it?”, you echoed, your voice trembling. “What… what does that mean?”.

He smirked again, leaning back and stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing just a hair’s breadth away from your shoulder. “I’m just saying”, he drawled, “maybe if you had a different kind of experience, you wouldn’t be so fucking scared all the time. Replace that shitty memory with a fucking awesome one”.

The implication in his words was crystal clear, and your stomach churned violently. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, your nails digging into your palms. “That’s not…”. You trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s not how it works”.

He tilted his head, studying you with a mixture of amusement and something darker. “You sure about that? Sometimes all it takes is one good memory to wipe out the bad. One moment to make you forget the rest of the bullshit”.

You shook your head, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t think—”.

“Calm down, Peanut”, he interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, commanding tone again. “I’m not saying I’d do anything. Unless, you know, you wanted me to”.

Your breath hitched, and you pressed yourself further into the couch, as if the cushions could somehow swallow you whole. His gaze was piercing, unrelenting, and you could feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, suffocating.

“But hey”, he continued after a moment, his tone lightening again as he grabbed another handful of popcorn. “It’s your call. I’m just saying… I could make it worth your while”.

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. Your mind was racing, your body frozen in place.

The safe house was quiet except for the distant hum of the water running in the bathroom. Ben was in the shower, and you were stuck on the couch, your nerves coiled tighter than ever. It had been weeks since that first night, weeks of this strange, unbearable dance between the two of you. He hadn’t pushed things too far, but he hadn’t stopped either. The teasing, the lingering touches, the weight of his gaze—it was constant, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

And now, as you sat there waiting for him, you hated yourself for the stupid summer dress you’d chosen to wear. It was hot, unbearably so, and the safe house didn’t have air conditioning. The dress had seemed like a practical choice at the time—lightweight, easy to move in—but now it felt like a mistake. The fabric clung to your skin and you couldn’t help but feel exposed. Vulnerable.

You shifted uncomfortably, pulling the dress down as far as it would go and wrapping your arms around yourself. It didn’t help. The room felt stifling, and the faint sound of the shower only added to the tension. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, couldn’t stop the little voice whispering in the back of your head: What’s he going to say this time? What’s he going to do?

The shower shut off, and your breath caught. You stared at the TV, not really seeing it, your heart pounding as you heard the sound of the bathroom door creaking open.

Moments later, Ben emerged, a towel slung low around his hips and his hair damp, water droplets trailing down his chest. He was a vision of raw power and confidence, and he knew it. The smirk tugging at his lips told you as much.

“Hey, Peanut”, he said casually, like this was the most normal thing in the world. He grabbed a second towel and ran it through his hair, his muscles flexing with the motion. “Didn’t think I’d keep you waiting, did you?”.

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting back to the TV. “I wasn’t—”, you started, but your voice faltered. “I mean, I’m fine”.

“Sure you are”, he said, chuckling under his breath. He crossed the room, tossing the towel onto a chair as he made his way to the couch. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of him, the sheer weight of him, as he sat down beside you. Close. Too close. Again.

His eyes flicked to your dress, lingering for just a moment before he leaned back, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “Nice dress”, he commented, his tone light but his gaze sharp. “Didn’t know we were getting all dressed up today”.

Your face burned, and you tugged at the hem again, wishing it were longer. “It’s just… it’s hot”, you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

“That it is”, he agreed, his smirk widening. “But you didn’t have to go all out for me, Peanut. A little effort goes a long way, though, so… thanks”.

You clenched your jaw, your hands twisting the fabric of the dress in your lap. “I didn’t—”.

“I’m just messing with you. Don’t get so wound up”, his voice dropping into that familiar, teasing drawl.

You wanted to snap back, wanted to tell him to knock it off, but you couldn’t. You just sat there, frozen, your heart pounding as he shifted slightly closer, the edge of his thigh brushing against yours.

The problem wasn’t just that you were afraid of Ben anymore—though that fear was still there, lurking beneath every breath, every glance, every word. The problem was that, over the past few weeks, something else had crept in, something worse.

Attraction.

You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your pulse quickened when he smirked at you, the way your thoughts lingered on his voice, deep and rough like gravel underfoot. And now, as you sat beside him, that stupid towel slung so dangerously low on his hips, it was taking everything you had to keep your eyes on the TV.

But you failed. Of course, you did. Your gaze flicked toward him out of the corner of your eye, drawn like a moth to a flame. The towel clung to his hips precariously, the line of dark hair below his navel trailing downward, disappearing beneath the fabric. And lower—your breath hitched—the outline of him was visible, faint but undeniable.

You quickly looked away, your cheeks burning, your heart hammering in your chest. What the hell is wrong with me? you thought, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. This was Soldier Boy. Ben. The same man who teased you relentlessly, who could crush you without a second thought. A damn supe. And yet…

“You’re quiet, Peanut”, he said suddenly, his voice breaking through your frantic thoughts. His tone was casual, but you knew better than to believe it wasn’t deliberate. He always knew how to needle you just enough to get under your skin. “I mean, you’re always quiet, but today? What’s the deal?”.

You didn’t respond, your throat too dry to form a coherent excuse. You tried to keep your eyes locked on the TV, pretending to focus on the images flickering across the screen. But you could feel him watching you, the heat of his gaze sliding over your profile, lingering far too long for comfort.

“C’mon”, he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, rich and deep enough to make your stomach do an unwelcome flip. “You’re the only action I’ve got in this shithole they’re hiding me in. Least you could do is talk to me. I’m bored as hell over here”.

Your hands twisted in your lap, gripping the fabric of your dress like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, not with the way his words made your skin flush and your heart pound.

“I don’t know what to say”, you mumbled finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben leaned back against the couch, his towel shifting just slightly. “You don’t have to say much, Peanut”, he drawled, his smirk audible in his tone. “Just give me something. Anything. Hell, even a complaint about how much you hate being stuck with me. I know you’ve got those”.

You glanced at him for just a split second, and that was your mistake. He was sprawled out, all lazy confidence, the towel still clinging low on his hips, the light from the TV casting faint shadows over his chest. The sight made your stomach twist, and you quickly looked away again, your cheeks burning.

“I don’t hate you”, you blurted out, immediately regretting it.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Don’t you now?”. His smirk deepened, and he leaned in just slightly, the arm draped over the back of the couch brushing your shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you can’t even look at me half the time”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers knotting into the hem of your dress. “I just…”, you stammered, unsure how to explain without giving away too much. “You make me nervous”.

Ben tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost curious. “Nervous, huh?”, he repeated, his voice quieter now, like he was mulling over the word. “Why? You still think I’m gonna hurt you?”.

“No”, you said quickly, though the fear still lingered at the edges of your mind. “It’s not that”.

“Then what?”, he asked, his tone deceptively gentle, but his gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “What is it about me that’s got you so wound up?”.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Your silence only seemed to amuse him further. He let out a low chuckle, leaning back again, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest.

“Shit, Peanut”, he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re like a puzzle I can’t quite figure out. Makes me want to push, see how far you’ll bend before you break”.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you forced yourself to keep your breathing steady, to keep your focus anywhere but on him. You didn’t know how much longer you could keep this up, this fragile pretense of calm, but you knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to let this go. Not tonight.

The tension in the room was suffocating, and you couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands trembled as you placed them on your thighs, pushing yourself up from the couch. “I… I need some water”, you mumbled, not daring to look at him. You didn’t wait for his response—if he even had one—and walked quickly toward the little kitchen tucked into the corner of the safe house.

Your footsteps felt too loud against the worn wooden floor, the tiny kitchen offering no real reprieve from his presence. You grabbed a glass from the cupboard, your fingers trembling slightly as you filled it from the tap. You told yourself the sound of running water would drown out the pounding of your heart, but it didn’t.

The quiet click of his footsteps behind you made you freeze.

“Thirsty, huh?”, Ben’s voice came from far too close, his tone casual but laced with that ever-present teasing edge. He was right behind you now—you could feel him, his heat radiating like a furnace, the space between you barely a breath.

