bee🐇

she/her | 18 requests are always open! i write when i want to

[ccupidzbvnni]

ccupidzbvnni's masterlist!

supernatural

castiel

* struck pt1 pt2 pt3

the boys

soldier boy

babysitting

ranch hand

[wendichester]

𓂃˖ ࣪ 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤

˚₊‧꒰ა @ccupidzbvnni ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ⋆˙⟡ where cancer, scorpio, capricorn meets aquarius, leo*, saggitarius. ⟡˙⋆

ꔛ. the beginning,

✧ who you are in the supernatural world .ᐟ

you’re not fully human anymore—not after what happened in st. louis, when the thing in the dark tried to drag you under and something older answered your prayers instead. you walk the line between human and something Other. maybe you can sense when death’s coming. maybe you speak in tongues when the veil thins. scorpio rising + pisces north node + uranus/neptune placements? you’re definitely “not normal”—but no one can ever quite put their finger on it. you’re not a full-time hunter. you’re more of a consultant. a researcher with a sixth sense. the kind of person sam calls when the lore gets weird. the kind of person dean initially doesn’t trust because you know too much without saying enough.

✧ first meeting + first impression

it’s a hunt gone sideways in wyoming. sam drags dean to you because “she’s the only one who’s seen something like this before.” you open the door, blood on your collarbone, holding a sigil-stained blade. dean freezes. not because he’s scared—because you’re smirking like you already know how the night ends. his first thought? "great. another spooky hot chick with secrets.” his second thought? "i’m so screwed.”

✧ the friendship dynamic

you drive each other absolutely insane. he makes dumb jokes to get a rise out of you. you roast him so efficiently it leaves emotional bruises. but beneath it? mutual respect, and a kind of quiet loyalty that no one else gets. you’re the one who yanks him back from the edge when he spirals. he’s the one who shows up, no questions asked, when you’re in trouble. you don’t say it out loud, but you both know: you’d die for each other.

✧ quirks + fun things

you text him memes at 2 a.m. just to mess with him (“why does this goat look like you?”) he lowkey believes you might be a witch and checks his pockets after every visit you both claim you’re “not sentimental” but there’s a photo booth strip hidden in his glove compartment

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

yes. god, yes. his sagittarius moon and your gemini venus? total spark. your leo mars and his leo rising? hot. dramatic. electric. but it’s complicated. your cancer sun wants intimacy and safety. his aquarius sun is terrified of being known. he pretends he doesn’t care. you pretend you believe him. but eventually? you make the first move. you touch his hand, gently. and say, “you don’t have to pretend with me.” he doesn’t say anything. but he doesn’t pull away.

✧ the relationship dynamic

intense. magnetic. full of unspoken feelings and over-the-top gestures. you’d fight—absolutely. your capricorn moon goes cold. his sagittarius moon goes explosive. but you always circle back. he fixes the impala with more force than necessary. you slam a book on the table and say, “you’re not mad at me, you’re scared.” he looks at you like you read his soul. you kiss like it’s the end of the world. you hold hands like it’s a lifeline. and every once in a while, he calls you “kid” in that soft voice he doesn’t use with anyone else.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

favorite? when you open up. when you let yourself be silly. when you giggle at stupid jokes and make coffee in the bunker kitchen in his shirt. he loves seeing you unguarded. it makes him feel like he’s earned it. least favorite? when you shut down. when you put on that blank face and act like you don’t care. he knows it’s a defense mechanism—but it reminds him of himself, and that scares the hell out of him.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

you hit where it hurts. you know how. he shuts down and walks out, lets the door slam behind him. you stay, because someone has to. then he comes back. always. and he doesn’t apologize with words. he brings your favorite snacks. he fixes the thing he broke. he turns on the lights you forgot to switch off. you forgive him before he says anything.

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ general

a dusty back road. the impala parked. you’re sitting on the hood, sharing shitty diner fries, the sunset bleeding behind you. neither of you is talking about the hunt that almost went sideways. instead, you lean your head on his shoulder. he lets it happen. he mutters, “you scare the crap outta me.” you whisper, “likewise, winchester.” but you don’t move. and neither does he.

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 8.7 / 10

the passion? insane. the chemistry? off the charts. but you’d both have to work. a lot. you push. he runs. you shut down. he lashes out. but if you choose each other, really choose each other? you’d be the kind of love that rewrites fate. a little messy. a lot intense. but worth it.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

* since the birth time of dean hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a leo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.

[ccupidzbvnni]

guys this is me what the heck😓

[ccupidzbvnni]

I yearn for ranch hand Ben, lysm 🙈🫶

would y’all be okay with like little one shots?? i have zero ideas for the actual story but i love love writing for him!! i love you too anon😚💗

[ccupidzbvnni]

hi babies!! so super uninspired to do anything but i want to write with everything in me😞 if y’all want to request specific things i would love love love to write for y’all!!!💗💗💗

[ccupidzbvnni]

Ranch hand Ben is so important to me <<<333

oh i could kiss you😚😚 i promise ill start working on more soon it’s been a long month or two😇

[beecomingnothing]

happy father’s day to my three baby daddies [they’re shy]. come home guys the kids miss you 𐚁 ᥫ᭡

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand

summary: The tables have officially turned between you and Ben. warnings: incredibly religion heavy, language, just ben in general, petnames as always, super manipulative ben whoops… word count: 2.9k authors note: i woke up at 4am and wrote this i was feeling some religious guilt if you can’t tell but i don’t know how to feel about this chapter i fear

Chapter 3

Chapter 5

You didn’t see your friends before they left the next morning. You couldn’t bear to see their faces, not after talking to him. After sinning.

