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It's called Baxter Beach, the place that the two of you are going to. No apparent relation between the eponymous building that the Fantastic Four takes residence in. And yes, the two of you are going together, but, well, it's not that the two of you are necessarily going alone. You're going with the rest of the Fantastic Four.
Sue, you already are familiar with, being that the two of you are friends. You're familiar with Johnny on a passing 'how-do-you-do,' kind of basis, in the sense that you're friends with his sister and that firmly puts you in the to be politely interacted with an no more, no less unless you wish for death territory.
Reed, you're fairly certain that he knows of you, as he's said your name incorrectly no less than thrice every time he's stepped out of the lab to peck Sue on the cheek.
And Ben? Well, isn't that the million dollar question—most people wouldn't rank a beach date as an ideal fourth date, but the two of you are far past the body sensitivity issues, being that he's entirely made out of rock.
And, for the small, infestiminal fact that every time the two of you have met up for a date, he looks at you the way a blind man sees the sunrise for the first time. This makes you fairly certain that you could show up in a barrel and he'd be stumbling over compliments to pay your way.
All this to say, when he almost bashfully invites you along to this 'family rendezvous' to the beach, you're all too happy to agree, trailing behind him on the soft white sand. Ahead of you both, the other three of the fabulous foursome zip off ahead in their various directions.
Johnny takes to the sky in a hot fireball of light to extinguish his flames in the water. Reed carries Sue off in giant strides in those rather malleable limbs to the water's edge. This means that the two of you get exclusive time to saunter down the beaten path to the water, together.
He's carrying the lion's share of the weight—the volleyballs and nets are tucked under one rather massive arm, the trio of self-standing umbrellas hefted over the other shoulder. You can't help but admire the impressive landscape of that rocky chest, bare and exposed for the occasion.
You're staring more than necessary—something in you thrills up your spine, races under your cheeks, to realize that he's staring back. Well, at least it's reciprocated, under such a clear, beautiful sky.
You decide to break the proverbial ice with, "It's nice that you wanted to have me go with you all to the beach."
"Well, I can't pass up a free trip." He returns gruffly—he's admiring the rather tasteful swimsuit that you wore. You had racier options—but you figure that that would be for later opportunities.
"And it's kinda cold in New York right now, you know?" He grumbles, looking back in the direction of the city that took mere minutes for the hovercraft to dart away from in jagged blur. You have to suppress a smirk as you find him turning back to you, his eyes lingering on the shape of your figure.
"You spoil everyone that you take on a date?" You ask him with a grin.
"Only for the people I really like." He cracks back. You can see a glimpse of those teeth through the cragginess of his face, something that looks rather charming. Paired with the pink flamingo swim trunks, you think it makes him look downright dashing.
"Oh, you really like me?" You play along; he wasn't so brave over the phone. Not that you've talked much—only every night since the first date. And Johnny told him he was hogging the line after the first week, so you've had to limit your calls to about an hour and a half.
"Does it show?" He asks. "Thought I was bein' pretty slick with how I've been makin' you chase after me."
"Kinda hard to do it with your whole family here," You add back slyly—said family is drawing closer into view as the two of you continue to trail down the perfect, warm sand that feels rather nice underneath your bare feet. The cold, snowy landscape of New York seems but a distant memory.
It seems like the only thing he can devote his attention to is you—his eyes are the sterling quality of the sky that hangs perfectly above you both.
"I can ignore them if you can." He returns back. It's spoken with that characteristic shy gruffness that you've heard when he wishes you 'goodnight' in that gentlemanly manner over the phone.
"That makes two of us." You give him a close-lipped smile.
"It's cause I'm so easy on the eyes, ain't it?" He aims back your way.
"That and more," You say with all the sincerity that you can muster. The gravity of your statement is so steadfast, that it seems to take a moment for it to truly sink in. You burst into a good-natured laugh as he nearly trips over a piece of refuse ejected from the sea in his distraction.
In order to play off the near-avalanche he causes (and most likely his embarrassment), he decides now is as good as any time to set up camp. It's a bit of a marvel to watch him do so.
As you neatly roll out your respective towels, he easily spikes each of the umbrellas deep into the ground with an eruption of sand. The power of those hands—the raw strength in each coiled muscle—you can't help but sit on your knees, agape with the casual might he wields without a care.
You shift the backpack that you brought with you around to the front of you, settling it down in small indentation to the front of the towel. It's small task, unpacking the few possessions that you brought with relative ease. Time to enact the first part of your plan.
You produce a bottle of sunscreen as Ben finishes setting up the final umbrella, fanning great shade over the two of you.
"Ben," You look at him under the guise of your lashes as he ducks beneath the cover, "You mind putting some lotion on me?"
It seems that with you, it's no great task of unmooring him. He freezes mid-squat, knee poised over the towel that he was ready to sigh into. He gawks at the bottle with the trepidation one would a bomb ready to detonate, before his gaze squares up to yours.
"Oh." It's a flat delivery of a hollow syllable; his hand goes to palm around the base of his neck. "Well, I dunno—"
"Oh," You say, giving false airs of surprise, "Why not?"
The reticence gives way to bashful reluctance as he finally eases his weight into the sand with a great oomph—he lowers his hands to regard the width of his palms, the grooves that are etched into them. It's a long second that he spends contemplating them before he looks back up to you, just as lost as he was earlier.
"I, uh—"—His words are broken, nervous, almost—"—I don't want to hurt you."