“I just needed some space”, you said, your voice quiet and shaky, gripping the glass like it was a lifeline.

“Space?”, he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. You heard him shift, his hand brushing lightly against the counter as he leaned against it. “Still can’t handle being near me?”.

You froze, the glass trembling slightly in your hands as you felt him step even closer. His body was right behind yours now, close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his chest against your back every time you shifted.

“You look really pretty today”, he murmured, his voice softer now, quieter, but no less unsettling. His words sent a shiver racing down your spine, and you gripped the glass tighter, your knuckles turning white.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your hair, playing with a loose strand like it was the most natural thing in the world. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were testing your reaction.

“Didn’t think a little dress like that could make someone so…”. He trailed off, his fingers gently tucking the strand behind your ear from behind, his touch warm against your skin. “Sweet. You do surprise me, Peanut”.

Your heart pounded, your breath catching in your throat. “Ben, please…”, you whispered, barely able to get the words out. You didn’t know what you were asking for—for him to stop, to step back, to leave you alone—but your voice carried the weight of your unease.

“Oh c'mon now”, he murmured, his tone dipping into that low, velvety register that always made your stomach twist. “I’m just saying you look nice. No harm in that, right?”.

His hand lingered for a moment longer, brushing lightly against your shoulder, before he stepped back just enough to give you a fraction of space. But it didn’t feel like enough. The air around you still felt heavy, charged with his presence.

“You don’t take compliments well, do you?”, he asked, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice as he leaned casually against the counter. “What’s so scary about me telling you you’re pretty?”.

“Nothing”, you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s gaze dropped, shamelessly traveling down your body. You could feel it, the weight of his eyes lingering on your legs. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and you caught the faint movement out of the corner of your eye. It sent a fresh wave of heat through your face, your stomach twisting into knots.

“You know”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing, almost contemplative, “it’s been quite a while for me.” He leaned a little closer, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he rested it on the counter beside you. “And with you here, looking like that, acting all shy and innocent…”.

He trailed off, his smirk widening as his gaze dragged back up to meet yours. “It’s really hard for me, Peanut”.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and your breath caught in your throat. Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter, your knuckles white as you fought to keep yourself grounded. “Ben, stop”, you said softly, your voice barely audible, but there was a tremble in it you couldn’t hide.

“Stop what?”, he asked innocently, though the glint in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t innocent, not even close. “I’m just being honest. You don’t want me to lie, do you?”.

You turned your head to look at him, your heart pounding as you met his gaze. His smirk was maddening, equal parts charming and infuriating, and the way he was looking at you—like he was sizing you up, deciding just how far he could push—made your pulse race for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m not… I’m not doing anything”, you stammered, your words tumbling over themselves. “I’m just—”.

“Just standing there, looking all sweet and pretty”, he interrupted, his tone playful. He straightened slightly, his height and presence towering over you as he leaned a little closer. “You have no idea, do you? How hard you make it for me to keep my hands to myself?”.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back instinctively, the counter digging into your lower back as you put as much distance between you as you could in the small space. But he didn’t move closer—he just stayed there, watching you, his smirk softening into something almost… curious.

Ben’s smirk deepened as he watched you, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was peeling back every layer of your defenses. “You know”, he murmured, his voice soft but still carrying that teasing edge, “I think you actually like me, Peanut”.

Your eyes widened at his words, and you shook your head quickly, your back pressing harder against the counter. “That’s not true”, you said, your voice trembling with the effort to sound convincing.

But he didn’t seem fazed. If anything, your reaction only amused him more. His hand darted out, slow and deliberate, resting gently on your hip. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t threatening—it was almost careful, like he was testing the waters, giving you a chance to stop him.

Your breath hitched, and your body tensed under his touch. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of your dress, the weight of his hand grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.

“You’re not pushing me away”, he said softly, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. His fingers flexed slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he was there. “That’s gotta count for something”.

You opened your mouth to say something, to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, but no words came out. You were frozen, caught in the weight of his gaze, the closeness of him, the way his presence consumed every inch of space around you.

His other hand came up slowly, brushing against a strand of hair that had fallen into your face. He tucked it behind your ear, his touch featherlight, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You keep telling yourself you’re scared of me”, he murmured, his tone quiet, almost tender. “But I think you’re scared of something else”.

“Ben, I…”. Your voice cracked, and you trailed off, your hands clutching the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Shh”, he whispered, his hand on your hip shifting just slightly, his thumb brushing against the curve of your waist. “You don’t have to say anything, Peanut. Not if you don’t want to”.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your uneven breathing, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner. His touch wasn’t rough or demanding, but it was firm, grounding, impossible to ignore.

And then, slowly, he leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Just… Push me away if you want me to stop. Promise I won´t be mad”, he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his lips so close to yours you could feel the ghost of their presence.

Your heart pounded, your mind racing with conflicting emotions—fear, confusion, and something far more dangerous bubbling beneath the surface. You hated how much you craved his attention, hated how much his touch made your body betray you. But even as you stood there, frozen, his words echoed in your mind: Push me away.

Would you? Could you?

The choice was yours.

Bot you didn’t push him away. You stayed still, your breath hitching as Ben’s smirk deepened. He took your silence as permission—or maybe just a challenge he was eager to win.

Without a word, his hands slid more firmly around your waist. Before you could even process what was happening, he lifted you effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. The glass of water slipped from your fingers, landing with a dull clink on the counter as he set you down atop it. The cool surface against the back of your thighs made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.

He stepped closer, pressing himself between your legs, his movements deliberate and unyielding. Your legs opened instinctively to accommodate him, the fabric of your dress sliding up as you shifted. The hem bunched high on your thighs, and your stomach dropped when you realized how exposed you were. The little triangle of fabric between your legs was on full display, and Ben’s gaze dropped to it immediately, his lips curling into a wolfish grin.

“Well, would you look at that”, he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, the faintest edge of amusement making it all the more dangerous. His hands trailed down to your knees, his thumbs brushing against the inside of your thighs, sending a shock of warmth through your body. “Peanut, you’ve been holding out on me”.

You squirmed, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as if it could anchor you against the storm of his presence. “Ben…”, you whispered, your voice trembling, unsure if it was a plea for him to stop or to keep going.

“Shh”, he said softly, his hands sliding higher, spreading your legs further apart. “I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you”.

But the way he looked at you—the hunger in his eyes, the possessive way his hands claimed your body—made your pulse race for entirely different reasons. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your neck as he pressed his hips against yours, his body firm and unyielding.

“You have no idea”, he whispered, his voice rough and thick with desire. “No idea how hard it’s been. Watching you, waiting for you to stop running, stop hiding. But now…”. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Now I’ve got you right where I want you”.

Your heart pounded, your mind spinning as his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration of your body. You hated how your body reacted to him, how the heat pooled low in your belly, how your breathing quickened despite yourself. Hated how much you wanted him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

And Ben—he knew it, too. You could see it in his smirk, in the way his eyes burned with triumph. He was in control, and he knew it. You wanted him, and that he sure knew too.

Ben’s smirk deepened as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing teasingly against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His touch was firm but not rough, as if he were savoring every moment. He leaned back slightly to get a better look, his eyes darkening as they locked onto the little triangle of fabric barely covering you.

“You know”, he murmured, his voice low and full of heat, “I’ve been imagining this for weeks. But it’s even better than I thought”.

You opened your mouth to respond—to say something—but the words caught in your throat once more as he hooked a finger under the fabric. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, a wicked gleam in his green eyes as he gave you - again - just enough time to stop him.

But you didn’t.

With a sharp, controlled movement, he ripped the delicate material apart, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the quiet kitchen. The force of it sent a jolt through your body, but it didn’t hurt. It was more of a shock—both from the action itself and the way his eyes devoured the sight before him.

Your breath hitched as the ruined panties fell away, leaving you bare to him. His hands stilled for a moment, his gaze fixated on your glistening, perfectly shaven lips. A low growl rumbled in his throat, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your thighs.

”Fuck peanut”, he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “Look at you”.