Staying in your room was the only fucking option. Ben had weasled his way into your brain, taking up space no one was allowed to.

So there you knelt, rosary in hand, eyes closed, praying for forgiveness. Soft sobs filled your bedroom as you begged and begged. Nothing else mattered in this moment but what God thought.

You couldn't breathe. Every nerve in your body was alight with guilt and shame. So much fucking shame that you drowned in it. God saw it all.

He saw the way you let Ben touch you like that– like you were his.

“Chickabiddy? You okay?” You vaguely remember your dad knocking on your door after everyone had left. You couldn’t fucking face him, so you sat silent.

You stayed like that for hours, kneeling over your bed, praying for Him to just fix you. The curtains stayed closed; seeing the bunkhouse would only make this worse.

Sinners don’t just get to be fixed, though. They have to earn it. No amount of begging and sobbing would mend what you had already done. Already gave in to.

The buzzing of your phone only made every emotion you were feeling heighten, turning it completely off would just be better. For everyone. Yeah, maybe ignoring everybody wasn’t a good idea, but neither was letting Ben hold you like that.

Letting him.

You could have pulled away or fought.

But you didn’t.

God saw that you didn’t.

You need to relax. Feel something else for two seconds, and then you can go back to repenting. You look to the clock in your room– 12:07. Lunch time for the ranch hands.

Darting down the stairs, rosary still in hand, you stop at the mirror in the foyer. Oh. That’s what all that crying will do. You can hear your dad’s voice in a haze: ‘No use ‘n cryin’ over what’chu can’t fix.’

But you can fix this. And you will.

You slip on your boots and beeline for the lambs. When you step into the barn, their bleating voices invade your thoughts, making it nearly impossible to think about anything but these little critters.

It’s only once you've sat in the far corner of the barn, holding one of the lambs, does it hit you.

What a fucking joke.

The juxtaposition of this innocent, docile baby in your arms while you’ve done nothing but wrong? You feel sick.

Your grip tightens on your rosary while tears slip past your waterline, trailing down your face. The happy little lamb in your lap, unaware of your inner religious conflict, happily licks them up, bleating while doing it.

A small laugh escapes your lips; you can’t blame the lamb.

You know how your dad runs your ranch– they’re only being raised for their wool. They won’t get to just graze in a world where they aren’t used or relied on.

You don’t hear the heavy footfalls of your dad.

He says your name softly, making you look up. “What’ya doin’ out here in yer’ pj’s?”

The tears fall harder, and a sob falls from your mouth, betraying any plan you had of lying. Another sin.

He drops in front of you, pulling the lamb out of your grasp and pulling you close. If he’s taken notice of the rosary you’re white-knuckling, he doesn’t mention it. “Shh, it’s okay. I promise,” he soothes.

He doesn’t know what he’s comforting you for. He can’t just promise things he doesn’t know about. You don’t register that it’s your voice that you hear. A chant of ‘I’m so sorry, daddy’ permeates the barn.

He just pulls back and looks at you, “Don’ know what yer’ apologzin’ for, but ‘m not listenin’.”

Rosary still in hand, you fist his shirt and sniff, “I didn’t mean to ignore you this mornin’, I just…” you debate telling him about the fact that you drank. Maybe getting one thing off your chest will help.

“I know.”

Your head snaps up, and you meet his gaze– it’s soft. What does he know?

“The drinkin’ with yer’ friends?” he smiles lightly, trying to ease your worries. “Ben told me.”

Fuck this.

You’re done being all fucking civil and god-like about it. Fuck this and fuck Ben Hargrove.

“Oh.”

“I don’ care,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “Hell if I didn’t do things like tha’ growin’ up.”

You don’t hear anything else your dad says. Your mind is a blur. The only thing that really sticks is him leading you back to the house and handing you your rosary. You had dropped it.

The door closes, and you feel disgusted. You’re by yourself, so you take off one of your boots by the heel and fling it into the nearest wall. Pictures and decor shake and fall to the floor with a loud crash, but you don’t give a shit.

Who the fuck does Ben think he is? He’s not some knight, saving you from shit you did yourself. So fucking be it if you had to deal with the consequences. That is not his place.

You do the only thing you can think of and storm into your room, slamming the door behind you. The crucifix that balanced on your doorframe falls, and you don’t notice. You pull your journal out from under your bed and flip to the first entry regarding Ben. And you rip.

Paper tearing is the only sound heard in your room. When did you even get to writing this much about him? It’s pages on pages of just Ben.

When you finish, you decide to finally turn your phone back on. A distraction would be nice.

4 missed calls from your dad.

2 missed texts from Nick.

3 missed texts from Clara.

9 missed texts from James. Fuck.

You read Clara’s first. They consist of ‘you okay babe?’, ‘we left, but i love you!!’ and ‘call me asap, im worried’. So you call her.

“You’re alive, thank God!” Her voice fills your room as you put the phone on speaker. A sigh tumbles out, and that’s all she needs. “Talk to me,” she instructs, exhaling your name.

“He basically fucking threatened James last night Clara. And he told my dad about the fire. About what I did.” The last part is only a breath– if you say it too loudly, everything will feel like it did this morning.

“I-” she starts and then sighs. “James told us. What happened?”

“Everythin’ is just kinda, hittin’ and I-” you're choking down sobs while trying to get the words out. “I don’t know what I’m doin’ and Ben knows that too. Fuck. He told me that he was lookin’ out for me ‘cause no one else can do it right.” The skin around your nails is bleeding from your picking and biting while you’re talking.

