COMFORT CHARACTER ONE-SHOTS

Benny Watts / You Need a Shave

✨60% Fluff 40% Smut✨

"LIA" X BENNY

Word Count: 3,519

"You're soul patch is mutating into a goatee."

Benny frowned without looking up from his chessboard. I recognized the famous game in front of him as the playthrough between Fisher and Byrne of '56. He was trying to look for mistakes in those kind of gameplays, studying them and seeing what tactics the "greats" used back then. "No, it hasn't," He said.

"When was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror?" I teased further, dropping my magazine on the floor between the empty coffee cup and half-eaten bowl of oatmeal.

"Last Thursday." Benny moved his bishop across the board. His face was nothing but a serious scowl while his eyes ticked back and forth between the board and the book sprawled open beside him. He always looked so serious when he played chess, even if it was for fun or study. I guess it showed how passionate or obsessed he was about the game.

"Yeah. That was four days ago." With a heavy grunt, I pulled myself from the nest of pillows against the wall he deemed a 'couch' and marched over the cement floor. When Benny still didn't look up from his game, I added, "I won't kiss you if you don't shave."

The scowl now turned to me and Benny muttered with as much sarcastic venom as he could, "That's low, Lia. Even for you."

"What?" I defended my argument, "It's scratchier than before and it hurts my cheeks." For sympathy points, I pouted and rubbed my red cheeks just to further prove my statement. I loved Benny's iconic soul patch and thin mustache he kept neat. But every other few days it would get out of control (if he was traveling or if he was on a hyperfixation on a certian gameplay), and left me to be the victim of beard scratches on my lips and cheeks. God forbid on my thighs or southern regions.

"My mustache 'hurts' your cheeks?" Benny repeated and I nodded with a pout. "I shaved last week, for your information," He waved the black King's piece toward me as if it were a gavel and he was the judge that decided the winning side of this argument. "And I've always shaved every week. So you have nothing to complain about."

"I do if I can't kiss you!" I complained. I haven't kissed Benny in two days and I was on the brink of annoyance and offense that he hadn't noticed. "Benny, please. I'll shave it for you if I have to."

Benny scoffed and sat back in his chair. His button-down was wide open to reveal the glittering chains that dangled off his neck. His smile - hidden under his bushy mustache - was addictive and I wanted to kiss his dimples and smell his cologne so fucking badly.

"You wanna shave my mustache?" He summarized my request.

"I've done it before," I added like it was a brag. "Please, baby . . . " A smirk peaked from under his goatee and those chocolate eyes fluttered when I sunk into his lap and dug my fingers into the back of his neck. His reaction every time I ran my fingers through his hair was priceless. It made me want to kiss his face all over, and a few other places.

"Baby, eh?" Benny rasped and I nodded. 

"Please? I promise to give you a big kiss after." 

I can see the gears turning in his brilliant mind as he debates the idea of his girlfriend holding a knife to his throat. I've seen Benny shave in the morning in front of his half-cracked mirror. The one next to his shower. Which is next to his kitchen. 

I've also been taught to shave by my sexist father when me and Mary were twelve and sixteen. He said 'every good wife needs to learn how to properly shave her husband's face.' I refused to learn but it latched onto my long term memory like being scared to touch anything metal or electric when you've been rubbing you're socks against the carpet. You start getting scared of touching anything metallic, just like learning how to shave has been unwillingly burned into my brain.