Ben’s grip on your thighs tightened as his eyes darkened, roaming over every inch of you like you were something he was about to own. He let out a low, gravelly chuckle, shaking his head with that familiar smirk—cocky and unapologetically lewd.

“Is this what chicks are doing these days? All shaved, all fucking spotless?”. His thumb traced lazily along your inner thigh, teasing just close enough to make you squirm. “In the ’80s, everyone had a damn jungle down here. Didn’t matter who you were, movie star or some chick at a dive bar—hair everywhere. But this?”.

His thumb slid lower, brushing over the seam of your closed, glistening lips. The slickness made his touch effortless, his rough hands stark against your softness. “This is a whole fucking upgrade”, he murmured, almost to himself, his tone filthy and raw. “Smooth as hell… fuck Peanut, you’re like a fucking dream”.

Ben’s eyes stayed glued between your legs, completely enthralled, like he was witnessing something unreal. The pad of his thumb pressed further, parting your slick lips with almost lazy confidence. He slid it down to your entrance, where he paused, testing the way your body reacted to him.

“Fuck me”, he muttered under his breath, his voice gravelly and thick with lust. “You’re soaked, Peanut. Look at this. Look at you”.

Your breath hitched audibly, your chest rising and falling as his thumb pressed lightly against your entrance, his other hand tightening its grip on your thigh to keep you exactly where he wanted you. His touch was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment.

“You’re fucking perfect”, he murmured, half to himself.

Ben’s thumb dipped just barely inside you, and the moment he felt how tight you were, he froze. His breath hitched, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips as he pulled his hand back. His grip on your thigh tightened, grounding himself as he muttered under his breath, “No fucking way. Not with my fingers. I’m not wasting this on anything but my dick”.

His green eyes flicked up to meet yours, filled with a dark hunger that sent a shiver racing down your spine. He took a deep breath, his smirk returning as he dragged his hands up the outside of your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress higher as he went.

“You’re something else, Peanut”, he growled, his voice thick and unapologetically filthy. “This body, this tight little hole… it’s all mine”.

He grabbed the hem of your dress, tugging it upward with slow, deliberate movements, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t. Instead, you lifted your arms instinctively, your breath catching in your throat as you helped him pull the dress over your head. The fabric slipped away easily, pooling on the floor beside the counter, leaving you bare except for your trembling body beneath his gaze.

Ben stepped back slightly, just enough to take you in, his eyes roaming over every inch of your exposed skin with raw, unfiltered desire. He let out a low whistle, his lips curving into a grin that was both predatory and approving.

“You’re even better than I imagined”. His hands moved back to your waist, firm and possessive as he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, positioning you exactly where he wanted you.

“You don’t even realize, do you?”, he muttered, his hands trailing over your hips, your stomach, your thighs, like he couldn’t get enough of touching you. “How fucking perfect you are. How fucking lucky I am”.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he growled, “I told you, Peanut. You’re mine now. Every inch of you”.

With one swift motion, Ben pulled the towel from his hips and tossed it carelessly to the side, revealing himself fully. Your eyes widened the moment you saw him—huge, heavy, and impossibly intimidating. A gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you instinctively pressed your hands against his chest, trying to push him away.

But he didn’t budge.

Your heart raced, panic and uncertainty flooding your senses. You weren’t a virgin, but this… this was different. The sheer size of him made your stomach twist with both fear and something else you didn’t want to name.

“Whoa there, Peanut”, Ben murmured, his voice low and teasing, but there was a glint of smug satisfaction in his eyes as he glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Scared already? Thought you said you weren’t afraid of me”.

“I just…”, you stammered, your palms pressing harder against his chest, but he didn’t move. He stood there, unyielding, his muscles firm under your touch as he watched you with that same maddening smirk.

“Relax”, he said again, his tone dipping into that familiar mix of amusement and raw lust.

Your voice came out in a shaky whisper, your eyes wide and fixed on him. “This… this won’t fit. No way”.

Ben’s smirk deepened, the gleam in his eyes turning even more smug, like your fear only fed his ego. He let out a low chuckle, his broad chest rumbling under your trembling hands. “Won’t fit, huh?”, he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. “You really think I’d let that stop me?”.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly against his chest as you tried to pull back, but his hands on your hips held you firmly in place. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “Don’t sell yourself short, Peanut. You’ll take it. You just need a little… encouragement”.

Your stomach twisted at his words, a mix of fear and heat flooding your senses. “Ben, I—”, you started, but he cut you off, his hands sliding slowly up your sides, strong and possessive.

“I’ll make it fit”, he murmured, his voice low and dripping with confidence.

One of his hands moved between your bodies, and your breath hitched as he grabbed himself, his cock heavy and intimidating in his hand. His green eyes flicked up to yours briefly, watching your reaction.

“Just.. relax, Peanut”, he said softly, almost mockingly, as he positioned himself. “This is gonna feel real good. Trust me”.

You bit your lip hard as you felt the tip of him slide through your slick lips, the slow, deliberate motion making your body jolt with unexpected pleasure. The contrast of his roughness and your softness was overwhelming, your hips twitching instinctively as his thick head dragged against you.

“Fuck”, he muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on where your bodies touched. “You’re already soaking for me. You feel that, Peanut? That’s your body telling you it wants this. Wants me”.

A shaky whimper escaped your lips, and you hated yourself for the sound, for how much you wanted him. The warmth, the pressure, the way he moved—it was too much, too intense, too consuming.

Ben chuckled, his thumb brushing over your thigh as he kept guiding himself against you, letting his tip tease your entrance but not pushing in just yet. “Look at you”, he muttered. “Already whining, and I haven’t even given you the real thing yet”.

You bit your lip harder, trying to stifle another whimper. His free hand slid up your side, gripping your waist possessively as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Don’t hold back now, Peanut", he growled. “I want to hear every little sound you make. Wanna know how much you’re feeling this”.

The heat pooling low in your belly was unbearable, your body trembling as he continued his slow, torturous motions. He wasn’t even inside you yet, but the weight of him was enough to leave you breathless.

Ben’s cocky smirk softened just slightly as he began to nudge himself inside you, his movements surprisingly slow and deliberate. He pressed forward an inch at a time, giving you room to adjust to his size. His hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you steady as he worked himself in, his gaze locked on your face.

“Fuck, Peanut”, he muttered under his breath, the usual arrogance in his tone giving way to something deeper, rougher. “Tight as hell. I knew you’d feel good, but this? Fuck”.

You winced at the stretch, your body instinctively tensing around him as he pushed in further. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, and you couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips.

“Shh”, he murmured, his voice low and almost soothing as he paused, letting you adjust. “I know, baby. It’s a lot. But you’re doing good. So fucking good”.

Your hands gripped his forearms, your nails digging into his skin as he slid another inch deeper, the burn of the stretch making you gasp. “Ben”, you whispered, your voice trembling, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“I’ve got you”, he said, his voice steady and firm, his thumbs rubbing small circles against your skin in a rare gesture of comfort. “You’ll get used to it. Just breathe”.

You tried to focus on his words, on the way he moved so slowly, giving you time to adjust to every inch of him. The stretch was still intense, still bordering on too much, but as he eased in further, your body began to relax, the pain giving way to a different kind of pressure.

“That’s it”, he murmured, his lips quirking into a small smirk as he watched you. “See? I told you you’d take it, Peanut”.

You couldn’t form a response, your breath hitching again as he pushed in another inch. He groaned softly, his head falling forward briefly, his self-control evident in the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

Your body trembled, the overwhelming fullness leaving you unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. He stayed still, his hands firm on your hips, his gaze softening just slightly as he gave you a moment to adjust.

“You’re doing so good, Peanut”, he said, his voice low and almost gentle, though the hunger in his eyes hadn’t faded. “Just a little more, and then I’ll make you feel real fucking good. I promise”.

Ben pushed in further, inch by inch, until he finally bottomed out, his hips pressing flush against yours. The sheer fullness, the stretch, was almost too much, and a breathless moan escaped your lips, mixed with a high-pitched whine that you couldn’t suppress. The sound seemed to drive him wild.