Clara whispers your name. “I wish I could help you. I just– I don’t know what to do either. Maybe tell your dad?”

You can tell she means well, but the idea is terrifying. “No!” You blurt, not trying to come across as mean. “My dad cannot know. I’m– fuck– I’m his baby and if he thinks that I-” you can’t finish.

“I know,” she reassures over the phone. You can hear something in the background, and then her shuffling. “Fuck, babe, gotta go. Please be safe. Text me if you need absolutely anything. And I’m talking even: ‘I’m hungry, Clara.’ ‘Kay?”

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you. “Okay, I love you.”

“Love you too.” And she hangs up. You check Nick’s next. ‘thanks for letting us stay’ and ‘I love you or wtv’. You roll your eyes fondly. Anything to distract from your onslaught of tears.

James. You don’t make it through his without crying. You can’t. It’s him begging to know what he did wrong. What can he do to fix it? He can’t fix anything because you did this.

This is so fucking unfair. Ben caused this. He fucked this for you and now the consequences are showing. Why doesn’t he have to pay? Why do you have to continue to make up for his wrongdoings? You turn off your phone and hide it under your pillow. It’s too much.

Your eyes open, and it's well into the evening when you check the time. A text from your dad: ‘Going out with some buddies until late. I left the truck keys here if you want to get some food later.’

Air. You need air.

You blindly make your way to the front porch, your eyes hazy with sleep and puffy from crying all day. Your head is pounding. Fresh air will fix that.

Sitting in your dad’s rocking chair while the sun sets is what you needed. A weight has lifted off your shoulders. You’re alone. You know it won’t last long.

Like he fucking knows when you’re vulnerable, Ben walks up to the porch. You don’t look at him. Pretending he’s not here will make him leave.

“Sweetheat?” His voice is more pleasant than you’d like to admit. Still, you ignore. He steps further, in front of the chair now. “Look a’ me,” he commands, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. He catches this, of course, and reaches for you, but you flinch back.

“Do not ever lay your hands on me, Ben,” you spit, venom lacing your words. He laughs and walks inside your house like he owns it. It’s his fucking default. He thinks he’s entitled to everything.

You shoot up and storm behind him, “Get the fuck outta my house.”

He whistles low and walks upstairs. You fucking panic and race in front of him, standing at your door.

“That mouth’a yer’s is gonna get ya’ in trouble, sweet girl,” he smiles as he reaches the top of the stairs. “Thought we cleared things up,” he adds, crossing his arms.

“Cleared what up?” You challenge.

He gestures between the two of you like it’s obvious.

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Been tryin’ to baby. Yer’ too much of a lil prude to let it happen,” he shrugs. That’s fucking it.

“Get out of my house or I’m callin’ the fuckin’ cops, Ben.” He stills. You actually got through to him. Your small moment of victory is quickly overshadowed when he puts his palms in the air and walks towards you.

“That’s not what I came ‘ere for. Jus’ comin’ to check on ya’. Been cryin’ all day and yer daddy was worried real sick ‘bout ya’,” the slip in of your dad catches you off guard enough for him to stand right in front of you.

‘I’m his baby’ repeats in your head, and you can’t help the tears. Ben seizes this opportunity to invade your space and hold you close. While you're distracted, he opens your door and leads you to your bed.

“Honey,” he drawls and fuck, you meet his eyes. “Nothin’ ya’ did was wrong.”

“You-” your breath hiccups. “You told him.”

Guilt flashes across his face, “‘m jus’ tryna look out for ya’, baby.” He smooths over your hair and then weaves his hand through it, not exactly gripping. “I could see it in yer’ face that the regret was gonna eat ya’ alive.”

He was only looking out for you. I guess that makes sense. He’s right, you would’ve caved and told your dad eventually.

“You had no right,” you fist his shirt and shove him away. He just moves to cover your hands with his.

“I know, fuck, I know.” You cry more. He mutters something before shifting to lie you down, his body next to you. Your head rests against his chest, and the steady sound of his heart is so easy to just listen to.

“You don’ need to feel wrong for wantin’ me, sweetheart,” he sighs into your hair.

“But it is,” you counter, voice stabilizing.

“Who told ya’ that?”

You shake your head as much as you can manage in this position. “No one told me. I just know.”

“Sure, honey,” is all he says. Ben takes this moment to scan your room.

Journal pages litter the floor, trinkets of all kinds fill your shelves, there’s a crucifix on your floor– fitting– and your curtains are drawn. He feels like he truly is getting somewhere, finally breaking you down enough to where all you need is him.

You sigh, interrupting his thoughts when you try to sit up. He follows. “I’m sorry,” comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. You were really trying to break this habit before it got you in some kind of trouble. Like now.

“Oh baby,” he coos, taking in the way you’re sitting across from him. The light that leaks through the drawn curtains glows around you, like he should be worshipping you, not God.

You exhale shakily, reaching for his hands. Ben thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. That’s the reason you look so holy before him, shining your light on him like he isn’t the most immoral man you’d ever met.

“No need to be sorry, lil lamb,” he hums, indulging you by placing his hands on your knees. You shift closer.

Ben is so fucked.

You’re so fucked.

There’s something about him that screams at you that you need to be as close as possible. It’s like something is pulling you to him. You want to stop. Hell, you need to stop.

“Ben,” you exhale, and it’s coated in sin. His hands move higher, gripping tighter.

You both move closer, and the pull of him just grows stronger.

He murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, “Tell me to stop an’ I will.”

You adjust onto your knees and close the distance.

Ben has kissed many women before, but nothing has been like this. You’re soft and sweet, like nothing he’s ever had. Honestly, let’s face it: he had you now. You were never going to leave him because he had successfully gotten you to the point where you can’t decipher right from wrong with him.

You pull back slightly, enough for your lips to ghost over his. “This is wrong, Ben,” you whisper into his mouth. He smiles and trails his hands up to your waist.

“Then ask me to leave, honey.”

You kiss him again. He pulls you flush against him, one hand holding the small of your back, the other shooting up to fist your hair.

Ben deepens the kiss, and you follow along sloppily. You don’t know what you’re doing, but Ben does, and that excites you more than you care to admit.

You stay like that for a while, breathy sighs and moans exchanged, but nothing further. His hands don’t explore more than what you’ve already granted him. ‘Like a gentleman,’ you thought, chuckling to yourself over it.

He pulls back and holds your face, studying your features. “I'd best go, baby. Don’ want yer’ daddy catchin’ me in his babygirl’s bed now,” he says, moving hair out of your face.

You truly don’t understand the force of this man. Nine hours ago, you were sobbing your eyes out and cursing his name, and now he’s in your bed kissing you. Something was deeply wrong with you.

“Okay,” you hum, your mind a haze.

“Gimme yer’ phone, honey,” he instructs while tucking your hair behind your ear. You comply, reaching under your pillow. When you unlock it and hand it to him, he smiles while typing.

He gives it back, and you look. Ben had put his number in, but left it up to you to make the name. You look up and smile at him, “I’ll text you.”

Ben nods and stands up from your bed, planting a kiss on your head. “See ya’ ‘round, baby,” he murmurs and walks out. You have half a mind to follow him to the door and see him out.

“Ben,” you call softly while he walks down the front porch stairs. He hums in acknowledgement and turns around to face you. You step closer to him, his larger frame towering over you, even while on the stairs.

“I don’t-” you sigh, trying to find the words. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” you confess.

He chuckles lightly, leaning against the railing, “I know, honey, ain’t gotta tell me what’s plain in front’a me.”

You smile sheepishly, fidgeting with your fingers, “You actually like me?”

Ben steps closer, placing his hands on your waist. He sighs out your name and it sounds heavenly coming from him, “Course I like ya’ sweet girl. You’re the most gorgeous lil lady I’ve ever seen. Can’t let anyone just have ya’.”

Your smile widens, and you lean in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Ben.”

He nods and kisses you again before letting go of your waist and heading back to the bunkhouse. You stay on the porch until your dad gets home, not wanting to be alone after your world had been turned upside down.

Your dad greets you when he’s dropped off, and you talk for a little while. No more than twenty minutes before you both head to bed. Your phone buzzes with a text, and you smile when you read it.

ben <3: Sweet dreams, baby.

ranch hand tag list @suckitands33 @vsploganxx @jacklesluvr let me know if you want to be tagged when i post another chapter!!

[deansdeer]

Being his controversially young gf could fix me

[ccupidzbvnni]

jensen ackles come home please😞

[ccupidzbvnni]

hi babies not feeling too peachy so i have not been writing trust i will get to it i just need a lil bit😇

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand

summary: You struggle to shake your guilt about Ben. Despite a relaxing beach day, he interrupts, reminding you that he has a, quite literal, grip on your life. warnings: possessive ben!!!, language, just ben in general, petnames as always, religious themes once again word count: 2.6k authors note: okay, i modeled their ranch after the ranches near the beach where i live, i promise that the fact that reader lives on a ranch and can drive to the beach within 20 min is possible!!! also, i am so sorry, guys, james and reader are like weirdly intimate i modeled this after a friendship i had, i need some macho man tension later on in the story i am rubbing my hands together evilly

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The next morning is beautiful: birds chirping, sun kissing your skin, warm and golden.

The peace doesn’t last long. Clara bursts through your door and jumps on top of you with incredible force. The groan that escapes you is anything but ladylike.

“How’s your hangover, babe?” she giggles, flopping down next to you and brushing your hair out of your face. You can only grunt in response, not even opening your eyes. “We do gotta get those teeth brushed though,” she adds, lying fully down with you.

“Later, sleep now,” you mumble. Before she can reply, your door swings open again. James and Nick stumble in, both looking like death warmed over.

“Move over,” James mutters, nudging your arm. You scoot over, pressing closer to the middle of the bed. Clara shifts, too, making room on the other side for Nick.

The four of you have been doing this for years, sharing beds, drinks, and food without a second thought. Sleep comes quickly, all of you tangled in warmth and familiarity.

You listen to their breathing, their heartbeats, and the occasional soft snore. But your breath won’t even out. Your heart won’t slow down. Ben’s voice swims through your head: ‘Ya gettin’ all soft on me now, little girl?’

You squeeze your eyes shut, like that’ll be enough to keep him out.

Hours later, your hangovers are gone enough for you to brush your teeth and prepare food. You avoid the mirror while you get ready. Your reflection feels too loud, too revealing, like it knows what you did last night.

When you make your way down to the kitchen with your friends, Clara catches your demeanor. “Y’okay?” she asks, rubbing your back while you sit on the counter. You nod, not trusting your voice, knowing your guilt will seep its way into your words.

“Thought y’all were gonna sleep forever!” Your dad’s booming voice fills the space. He walks up to you, hugging you while you kiss his cheek, “Mornin’ bug.”