You shift closer to him across the protection of the towels, feeling the crosshatching of the sunbeams that bleed through the gaps of the umbrellas on your skin. He watches, almost stymied, as you near him, eyes widening fractionally with the distance that you eat up between the two of you. It's endearing, the way that this gentle giant acts around you—which is why you decide to pursue your advances.
"I've held your hand before." You inform him sweetly, and you swear you almost see that rocky Adam's apple bob in a swallow. "I think that would've told me if it hurt."
"Well, I—"—He begins, because it's clear to him that having the privilege of holding your hand is altogether a different matter of lathering lotion all over your body. You hold out the bottle to him, silencing the rest of his sentence. As you nudge your knuckles into him, he doesn't seem to have realized his is already rising to meet yours.
"Why don't we experiment?" You ask in a hushed whisper that is reserved only for his ears. His mouth seems to draw open at this—you have to resist a laugh if this means that you'll get your way. And it seems like his resolve is crumbling, as you inch the bottle into that hand that is tempting itself open for you.
Finally, he speaks, though his eyes have never wavered from you. "You sure?"
You allow your smile to grow, to reassure him, in victory of your conquest. "Sure I'm sure. Usually I have to keep guys from putting their hands all over me."
It seems that this brash admission finally coaxes a laugh out of him, that summons the characteristic Ben Grimm that you've seen before. Though you are rather enjoying this sweet, off-guard Ben Grimm just as much.
"Well—"—He seems to be returning to good form—"I guess I'm just a gentleman like that."
He clears his throat, a rather static noise, looking at the bottle that is dwarfed in his hand, up to you. "Don't wanna scare off my date with my rough hands."
It's a statement but a question of confirmation, giving you one final opportunity to back out. You turn yourself face-down to the ground, holding his stare that is growing wide-eyed as he takes in the sight of you making way to all fours.
"Maybe," You assert as you sink down to the ground, "I like a few bumps in the road."
"Alright—"—He has to clear his throat again, a disruption of air in the suddenly taut, heady silence between you both—"—You asked for it."
And you do—he pulls up the hem of your shirt with utmost gentility, a care that you think people with normal capabilities would not normally possess. You hear the squeeze of the tube, the careful scrape of those hands against each other as he gathers what he must assume is a respectable amount of sunscreen.
There's the elapsing of a second where you feel your heart in your throat, as he considers the best plan of attack. And then, where there was once nothing but the kiss of a fresh sea breeze, you feel the rasp of a bumpy, rough palm up your bare back.
Oh, and he was selling himself short: the texture is glorious. You knew from the moment you first held his hand crossing a crowded New York street clogged with pedestrian traffic. If it felt that good interlacing across your naked fingers, your exposed palm—feeling it on your back, up and down your body, would be even better.
One hand is enough to cover the span of your back. He's so, so cautious, as he runs that corrugated width up and down the small of your back, taking care to work the cream into your skin. He's deliberate with the pressure he uses, so that it doesn't hurt—instead, it soothes. Rather than rend, it relaxes. Rather than harm—it practically heals.
"Well, how'm I doin'?" He asks, because he must think that your uncharacteristic silence is an indicator of pain, rather than pleasure. You realize it's up to you to verbalize how much you're enjoying this. How much you never want it to end.
You moan quietly—that hand stutters on your skin, and you giggle under his touch. This makes his fingers hiccup up you, though he continues to do his due diligence.
"I think you're good, Mr. Grimm." You reply. He must be getting sick—what with how he's clearing his throat so often. "I think I could stay here forever."
"Don't threaten me with a good time." He replies gruffly. This only makes the heat that's broliing you with each continued second his hand remains on you inflame you all-the-more greatly.
"Guess I'll have to return the favor," You turn your head to look at him—his eyes finally dart away from your body to meet you.
"I don't need lotion—"—He insists. You note with satisfaction that as you rise back up to a sitting position, he removes his hand from you with supreme reluctance.
"No, but you might have some sand in the cracks." You comment—you see one of those brow ridges of his arch in wry amusement.
"Gotta doctor for that back in the city," He shoots back dryly. You giggle as you turn back to your bag, feeling the burn of his eyes on the tacky surface of your back. Time to execute the second part of your plan.
"I think I could use this," You comment, and produce a brush. It's a paintbrush you purchased specifically for the occasion.
"Whatcha gonna do with that?" He asks warily, though there's still good humor in his voice. "I don't do so good with watercolors."
You regale him with another chuckle, but refuse to give clarification. "Turn around and you'll find out."
"Whatever ya say," He says, and it seems that he's fighting his good manners to not turn around with the alacrity of someone much faster. You note how he tenses as you run a hand over the great length of his back, worry your fingers down the grooves, and search for adequate spot to begin. You decide, hand poised over the indentation of his nape, that you'll start there.
When you draw the brush down the dint, working the bristles into one of the many hollowed craters that compose his skin, he makes a low, deep noise that shudders through you. Another one, quieter, coarser—perhaps for your benefit—thrums through you in succession. You're openly smiling now—good thing he can't see.
"Ooh." This noise is of deep, deep satisfaction, your fingers easing through an extensive notch. "You gotta be careful with where you put your hands."
"Didn't think I could hurt the big, strong Ben Grimm." You tease—his head turns, and you can see the raw heat in his eyes.
"Ain't hurtin', sweetheart." He reassures you. "Just the opposite."
"Good to know." you reply. "'Cause I'm not stopping."
He chuckles, and you have to fight a sharp intake of breath—the look in his eyes is hungry.
"Good." He returns, roughly, gratefully. "Let me know when I wake up from this nice dream I'm havin'."
"Sure thing, Mr. Grimm," You chuckle—you think this is definitely the start of a beautiful relationship.