“Fuck”, Ben groaned, his head dropping forward to rest against your collarbone as his hands tightened on your hips. His breathing was ragged, and his entire body seemed to tense as he fought to keep himself in check. “You feel… Fuck, Peanut. You’re so fucking tight”.

You trembled under him, your hands instinctively clutching his broad shoulders as you tried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him filling you completely. He was so big, stretching you to your limits, and every inch of him pressed against places you didn’t even know could feel like this.

“Ben”, you whispered, your voice shaky, unsure if you were pleading for him to move or to give you more time to adjust.

“I know, baby”, he muttered, his voice gravelly and low, muffled against your skin. “I know. Just… fuck, just give me a second”. He groaned again, a deep, primal sound that vibrated through your chest, his hands gripping your waist like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re perfect”, he murmured, lifting his head slightly to press his forehead against yours. His green eyes burned into yours, dark with lust and something deeper, something almost reverent. “Fucking perfect. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me”.

You let out a shaky breath, your body slowly relaxing more around him as he stayed still, letting you adjust to the fullness. His hands moved to cradle your thighs, spreading you wider as he groaned softly again, his lips brushing against your jawline.

“Breathe, Peanut”, he said, his voice softening for a moment as his thumbs rubbed gentle circles into your skin. “Just breathe. You’re taking me so damn well”.

The praise sent a rush of warmth through your body, making you shiver against him. Slowly, he began to pull back just an inch, testing, watching your reaction with sharp, hungry eyes. The drag of him against your sensitive walls made your breath hitch, and his smirk returned as he groaned again.

“Yeah”, he growled, his voice thick as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re gonna love this, Peanut. I’ll make sure of it”.

Ben groaned deeply as he began to move, the drag of his length against your tight walls slow and deliberate. He pulled back just enough to make you feel every inch before sinking back in, his hips pressing flush against yours once more. The stretch still made you wince, but the intensity of the sensation was quickly mingling with something warmer, something almost unbearable.

“Shit”, he muttered against your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged. His lips grazed your skin, his teeth scraping lightly as he fought to keep his pace measured. “You’re squeezing me so damn tight. Like you were fucking made for me”.

A breathless whimper escaped you as he thrust again, a little deeper, a little harder. The fullness was still overwhelming, but with every slow, calculated movement, your body started to adjust, to mold to him. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he smirked against your skin, clearly enjoying the way you clung to him.

Ben’s thrusts grew harder, his hips snapping into yours with more purpose, more force. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, raw and intimate, but you bit your lip, desperate to keep quiet.

But Ben noticed. Of course, he noticed.

“Peanut”, he growled, his voice low and commanding, roughened by pleasure. He angled his hips just slightly, hitting a spot that made your back arch involuntarily. “Don’t you fucking hold back on me”.

A soft whimper escaped you, and his smirk returned, wicked and dangerous. “That’s more like it”, he muttered, his hands gripping your hips even tighter as he thrust again, harder this time. “I want to hear you. Every. Fucking. Sound”.

You clenched your teeth, your nails digging harder into his shoulders as you fought to keep quiet, but it was no use. His pace was relentless now, each movement deliberate, dragging pleasure and desperation out of you with every stroke.

“C’mon, baby”, he murmured, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t be shy. I want to hear how much you love this. Want to hear you beg me for more”.

You shook your head weakly, trying to resist, but when he thrust again, deeper than before, a moan slipped past your lips, raw and unrestrained. Ben groaned in response, the sound rough and guttural as he rocked into you harder.

“Fuck, that’s it”, he growled, his teeth scraping against your neck as he buried himself to the hilt again. “That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for. Knew you couldn’t stay quiet forever”.

Your breath hitched as he moved faster, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. His hands moved up to grip your waist, holding you steady as he claimed every inch of you, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke again.

“You feel that?”, he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Feel how perfectly you’re taking me? That tight little body of yours was made for this, Peanut. Made for me”.

You couldn’t hold back anymore, your soft moans turning into desperate whimpers as he pushed you further and further. His words, his touch, the sheer intensity of him—it was too much, too overwhelming. And Ben—he soaked in every sound, every tremble, every gasp, his grin widening as he kept driving into you like he couldn’t get enough.

“That’s my girl”, he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your face as his eyes locked onto yours. “Now stop holding back and let me hear it all”.

Ben could feel it—the way your body tightened around him, your walls fluttering as you approached the edge. His pace didn’t falter; if anything, it became sharper, more deliberate, each thrust angled perfectly to drive you closer to unraveling completely.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Peanut?”, he murmured. “I can feel it. You’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go”.

You whimpered, your nails raking against his shoulders as the pressure in your core built to an unbearable intensity. Your head fell back, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, but Ben wasn’t about to let you hide from him.

“Uh-uh”, he said sharply, his hands gripping your hips harder as he slowed his thrusts just enough to regain your attention. “Don’t you fucking look away”.

Your eyes fluttered open, your gaze hazy and unfocused as you tried to meet his. His green eyes burned with intensity, dark with hunger and something possessive that made your stomach twist. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against yours, his movements deliberate and unyielding as he pushed you closer and closer.

“When you come”, he growled, his voice rough and commanding, “you look at me, Peanut. Got it?”.

You nodded weakly, unable to form words, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge. He thrust harder, deeper, his rhythm relentless now, each motion pulling soft cries from your lips that you couldn’t control.

“That’s it”, he muttered, his gaze locked on yours, unyielding. “That’s my girl. Let me see it. Let me see you fall apart for me”.

The final thrust sent you over the edge, your body clenching tightly around him as your release crashed through you. Your eyes locked onto his, your vision blurring with the intensity of it, and Ben groaned deeply, the sound rough and raw as he watched every second of your undoing.

“Fuck, Peanut”, he muttered, his voice strained as your walls gripped him like a vice. “You’re so fucking perfect like this”.

Your body trembled as the waves of pleasure coursed through you, and even as you came undone beneath him, Ben didn’t stop. His movements slowed just enough to let you ride out your high, his hands firm and steady on your hips as he kept you exactly where he wanted you.

“Fucking beautiful when you come. Told you I’d make you love this”, he murmured, his smirk returning as he leaned in to brush his lips against your ear.

Ben wasn’t close to being done with you—not by a long shot. After a moment of catching his breath, he scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to the couch and sitting down with you straddling his lap. His hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding you as he eased you down onto him again. The stretch made your breath hitch all over again, but your body had already molded to him, making it easier this time.

“You’re not done yet, Peanut”, he murmured, his voice low and smug, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Not until I’ve had my fill”.

You didn’t know how much more you could take, but your body responded on instinct, your arms wrapping around his neck as he thrust up into you, slow and steady. Every motion sent shivers through you, the pressure building again despite how spent you already felt. His hands roamed your body, gripping, caressing, holding you steady as he moved beneath you.

Time blurred. You lost count of how many times he made you come—how many times your body tensed, shook, and fell apart in his arms. Ben took his time, alternating between hard, commanding movements and surprising moments of gentleness, as though savoring every second. His voice was a constant in your ear, filthy and possessive, coaxing every moan, whimper, and gasp out of you like they belonged to him.

By the time you collapsed against his chest, your body spent and trembling, you couldn’t even think straight. Your breaths came in soft, shaky gasps, your cheek resting against his chest. Ben’s hands moved to your back, stroking gently now, his touch grounding as you slowly came down from the overwhelming high.

“Shh”, he murmured, his voice softer now. “You’re done, baby. You’ve earned your rest”.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you securely against him as he leaned back into the couch. The tension in your body eased, and you felt your eyelids grow heavy, the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body lulling you into a daze.

Surprisingly, Ben didn’t push for more. He simply held you, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as they traced lazy circles on your back. His cocky smirk had softened into something almost content, his head resting against the back of the couch as he watched you drift off.

“Guess I wore you out”, he muttered, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he shifted slightly to make you more comfortable. “Can’t say I blame you, Peanut. You did good”.