The previous quiet chatter becomes loud, your friends passing food around and joking with your dad. The noise, the love, the food; they soften the sharp edge of your guilt. You take a bite, and it almost tastes normal.

“I know you need food after last night,” Nick had whispered to you when he handed you a plate with a soft smile.

You love your friends. What would you do without people who care so deeply for you, without having to beg?

“Ben’s fixin’ to do your chores for ya’ from now on, chickabiddy,” your dad calls out casually, tugging on his boots in the foyer.

Your smile drops, and you rush to him, ignoring your friends, “What? Why?”

“I reckon I ain't sure. Kept naggin’ me for it, and I figured you’d be grateful. Now you can just rise n’ shine, go about your business.”

You force a smile, but your stomach flips. Nagging?

“Don’t go forgettin’ yer’ manners. Best thank ‘im when ya’ see ‘im,” he says, pointing at you with a grin. “Alrighty, I'm headin' to the pastures. I love ya’, holler at me what yer fixin' to do today,” your dad adds, kissing your head before walking out the door.

Your heart drops. Ben’s making sure you can’t ignore him. Not now. Not anymore. The silence your dad leaves behind is louder than any noise before.

When you walk back into the kitchen, your friends are already mid-argument: lake day or beach day.

You chime in, voting for the latter, though you’re only half listening. With your approval, dishes get scraped and tossed, batter thrown in the trash. Your friends are already racing upstairs to change.

You follow behind, not in any real hurry.

Once in your room, you dig through your bathing suits. They all feel like too much, or maybe not enough.

With a quiet groan, you slip one on anyway, keeping your eyes off the mirror. The shame creeps in as your hands linger on your sides, your stomach. All the skin that’s suddenly too loud.

You throw on an oversized t-shirt, tugging the hem down too far, like it might cover more than just your body. Then you gather your things: sunglasses, hair ties, a brush, and shorts. Just the essentials.

James calls your name from one of the guest rooms. You follow the sound, trying to focus on his voice instead of your thoughts. When you knock, he opens the door and steps aside to let you in, shutting it quietly behind you.

“You okay?” he asks, more serious than before. His hand lands gently on your shoulder. “Like, actually okay?”

You blink, head tilted, like you don’t know what he means. Maybe you really don’t.

“C’mon,” he says, arms spreading. “You got wasted last night. And... I don’t think I’ve seen you wear your cross necklace in days.”

Your stomach tightens. You look away. “I just keep forgetting,” you mumble, shrugging like it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing, and James knows it. He doesn’t press, just watches, like he can see inside your soul. “That’s not something you forget,” he says eventually. Not accusing, merely stating a fact.

You shrug, not looking up. “I just needed some space from… all of it.”

He furrows his brow, rubbing your arms, “From what?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the slam of a door and Clara yelling from downstairs cuts in: “You guys comin’ or what? Beach waits for no one!”

You exhale, not even realizing you were holding your breath.

“You good?” James asks again, quieter this time.

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he nods anyway. On the way downstairs, James pauses at the linen closet, grabbing as many beach towels as he can carry; he knows you and Clara never use just one.

At the truck, you help James load the towels, bags, and snacks into the backseat.

Nick and Clara toss chairs and the tent into the bed while you step away, scanning the clearing for a cooler.

Knowing James, he probably isn’t drinking today. You’re not either.

When the trees break and the clearing comes into view, you see him.

Ben stands alone, trash bag in hand, cleaning up your mess.

You step into the clearing, studying him silently.

“Don’t gotta worry ‘bout them chores today,” he says casually, brushing dirt off his hands and glancing at you, like he could tell it was you. “Got ‘em covered.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod anyway. “Thanks.”

Ben cocks his head like he didn’t quite hear you. Or like he wants to hear it again.

“Thank you,” you repeat, forcing your voice steady. “For the chores.”

He hums, his cocky smirk growing, like he knows what he’s doing to you. Like he knows exactly what you’re going through. “No need to thank me yet,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m sure you’ll return the favor.”

The tension is immediate, pressing. He’s close enough now that you can see the freckles scattered across his cheekbones. “Yeah. Totally.”

You walk past him, grab the cooler, and start wheeling it back to the truck, his eyes burning into your back the whole way.

The truck comes into view, and it’s like a weight lifts off your shoulders.

“Ice over here!” Nick calls, grabbing your attention.

The smile that sneaks onto your face comes without effort, loosening something tight in your chest. For a second, you feel okay.

You pass the cooler off to Nick, who starts loading it with ice and drinks.

Clara pipes up, insisting that the rest of what she brought last night go in too, and Nick just nods, already used to her demands.

James climbs into the driver’s seat while you slide into the passenger side.

The truck’s engine rumbles to life, James adjusting the radio to find a station you all tolerate. Clara and Nick scramble into the back seat, already huffing and puffing about some argument between them.

You roll your window down, letting the wind steal your breath for a moment. You hope it’ll take your thoughts with it, too. It doesn’t.

Before James can pull out of the driveway, Ben materializes behind the truck and taps twice on the tailgate: one, two. Like he owns it.

He walks up to your open window, voice low and casual: “Have ya’ shared yer’ plans with yer’ daddy yet, little girl?”

You turn to meet his eyes, he stares just a second too long. “I’ll let him know.”

Ben chuckles, like that was the answer he expected. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair before stepping back.

You stare straight ahead, heart pounding, willing James to peel out of your property. He glances at you, but doesn’t say anything. The truck rolls forward.

You sink into your seat, tugging your phone out of your bag.