You didn’t respond—couldn’t respond—as sleep overtook you. Completely spent, your body went limp against him, your soft breaths warm against his skin as you passed out in his arms. And for once, Ben didn’t press or tease. He just stayed there, holding you close, his gaze lingering on you with something almost resembling pride.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing

#jensen ackles #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #the boys #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy fanfiction #the boys soldier boy #soldier boy x you #ben x reader #ben x you #ben #the boys fanart #the boys amazon #the boys tv

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soldiersgirl · 4 months ago

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AT YOUR SERVICE .ᐟ

summary ⭑ he needed your help and you needed his. would be a shame to deny the soldier boy, his right to serve his country and you in the most delicious of ways. (based on this ask) / (part two) / (part three). cw ⭑ pornstar!reader x pornstar!soldier boy. payback era. 18+ smut (mdni). porn with some plot. mean soldier boy. veiled threats. joint smoking. goofy pornstar name. kissing. (slight) knife play. tit play. oral/face sitting (f & m receiving). fingering. protected p in v (safe sex work is important). pet names (bunny, doll, honey, sweetheart, bitch, toots). mentions of taking virginity (just part of the act). word count ⭑ 3,023 words.

the 70's and 80's were a wild time for anyone, but even more so with the increase of supes across america. no matter where you were or what you were doing, you couldn't avoid vought adverts and merchandise and especially not in new york; the epicenter of all things capitalism. but this also meant that you couldn't avoid the scandals that followed supes like the plague, and most notably, america's #1 and leader of payback, soldier boy. drugs, fist fights, sexism, alcoholism. god, you name it and soldier boy had certainly done it and given the pr team a run for their money.

you had never really cared for or about supes, not more than you had to. but the more your career took off, the more letters you received begging for you to include supes in your movies like other adult actresses had done. your fans were desperate for you test your boundaries and reach the level of fame, they knew you could. you had never considered it, not until vought reached out to you in desperation. they needed to rebuild soldier boy's female fanbase, as recent controversies had tanked his numbers, and what better way to showcase his best talent than with you?

you stared at yourself in your pink vanity mirror, trying to convince yourself that this was still a good idea. it would help your numbers, sure, and what's the worst that could happen? you ran your fingers through your styled hair, giving it a bit of life before leaning in and checking your lipgloss before sending yourself a little kiss and a wink before your peace was disturbed. a knock and before you could answer, your pink dressing room door swung open and there he stood, in his full supe-suit with his helmet and shield alongside his trademark joint dangling from his lips; the man of the hour.

"well, well, well." with each word he took a step closer to you, his eyes scanning your barbie-pink dressing room before finally landing on you. you. in the cutest little outfit he had ever seen. baby-pink platform heels, long white-knee socks with a white crop top to match that barely covered your perky tits and pink panties with a little cotton-tail stuck on the back. "aren't you the prettiest lil' bunny around?" he rests his gloved hand on the handle of his pocketed hunters knife, puffing away as you gaze up at him, unimpressed.

"do all supes lack manners or is it just you?" you sigh, turning back around to gaze into your mirror, not wanting to pay attention to him or his snide remarks. a loud chuckle followed by a clap and a shake of his head.

"i'm gonna fuck that attitude outta you, don't you worry." he leans in and admires himself in his mirror, copying the way you pout and pick at yourself. his cloud of smoke follows suit making you cough and splutter at the overwhelming smell. he runs his fingers over his moustache, taming it into place. "grew this just for you. gotta look the fuckin' part, don't i? pornstar gotta have a pornstache to match." he catches your eyes in the mirror and you notice it, that flicker of mischief in his eyes.

"please don't flatter yourself." you scowl. "got a name to match that monstrosity you're growing on your upper lip?" ben almost flinches at your words, scowling at your reflection before turning on his heel. before leaving, he puts out his half-smoked in your favourite orchid pot with a ghost of a smile, taunting you.

"you'll have to wait and see." he never turns to acknowledge you before slamming your dressing room door behind him, leaving both you and the room shaken. you mutter "prick..." under your breath as you swallow the last of your pride and follow behind him onto the set that he decided and the storyline that vought curated for him. you felt like just another pawn of capitalism, but the pay was good and honestly... soldier boy was handsome enough to let it happen, just this once.

you sit cross-legged on the prop bed as the director, hired by vought, frantically explains the plot as the crew hurries behind him to get the cameras and lights set up to soldier boy's expectations. you catch your manager's eye and you both raise a sceptical eyebrow at one another, sharing the same silent message.

what a fucking nightmare.

"so, the commies who had kidnapped you for ransom money from your rich father but soldier boy swooped in and saved you in the nick of time. you're so grateful and thankful and you want to show him that by le–"

"by letting him fuck me, yeah. i know the drill by now." you wave your hand and sigh, feigning boredom. "this isn't one of your dumbass vought movies. i know how this works. this is literally my job." you bite back, but before either of you can say another word, a manager yells "quiet on set! talent on set!" signalling soldier boy's arrival.

"ACTION!"

like before you sat cross legged on the set that was meant to resemble the make-shift tents that was used during the war to accommodate the soldiers. beds line both sides of the tent and the prop department had spared no expense by hanging oil lamps, calendars and pin-up girl posters around the tent on various cork-boards, alongside military-time radios and walk-talkies littered across the tables placed in the middle. you twirled your hair and bit your lip as your character was meant to be as "quiet, jumpy and naive as a button-nosed bunny" hence the cotton-tail. you weren't crazy about the character but for one hour and the pay check you're getting from vought? you could be anyone they wanted.

the tent flap flew open and in stepped soldier boy, his famous all-american smile plastered across his face as he slid his shield into place upon his back, before dramatically turning his attention to you and falling to his knees at your bedside. he carefully removes his burgundy gloves before slowly stroking your hair, attempting to comfort you despite his apparent lack of the skill. his strokes harder and rougher than need be, but you play it off to the camera.

"did those bastard commies hurt you? are you alright?" his hands slide and skid over your body before resting on your thighs, his thumb gently stroking your sticky skin. the summer heat was getting the better of you, but even under all of his layers, soldier boy seemed just fine. you shook your head and pouted up at him, placing your hand over his herculean one, mimicking his strokes.

"you saved me, my brave soldier." you enthusiastically lean in so that your forehead touched against his cold, metal helmet that only accentuated his deep, forest green eyes that you felt you could drown in. "how can i ever thank you, mr...?" you trailed off. soldier boy only replied with a twisted curl of his lip before peeling his hands off you and assuming the salute position.

"Major Cock, at your service, miss." with a nod of his head and a strong salute, he rests his hands on golden utility belt and lets his eyes hungrily roam your body. you unfurl your legs and sit spread-legged at the edge of the bed as your hands shoot up and rest upon his once again, with an innocent twinkle in your blown pupils. your eyes could make the strongest of men fall to their knees and bend to your will, but soldier boy was no ordinary man.

"oh, Major Cock, thank you." you sigh as you chew on your bottom lip and batting your eyelashes at him like trouble wrapped in cotton and purity, which you were anything but. "how could i ever repay you? my father is very rich and he'll pay you whatever you desire."

"what i desire ain't money, honey." his sincere grin turned almost sinister as he grabbed your hands tightly in his as you dramatically yelped in fake-pain. the people certainly weren't going to watch this for the acting, so there wasn't a need to try too hard. "i'm sure we can agree on a different form of payment. wouldn't you say so?"

"whatever are you thinking, Major Cock?" you feign naivety as you cock your head in consideration.

"why don't you show your saviour here," he reaches for his hunting knife and pokes the end of it under your crop-top, that was doing a horrible job of covering you up in the first place. "what you're hiding under here? gotta make sure you're not carryin' any weapons from the state enemy, don't i? or else i wouldn't be completing my service and we don't any problems, do we sweetheart?" he digs the tip into your soft chest and your heart hammers against your ribcage. this psycho hadn't used the prop-knife like agreed upon. he drags it down your stomach and stops at the waistband of your little panties, sighing with content admiring the red line that formed underneath. your fake fear quickly morphed into real fear as you reminded yourself to breathe.

"i don't want no trouble, no sir. i'll cooperate." you slowly remove your hands from his belt and pull your crop-top off with an urgency like never before. a small gasp fell past his plump lips as your breasts spilled out and laid bare for him to use. he reaches one hand down and gropes at your chest, squeezing and enjoying the fullness of you in his palm, before turning his attention to your already erect nipples. he roughly pulls and tugs on them, earning a whine from you and another smirk from him. he brings his knife up and gently taps the tip against your nipples before circling them. you hiss at the coldness of the blade against your sensitive buds, jerking with each flick of his knife. he tosses the knife to the side and you sigh a breath of relief that you didn't know you were holding before he dives down and connects his lips with yours, taking you by surprise. like a man starved, his mouth devours each of your moans as his hands continue to play with your tits. he sits down next you on the bed and dips his head to lick, kiss and bite your exposed chest, groaning as you roll back your shoulders and give him unfiltered access.

"no wonder they wanted to kidnap you with tits like these." he sighs in between enthusiastically sucking and kissing your erect buds. "they're nearly their own fuckin' weapon." he roughly laughs before biting down on them making you gasp and push him away in defiance. he swats your hands away and continues his torment, admiring the assortment of bite-marks that slowly bloomed on your skin. "wonder how good your pussy could be, if your tits are this great." he mumbles as his calloused fingertips find their way down to where you needed them most. angling you so that the camera could catch it all, he spreads your legs even further and hungrily observes the way your body flinches as his fingers ghost over your damp core. "pussy so good that men would kill for it." he hums, leaning in and pressing feather-light kisses against your neck.

"please be gentle, Major Cock. it- it's my first time." you hiccup as you nestle your heated face against his stubbled cheeks. your words almost made soldier boy double-take; the way you wore innocence like a second skin was deceivingly perfect, making him forget the reality of the situation. soldier boy tsk'ed and shook his head before caressing your cheek.

"don't you worry, soldiers always take good care of civilians. especially those as soaked as you." he muttered against your pulse as his fingers pulled aside the thin barrier that separated you from the remaining modesty you had left. the two of you groan in bless as he collects your wetness on his fingers and smear it all over your cunt before slowly easing them past your slick folds into your tight hole, inch by delicious inch. you immediately feel him scissoring his fingers, getting you ready for him and you could barely wait. his eyes barely left yours, he was too busy drinking in all your twitches and the way your breath hitches at his touch. he could do this all day.

after a few minutes of passionate kissing and vigorous finger-fucking, soldier boy couldn't wait anymore. he needed to taste you and it needed to be now. like a feather that weighed nothing, he pulled you on top of him as he laid down and positioned you so that your dripping cunt was right above his panting mouth. god, you smelled intoxicating, like rich honey during a summer's evening. your hands shot down and tried to cover yourself and the trimmed bush peeked out under the underwear, that clung onto your hips for dear life. he yanked your hands away and held them behind your back as he tugged you down so your folds rested on his full-bodied lips.

"didn't you want to pay me back? i risked my life for you, sweetheart." he murmured against your folds, his tongue delving in between. you hid your face in your shoulder as you absent-mindedly nodded and moaned in agreement. your body took over as you grinded your heat into his face, his tongue splayed out and ready for you to use for your own pleasure. he lapped up and welcomed each orgasm that washed over you as he eagerly sucked on your clit and explored your cunt with no shame. as the overstimulation hit you, you lifted your hips for a break and the sight beneath you took your breath away. his pornstache covered in your cum and slick. he kept direct eye-contact as his tongue peaked out and ran along the bottom of the stache, gathering your arousal and retreating back into his mouth with a wicked grin that showcased his deepening smile lines and crows feet. "i could eat this pussy all fuckin' day. but now i deserve that thankin' you were talkin' about, i think."

"huh?" is all you could manage before he flipped you back around and towered over you, still fully dressed in his supe-suit as you laid there with only your knee-socks and platform heels left on. he wasted no time in pulling down his zip and revealing his cock. the tip a glistening, soft pink that begging for attention as pre-cum had smeared all over it. he guided it to your lips and tapping them, tap tap tap, as if asking for permission. "i've never..." you mutter against his tip, giving it only a kitten lick making him loudly hiss.

"don't be shy, open that fuckin' mouth and show me how thankful you are." a choked gasp erupts from him as you wrap your glittery, pink lips around his tip, letting your tongue roll over it and taste him. your doe eyes gazing up at him in awe as you slowly took him, deeper and deeper, until he hit the back of your throat. the way you gag and splutter only spurs him on and his hips slowly buck into your hollowed-out mouth. "fuuuuck..." he drawled out as he threw his head back in pure bliss. tears threatened to form but before they had the chance to spill, he abruptly pulled out. "can't fucking wait any longer." he sighs as he pumps his cock, coating himself in his precum and your spit. he pulls a condom from his back pocket and expertly rolls it on before clutching your thighs with urgency and positioning himself in front of your entrance. your cunt stretched out and sucked in the thick head of his cock with no hesitation and soldier boy was sure it was the prettiest thing he had ever laid his eyes on. his strokes start out slow as you wince and whine underneath him. he clamps a hand over your mouth and shakes his head, wagging a finger right against your nose.

"can't let the others know, otherwise i'd get in trouble. they all wanna piece of you, but i don't fuckin' share." he leans down and in so that his mouth rests against your ear and whispers quietly enough, so that only you could hear. "told you i'd fuck that attitude out of you. bitch." his hips pick up their pace, your plush walls taking his thick cock so well, whilst you frowned and groaned underneath him. he messily pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit and rubbed in tight circles, laughing as you squirm and writhe in pleasure. your heels bounced against each other and clacked in unison with his deep and strategic thrusts. "i'm gonna keep you for myself, no one else is gonna get to fuck this pussy." he darkly chuckles. "mine now." he grunts as he watches your eyes flutter and your pussy clench at his words. with a few more deep strokes and the right amount of pressure on your clit, he spills into the condom as your final orgasm engulfs you. he connects your lips in one final, deep kiss before leaning his head against yours; your noses touching and shallow gasps mixing together. "that was one helluva thank you." he gasps.

"i thank you for your service, Major Cock." you say with a giggle as you give him a small salute with two fingers.

"CUT!"

your manager rushes forward with your signature pink bathrobe and envelopes you in it as soldier boy pulls out, chucks the condom to a poor intern and tucks himself back into his suit. you tie the robe shut and copy him, standing up and analysing him with a slight frown.

"give me a call when you're off, toots. think we could have more fun together." he gives you a curt nod before storming off set, interns and producers scurrying after him. and you can't help but think that he is right.

a/n: well. i hope u all enjoyed this!! i hope it's somewhat accurate as i've never written anything like this before! LIKES, FEEDBACK & REBLOGS are appreciated, if you loved this! -`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @kayleighwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @valjy @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @syrma-sensei @rositaslabyrinth @blossomingorchids @deansbbyx @mads-ackles @lunaleah @diawinchester217 @sunnyteume @drakulana @k-slla @deansbeer @h8aaz @samslovebug (comment or inbox me to be added)

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jollyhunter · 25 days ago

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Tap Once For ...

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x fem!Reader [platonic, best friends]

WARNINGS Heavy Angst, Implication of depression (if you squint), Implication of suicidal thoughts, Rainy Night Drive (it’s a mood, I swear), Dean being unusually quiet, Lots of nonverbal communication, Reader and Dean have their own language, Dean finally gets a hug !! , sorta fluff in the end?, Season 7 spoilers, is set at the end of 11x7, No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Bobby's dead. And now Dean's dying his own, silent death. Sam sees it. You see it. He brushes it off, forces on his mask as usual. But you know a different way to make it crack; One without words.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 3k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE Still thinking of this scene and the many things that were left unsaid. Consider it a sort of 'fix-fic' for this ep. ending. And perhaps overall for Dean's 'I don't talk about my crap'-problem.

If you want to feel the full vibe (recommended 💗): The songs played in the background are Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic (as in the canon scene) and Both Sides Now [1969!] by Joni Mitchell.