‘we settled on beach’ you type. Then, instinctively: ‘leaving now, i love you!!’

Sent.

The twenty-minute drive to the beach is filled with laughter from your friends and whatever half-decent music James finds on the radio.

When you finally pull up, James parks directly on the sand, saying it’ll be easier to clean up that way.

The beach will always be your happy place, laughter and crashing waves filling your senses. The salt air sweeps in, filling your lungs, brushing the edges of everything you’ve been holding onto. Nick dives into the ocean without sunscreen: ‘Just wingin’ it,’ he’d shrugged. You and James argue about the tent and how he’s the one setting it up wrong. Clara lounges on her towel, laughing at both of you but still siding with you in the end. When the tent is set up, you join her, sitting on your towel, knees to your chest, and close your eyes. Everything is shining in the summer.

Later, you and James wade into the ocean, the cold a shock that hits you all at once. You trail behind him, the water pulling gently at your legs, welcoming you.

For the first time in days, you feel clean.

The sun is already low by the time you’re piling back into the truck. The drive home is quiet. Gentle snores fill the truck as you nestle into James’ side, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. His fingers weave into your hair without thinking, gentle and sure.

When he finally pulls onto the property, close to the house, Clara and Nick stretch out. They make their way inside, unloading the bed of the truck. While they’re gone, you and James stay in this position. It could’ve been minutes or hours. You don’t check. You just stay like that, ignoring the outside world.

No words are exchanged, just subtle breaths and glances.

Before either of you can move, the passenger door swings open. Ben leans against the open door. “Did ya’ have yerself a good time today, sweetheart?” he drawls, all false sweetness.

You flinch. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”

You rise from James’s side. He gives you a worried look. You offer him a small smile, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave, though you’re not sure which of them you mean.

“Had to make sure ya’ got home safe,” Ben says, gaze locked on you. “Ain’t too sure about this kid gettin’ ya here in one piece.”

He’s too smug. You want to scream. Or disappear.

Still, you scoot closer to him on the seat before you can stop yourself, like your body doesn't get the message your brain’s shouting.

And Ben? He just waits.

You turn to James, forcing a smile. “I’ll catch up with you inside.” The knot in your stomach tightens as you slide out of his truck. When you pass Ben, he rests a hand on your lower back. Like he’s already won.

James hesitates, not quite sure if he should leave you with the older man.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, as if you could read his thoughts.

James nods, reluctantly, and disappears inside, leaving you and Ben waiting outside the truck.

“Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Ben murmurs, his hand still on your back as he nudges you forward.

You stumble, but walk away from the truck, toward the pastures.

“Ben, you don’t get to just… steal me away like this,” you say, arms crossed tight across your chest.

He chuckles, low and dismissive. “That kid ain't got a clue 'bout treatin’ ya right, baby.” Before you can respond, his hand wraps around the nape of your neck, fingers rough and familiar, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

Your hand flies to his arm, trying to pull away. He tightens his grip in response, not hurting, just firm, keeping you in place.

“I cleaned up yer’ mess,” he says, voice low and almost gentle but edged with something sharp. “Told yer’ daddy I’d take care of ya’. And I did, didn’t I?”

Your jaw clenches. You don’t want to believe him. You swear you don’t. “Let me go,” you whisper, voice shaking, although not from fear or defiance.

Ben chuckles, amused. “I ain’t holdin’ ya’, baby. Yer’ right here all on yer’ own.” His hand trails from your neck to your jaw, squeezing hard enough for you to flinch.

“That boy think he gotta claim on ya’ now?” Ben asks, eyes narrowing. “Just ‘cause ya’ fell asleep on ‘im like a dog in the sun?”

You turn your head. “James is my friend,” you spit at him.

He laughs again, forcing your head back to meet his gaze. “I ain’t stupid, baby. That boy wants ya’, and he ain’t never gonna have ya’. Not as long as I’m here.”

He mutters the last part low, like speaking it into existence will make it true.

Your eyes sting; this is humiliating. You look away, the shame curling in your chest like smoke, thick and choking. You hadn’t meant to cry, not in front of him. But the tears come anyway, hot and quiet.

Ben’s gaze flickers, softening just enough to make it worse. Like he likes seeing this part of you, the cracked, exposed one. Like it justifies something.

You try to step back, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but he doesn’t let you go far.

He grabs the back of your head again, not roughly, but insistent, and pulls you into his chest. His other arm wraps tight around your shoulders like a net.

“None’a that, sweet girl,” he mutters into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp as your tears fall freely.

And you let him hold you.

You let him soothe you, even though you shouldn’t.

When you finally pull back, his hands move to your face, thumbs brushing away the tears like he has a right to them.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Ben,” you admit, voice cracking on the exhale.

His smile is soft, too soft. “Ya’ ain't gotta know no more, baby. Ain't no need to think. Let me handle that for ya’.”

He kisses the top of your head like it’s a promise.

The porch light flickers on in the distance. Your head snaps toward it. Ben sighs, low, almost disappointed, but his eyes never leave you. His hands drop from your face, just for a moment.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs. Then his hand returns, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

“Don’t forget who’s lookin’ out for ya,” he adds, voice just above a whisper. “Ain’t no one else gonna do it right,” he adds, like he owns you.

He lets go. And just like that, you’re left standing in the dark, conflicted.

ranch hand tag list @suckitands33 @classackles @jacklesluvr let me know if you want to be tagged when i post another chapter!!