Dean smiles to himself.

First time ever since Bobby's death.

Cracks it in silence. In the safety of a rainy night. With no one to witness it. He glances to the right and up to the rearview mirror; Sam's snoring in the passenger seat and you're knocked out in the backseat.

It's just him behind the wheel and Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic playing in the background.

But that's alright. Because the smile that's stretched across his face is hollow.

A forceful attempt at following the advice he'd gotten from Frank.

"Do it with a smile or don't do it at all."

The corners of his lips curl up - twitch - dip down. He presses them into a thin line, before he tries again.

Every muscle's fighting him. Every emotion disagreeing with the new mask he forces onto his face, the one which is supposed to keep him from breaking down. Help him to pretend that it doesn't matter, that it doesn't eat him up inside that no matter how hard he tries, people just keep dying.

John, Ellen, Jo, Pamela - almost Lisa and Ben - then Cas and now… Bobby.

Just another one to add to the pile, right?

Who am I kiddin'…

It's not just the losses. It's the goddamn waiting. The never knowing when the next hit is gonna come. It's just a matter of time until you or Sam join the others. He knows, because it will be his damn fault.

But he can’t just quit and leave you and Sammy alone with all of this crap.

Like hell will I.

So he keeps pushing. Manages a smirk that does nothing to his eyes.

Until the darkness suddenly swallows him.

Drowns him in the void of the night, in what's left in the wake of bright orange beams which ripple through the interior of the car in a flash of a blur.

The sight has your chest tighten.

You're awake now, watching his occasionally lit-up expression through the rearview mirror without him realizing it.

Your heart twists. Face scrunches up. Damn… it's truly painful to witness. After a long beat, you cannot take it anymore.

"Dean?" you speak up softly, voice still raspy from the last hunt gone sideways. Dean's expression drops the same moment. Switches to his stoic one like a soldier summoned.

"Hm? Can't sleep?" he asks, voice gravelly but with that nonchalant tone he always likes to make use of. He lets his wrist rest casually on the steering wheel while his eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror to check on you before they return to the street ahead.

"Mhm..."

You swallow. Suck in a silent breath.

"Are you… okay?"

"Yeah. 'M fine," he answers quickly. His voice firm and exhausted as it cuts through the music like a blunt knife.

You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

The relevance of those all too familiar three damn words is sapped by now. In fact, it makes you wonder whether he even remembers their original meaning.

Dean's silent for a moment. Then his focus shifts to you as he searches your eyes through the small mirror ahead.

"What about you? How are ya holding up?" he inquires, his voice softened now.

Your eyes lock with his over the reflection. Both trying to read each other's emotions. But it's hard with the stark contours cast across both of your faces from the passing by streaks of light and the occasional shadows that eat your features whenever they roll across you.

You ponder for a moment. Then decide to go with the truth.

"Honestly? Not all too well," you admit quietly. You watch Dean's eyebrows pinch together, eyes fixed to the street – but it's obvious that he's fighting the urge to turn to look at you in concern. Instead he avoids your gaze altogether.

"You've been through the wringer. You should try'n get some shuteye," he mutters, fully aware that you weren't refering to the previous hunt.

You shift in the backseat. Pull your hoodie closer, clinging to the little warmth it provides while the distance between you two is stretching. In the way which always makes you feel like he's slowly walking away from you even though he's physically close enough to touch if you'd wanted to.

You hope he might say something more. Anything.

But he doesn't.

He's drifting further away from you and you can feel it.

Not just now.

But ever since Sam had gone Beautiful Mind and Cas had betrayed you all and died. It's like every time something happens, another piece of him is lost to the void.

And Bobby's death was just the thing to tip him over the edge.

"Can I pick a different song?" you finally pipe up again while sitting up straight, afraid of losing him completely if you were to let the silence stretch any longer.

Dean's attention snaps back to you, eyebrows raised. He hesitates, then nods.

"What d'you wanna listen to?"

"Um," you scoot to the middle of the bench, lean forward, chest hanging over the front's backrest as you fumble for the box still on the leather seat next to Dean. Your fingers rifle through the many bands and mix-tapes. Careful not to wake Sam, who's fast asleep with his long body folded into the corner of the passenger seat.

"This one," you hum satisfied as you pull one out and push it into the recorder.

Not even the first accord of the song fills the inside of the car when Dean's hand shoots out.

"Nope," he cuts in and hits the eject button with a little too much force, "We're not doing that therapy crap."

You startle at his quick reaction. Yet, you're not surprised, as you expected something along the line when you'd pick one of Bobby's tapes. The one Dean had saved from the many boxes which held Bobby's entire library and at least a few personal belongings here and there. Like the flask of his, which Dean's been carrying close to his heart for the past 5 weeks. And been making use of for at least two dozen times a day, sleepless nights not included.

"Whatever you're trying – don't," he adds annoyed.

Propped up on your forearms, next to his shoulder, you blink at his profile. He stubbornly keeps his focus on the road ahead, refusing to look your way. Once again.

You drop back into your seat with a heavy exhale. But stay quiet.

"What? Gonna give me the silent treatment now?"

Another beat of silence, then;

"I miss Bobby," you mutter in response.

Quiet. Honest and sad. Dean instantly picks up on it and his annoyance dissipates at once, frown wrinkles softened.

He lets out a quiet sigh. Then adds. "Yeah. Me too."

Heavy drops begin to rattle the hood. The sky seems to be able to do what he can't; emptying itself shamelessly. The unspoken conversation is taken over by the squeaking sounds of the wipers relentless battle against the flood that's trying to wash you off the streets.

The repetitive tac-tac-tac above you, along Sam's soft zzz-zzzz's has something calming. Soothing even. It drowns out the rest of the world, while the darkness swallows any reminder of civilization that passes by. And for a fleeting moment, the reality of you three is reduced to this.

All of your problems, all of your fears, losses, emotions, every thought unspoken; right here, right now, cooped up inside Dean's only safe haven.

He sighs. You sigh.

You sense the room to open up. It's small, it's fragile and you have no idea how much you can put into it until Dean decides to step outside again.

But you want to try.

"Sometimes… I think it's just all a nightmare, and when I wake up from it, he's still here… y'know? But… the nightmare never stops. And worst is… the world just keeps spinning," you confess in a weak voice. Vulnerable and broken. And for Dean it's just enough to make out amongst the noise of the car's engine and the heavy rain crashing down on its shell.

"Like nothing has changed. Like no one cares," you continue.

Dean doesn't move. He listens. Takes it all in.

Your focus flickers now, eyes glued to the raindrops racing against each other as they slide down the window. Its glass cold and damp under your shoulder which is pushed into the corner of the passenger door, temple dropped against it with a soft thud.

"And it pisses me off," you add in a bitter voice, "Everyone else just gets to live on. It's just not fucking fair."

You angle your head against the window, eyes darted past his shoulder to study his reaction.

Dean's jaw's set. His fingers tightening around the wheel ever so slightly, eyes refusing to lift and meet your pained expression.

For a moment it seems like he's going to open his mouth – but his voice dies down before his lips even part.

Perhaps because he's torn between letting the silence do the talking, or asking more and deal with the fear of not being able to carry the weight of your grief on top of his own right now.

You let out a soft huff at his lack of reaction. Which does not go unnoticed by Dean.

"Life ain't fair, sweetheart," he scoff-chuckles. The sound of it rough and bitter. His entire body is coiled tight. Clearly struggling to hold himself together. "And if you can't deal with that, chances are that you're in the wrong biz."

Your eyebrows furrow at his biting comment. And for a moment you have to bite your tongue to not fire something hurtful back. Instead you swallow the words back down, way too used to this defensive tactic of his by now to fall for it.

Even though Dean's putting up the same facade he's used for the past decades, you know that he cares. Deeply. Can see how his face does that pained scrunch whenever his heart twists. It's brief, but it's definitely there and you never miss it. Even if he won't admit it.

You both let your confession hanging in the air until it's lost in the heavy silence once more.

You turn your head to watch the world race past you. Pull a knee up to your chest to rest your arm on it. Forehead dropped against the damp glass. Resigned.

Out of your view, Dean keeps checking on your curled up form through the rearview mirror.

After a while, he suddenly reaches over and shoves the same cassette back into the player. Hits play without looking. And your head instantly whips up in surprise as he lets Bobby's favourite song, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, fill the room between you.

Dean's focus is back on the blurry road with the two beams of light that guide him. The slow and familiar guitar tunes make his index finger tap on the wheel along the beats. But you can tell that his mind is still somewhere else entirely.

You sit up straight and decide to try a different approach.

Leaning forward slightly, you place a hand onto his shoulder. Dean startles from the unexpected contact, but doesn't pull away. Instead lets your touch ground him. You rub your hand along his jacket, inching up to the exposed skin of his neck, where the tips of your fingers brush across it. Slow and soothing.

A soft exhale's huffed from his nose. Eyes flutter closed before they return their focus to the road.

His mask slips, just for a split second.

And you cannot help but feel a surge of hope. Hope to finally reach that stubborn ass who happened to become your best friend years ago and one of the most important people in your life.

"You know, I'm a damn mess. So is Sam," you begin in a slow voice and lean in closer to him, lips right behind his ear, "And we don't expect you to be doing well either. In fact, I'd feel better knowing that we can share that pain."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath before you even get to finish your sentence. But you cut him short with his protests stuck on his lips.

"Dean-" your fingers dig into his shoulder as a warning, "I'm serious. Can I ask you to be honest with me for two goddamn seconds?"

He huffs. Rolls his eyes as he dramatically lifts and drops his hands down onto the wheel, muttering something about 'stubborn woman'.

You squeeze his shoulder and he scoffs, acting annoyed as he always does when he's being called out on his bullshit.

"Fine," he finally relents. Your grip softens at his answer. Even if it's obviously reluctant.

You take a moment to sort your mind. Planning your path through a damn minefield of words right now.

Then you soften your voice, as if you were talking to a cornered animal.

"You're not really okay, are you…?" - his muscles tense under your palm like you'd just pushed the muzzle of a gun into his back - "You don't have to answer that," you quickly interrupt his thoughts as you could practically see his throat grow tight, mind struggling to form an answer.

Dean frowns. Eyes glued to the road. Expression still guarded, but there's just the tiniest hint of... disappointment. A silent cry of desperation. Desperate for being exposed. For someone else to drag his emotions into the open.

"Then why'd you even ask'?" He snaps back at you without looking.

Slowly you move the hand on his shoulder, across his collarbone and down to rest your palm on his chest, leaving him the chance to protest. When he doesn't, you bring up your other arm and wrap them both around him from behind. You pull yourself closer until your chest's flush against his backrest, then hook your chin over his right shoulder.

Dean stiffens at first. Stunned by your unexpected action. But then his body begins to relax in the safety of your familiar embrace. You feel his chest heave and fall beneath you as a long exhale leaves his lips.

"Talk to me," you murmur. He blinks in confusion, eyebrows quirked.

Then you tap your finger once.

Right on top of his left chest side. Dean doesn't comment on it, but you can tell by the way his eyes flickered sideways to meet yours for just a moment, that he registered it.

And he instantly understands.

How could he forget the night he had opened up to you for the first time. That night he'd shown up on your porch out of nowhere. Drenched and shaking. Two weeks away from being torn to pieces and dragged downstairs. How you'd held him the entire night. Cradled his tear streaked cheeks. Listened, even though the words had failed him.

The warmth of your palms against his chest calms the storm that's churning in his mind. He's sure you can feel the way his heart is pounding underneath your tender fingertips. Just like that night you'd told him this thing you'd like to try.

You never spoke about it again.

But you didn't need to, because Dean and you had been using it ever since like second nature. Your own little language. Secret. Safe. Innocent in its own way. It harboured no judgment, no walls, no fear of being vulnerable. And most importantly;

No words. Just touch.

"I'm here for you. You know that, right?" you ask softly. His left hand tightens its grip around the steering wheel, refusing to slow down Baby, while his other slips to his knee. There his forefinger arches then…

Tap.

Your chest tightens as you watch the crack in his wall grow bigger.

"You holding up?"

Silence. Then a hesitant;

Tap... Tap.

Somewhere at the corner of your peripheral vision you sense how his green eyes are stinging from unshed tears.

His right hand comes up to cover yours on his chest, searching your connection. No words. Just his fingers intertwining with yours. Heavy hand pressed down onto your tender one. He squeezes it. Holding onto you like you're the only thing to keep him from drowning… or from doing something real stupid.

You swallow, a thought forming in your head which you'd tried to ignore for so long.

"Dean... you ever…" you hesitate. The murmured words next to his ear momentarily die down as they become heavy and cling to your tongue like tar.

Your arms unconsciously tighten around him, like you're scared of his answer, afraid he might disappear the moment the question leaves your mouth. And frankly, you were unsure whether you even wanted to know.

Then his thumb presses into your palm. A silent permission for you to go on. Maybe some voice inside him even begging you to.

You swallow. Start again. This time your voice comes out in a mere hush, just to make sure Sam wouldn't hear it.

"You ever think of… ending it all?"

Dean stiffens. Throat going tight. His grip painful as he clings to you. You feel him lift his finger, slow, shaky…

…

Tap.

Your stomach drops and your heart feels like a dagger just twisted it inside out. The single tap, so soft but clear against the knuckle of your middle finger.

Dean's face scrunches up as he's holding his breath without realizing it. Secretly regretting it all already. You're gonna panic. Judge him. Pity him. Yell at him, scold him even, for just as much as considering the thought.

How could I be so goddamn selfish and worry her like this?

"Damnit," he curses in silence, his free hand dragged down across his mouth briefly before it returned to the steering wheel.

You say his name softly as you feel the guilt building inside him. His jaw clenches. Shoulders shifting under your weight. Dean had picked up on how your breath hitched next to his ear when he confirmed your fears. How your hands tightened under his.

"Sorry," he suddenly chokes out.

The voice so raw, so small, so unbelievably vulnerable as the apology slipped him, that you decide to close the little gap that was left between you.

You lean in, nose nuzzled into his short, dark blond ruffled hair. Forehead gently pressed against the back of his head with your eyes closed. He swallows thickly at the unfamiliar feeling of your warm breath on his neck, lips tingling the short hair there.

"It's okay. I got you," you murmur in a low voice.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise. Stunned at the way your words came out so… calm, understanding, reassuring.

"You don't need to fake a smile for me."

Dean lets out a heavy breath. A bit shaky.

You squeeze your interlocked hands and he subtly leans his head back against yours. The smell of his hair fills your nose as you allow him to rest against you, face nuzzled into the warmth of the nape of his neck, your arms slung over his shoulders and hooked around his rising and falling chest, nothing but the familiar sound of Baby's engines carrying you through the storm, the melodic pitter-patter of the rain on the hood and the voice of Joni Mitchell in your ears.

"Can I stay like this for a bit..?" you ask in a sleepy murmur.

Dean shifts slightly under your weight as he feels you grow heavier against his back. He's not used to this kind of... intimacy. The knowledge that you need no words to understand each other. How the warmth of your body is enveloping him from behind, or your face is burried in his hair like its the safest place. The oddly comfortable feeling of... just being held.

And deep down it scares him how he's absuletly craving for more.

After a moment, his forefinger wiggles free from your grip, his palm still covering yours. While out of your sight, the corner of his lips tug into a hesitant, genuine smile... and he taps once.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE I'm still alive! Sorry for being so inactive lately... Writing is going very slow. And I'm one click away from throwing my laptop out the window (not really, I depend on Thanos. That's his name. 'Cause he loves to make things disappear lmao 🫰) ANYWAY. I've got so so many fics of y'all I want to catch up on. Promise I'll check them asap - so much I want to comment on and reblog but my tbr list just keeps growing?? Anyway, thanks to my lovely moots who keep me motivated to keep writing, I love you 💗 And a special shout to @the-potato-is-lonely for listening to my struggles with this fic 😭🧡

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