[ccupidzbvnni]

hi babies working on more ‘ranch hand’ i promise!! i’m really trying to make them long because i love reading long stories so we shall see💗💗

[beecomingnothing]

stop looking at me with those eyes… what eyes? UGH if this isn’t bfd!jensen or dbf!jensen idk what is 𐚁⊹₊ ⋆

creds for these pictures to tanja !!

[ccupidzbvnni]

lord i need dbf!jensen so bad

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand masterlist

summary: You’re a young, devout person who becomes entangled with your dad’s new ranch hand, Ben, a charismatic and provocative man. As your interactions grow increasingly intense, you’re torn between religious convictions and a deepening, forbidden attraction.

chapter 1 “call it fate, call it karma”

chapter 2 “all night revival”

chapter 3 "master of none"

chapter 4 "televangelism"

pinterest board (let me know if this works please!!)

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand

summary: You have your annual bonfire with your closest friends. This time, you give in to sin. warnings: drinking, cursing, pervy!ben again sorry guys, he’s like kinda manipulative, more religious stuff word count: 2.2k authors note: okay i am a very affectionate person and this is so self indulgent so all her friends are like affectionate as well apologies for that babies also i tried to make it obvious that there is an age gap between reader and ben but ultimately it is up to yall to decide like how big it is i dont wanna give reader and age Chapter 1

Your dad was a kind man, always giving into you. Every summer, he let you host a bonfire get-together; your friends always got giddy about it, even if you weren’t fully feeling it. Your phone buzzes, a text from your best friend filling the quiet space of your room.

Clara: bonfire tonight u ready beautiful!!!!!!

Even Clara’s excited energy couldn’t fully pull you out of the fog in your head. Guilt was a slow chokehold. God wasn’t helping you, so fuck it.

You: course i am, you bringing everything?

Biting your lip in shame, you decided to send the message. If you’ve already sinned once, you might as well go the whole way. Clara’s confirmation text makes your heart flutter.

Your dad knew the kind of things your friends got into, but he trusted that you never partook. You never did, not until tonight.

Hours later, you find yourself on your porch, begging your dad to help you with the firewood. “Please?” you beg, leaning over the banister of the porch.

“Chickabiddy, I can’t. Told ya’, got my hands full tonight already,” he laughs, amused at your dramatics. “Have Ben help ya’, he’s strong. Hell, hired ‘im for a reason,” he shrugs and walks inside, not noticing your stiffness.

You huff and then start taking deep breaths, heading for the bunkhouse. You knock once, your pride would rather you stand outside than look desperate, knocking more. One of your dad’s ranch hands opens the door with a fond smile that reaches his eyes, “Hey, kid. What ya’ need?”

“Is Ben around? My daddy wants me to talk to him,” you answer the man whose name coincidentally slips your mind. He nods and disappears inside the bunkhouse. When Ben emerges, he steps outside and closes the door behind him.

He steps out, shirt clinging to his chest and arms like sin. “Sweetheart,” he smiles condescendingly. “Thought ya’ were plannin’ on steerin’ clear of ‘a me?” The way he says it makes your skin prickle.

“My daddy’s makin’ me talk to you. Don’t think you're special,” you sneer, “need you to chop firewood for me.”

He fucking beams, excited that you need his help with something, “Well, shit, darlin', I reckon I'll go on an' chop ya’ some wood.”

“Just set them in the clearing over there,” you vaguely point to a clearing some ways away. He nods and heads off to the piles of wood waiting for him. You take this moment to study him, watching the way he walks and the way his shirt is begging to rip over his big arms.

Clara’s car peeling into your dirt driveway clears your mind of everything you’d been thinking. She takes the key out of the ignition while you walk towards her, but she doesn’t let you get far, jumping out, grabbing her bag, and running to you. “Hi, gorgeous!” she squeals, voice carrying over the ambience of your ranch. You don’t see it, but Ben turns to see who it is, watching the interaction from afar.

You laugh at her, hugging her. “Hi, Clara,” you say, squeezing her excitedly.

She pulls back, looking you up and down. “Babe, you look so hot,” she smirks, shoving your shoulder playfully. Before you can protest, she interrupts, “Got everything in my backseat, plus I asked James and Nick to bring shit. I do have a question though…” She trails off, wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

“Okay, shoot,” you wait for her question, nervous.

“Why now? Like we’ve done this for-fucking-ever, and now you wanna actually participate in our illegal activities?” she asked, mocking you while leading you to your porch. You sigh, and push the door open.

“I’ll tell you when you unpack in my room,” you whisper to her, finally stepping through the door. Inside, she finds your dad, greeting him, before heading up to your room with you. Once you close the door, she’s already standing there, arms crossed, tapping her foot.

“I’m waiting.”

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, running your hand over your face, telling her everything that happened with Ben. By the end, your voice is barely a whisper, dripping with shame.

“Fuck babe. I mean, I guess it makes sense for you to wanna do other things now. You’ll be safe, I promise,” she hugs you again and kisses your cheek.

As the day bleeds into the night, you and Clara catch up. She tells you about how her summer’s going, her eyes lighting up.

Your dad had left hours ago, leaving you and her alone in the house. You grabbed a duffel from the linen closet and stuffed it full of snacks to bring out to the fire. When you exit the house, Clara goes into her car and grabs two bags, hoisting the straps over her shoulder.

While you were helping her with the bags, James’ truck pulls up next to hers, Nick in the passenger seat. “‘Sup hoes,” James laughs out the open window of his truck.

You roll your eyes. “We’re already headed to the clearing,” you call over.

James pulls the key out of the ignition and grabs a bag out of the backseat and Nick gets out to hug you and Clara. The four of you head toward the clearing, laughter and teasing floating like embers in the air. It’s warm, light, almost perfect—if not for the heaviness still curling somewhere in your chest.

“Hey,” Nick says, nodding to the fire, “who’s that?” he asks, pointing–

Ben. Tending the fire like he fucking owns the place. Of-fucking-course.

You twist put from under James’ arm and mutter, “‘Scuse me.” You stomp over to where Ben is, the firelight flickers in his emerald eyes. It’s wrong, they’re too bright, too knowing. “We can do it from here,” you spit, crossing your arms.

“Howdy babydoll,” he drawls, stepping closer so the firelight catches the edge of his smirk. “Didn’t realize ya’ were bringin’ yer’ lil boyfriends along too,” Ben seems upset, his smile turning mean.

“Ben, please,” you plead. The shame’s gone. He’s going to ruin your night if he doesn’t leave. Clara, James, and Nick finally find their way to you, the boys oblivious to the tension in your shoulders. Clara’s eyes narrow. She clocks it instantly.

Ben doesn’t move. Instead, he throws another log into the fire, poking the flames. You watch them grow higher, like their feeding off of your frustration.

“Didn’t mean to crash y’all’s little party,” he says, nodding to all the bags dropped around your group. “Y’all mind if I stay and play with yer’ fire?”

James shrugs, clueless, “More the merrier, man.”

The older man flashes you a grin making himself comfortable in one of the folding chairs. You exhale sharply and drag a chair to the other side of the fire, your friends following without question.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!” Nick claps his hands and digs into his bag, pulling out a bottle of bourbon. James and Clara laugh, the former showing off the bottle of whiskey he brought like a trophy. You don’t even realize you’re shaking. The stress of Ben still being here while you willingly delve further into sin is debilitating.

Clara sets her hand on your knee, squeezing softly. “‘S okay babe,” she murmurs. “Brought you something easier for your first time,” she winks, pulling out a bottle of Pink Whitney.

You take the bottle from Clara, fingers trembling. She offers you a soft smile, nodding in encouragement. “Small sip,” she whispers.

You unscrew the cap, breaking the seal, and bring it to your lips. It smells sickeningly sweet.

The first taste is less brutal than expected. It doesn’t burn as horrible as you thought it would. It slides down easy, sweet and sharp. The bloom in your stomach isn’t just from the drink. It’s the weight of being watched.

Ben.

You hear Nick and James laughing over something between them, and you wish more than anything to melt into their conversation, to forget he’s here. You take another sip, larger this time.

“Look at you go, babe!” Clara cheers, the two boys turning to you and whooping. You hand the bottle back and laugh at them, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Clara, you bring your speaker?” Nick leans in asks. She nods, digging through the other bag until she finds it and connects her phone.

James calls your name, “your turn for music.” Clara hands you her phone and you put search for your playlist of old country music. All three of them groan dramatically.

“Listen,” Nick says, shoving your arm, and handing you his bottle of bourbon, “I get that your dad literally owns a ranch, but this country bumpkin, child-of-the-Lord shit is crazy.”

You sip it, this burn way more intense than the previous. Shrugging you say, “The ‘child of the Lord’ thing is a touchy subject right now.” And you take another swig.

As the night goes on, bottles are passed, stories are shared, and still, you feel Ben’s eyes on you the entire time. The liquor is starting to hit; it didn’t take much, not with your lack of experience. Nick and James both eventually make their way to the rooms that they’ve arbitrarily declared as theirs.

It’s you and Clara left by the fire, Ben a quiet pressence in the background of your conversation. “That was so embarrassing, babe, stop!” Clara slurs. The chairs are long forgotten; you’re both sitting in the dirt, shoulders pressed together.

You laugh at her, easygoing attitude fueled by the almost empty bottle shared between you. She decides then that she has to retire as well, before your dad came home. “Comin’ with?” she asks, offering her hand.

You shake your head. “Just wan’ some quiet for awhile,” you whisper back. She nods and stumbles her way back to the house.

Now it’s just you, your thoughts, and the orange flames still licking skyward, thanks to Ben. You’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s been quiet all night, not disrupting your peace.

But, like he knows you’re thinking about him, Ben rises from his chair and comes to sit beside you. He says nothing for a while, just soaking in your drunkenness. “Didn’t know ya’ were like that,” he says eventually, his tone astoundingly soft.

A small laugh escapes you. “Like what?” Your words are slurred, and the world spins around you. The only thing that stays in focus is his piercing green eyes.

“Willin' to cast aside yer’ morals and stance so easily,” he fires back, tilting his head like he’s daring you to argue. “Does yer’ daddy know yer’ drinkin’ like it’s a race, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, vulnerability dripping in your voice, “Don’t tell him, Ben, please don’t tell him.”

He laughs at you, leaning closer. “‘F it means I get to see ya’ like this more? Swear ta’ God himself I won’t tell,” he runs a hand through his hair and you can’t help but watch.

You both sit in silence. It’s weirdly comfortable. Ben still tends to the flames, though he’s letting them die down as the moon dips lower in the sky. You don’t mean to doze off, but the intoxicated warmth, the quiet, and the flicker of firelight make it easy for your guard to slip.

Ben watches as your eyes flutter, your head landing gently on his shoulder. Some twisted part of him thinks: he needs to keep you like this. Soft. Dependent. Not being so fucking difficult about him touching you.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. Your eyes fly open and you turn your head to look at him.

You remember what he did.

You remember how filthy he is.

“‘S okay baby, jus’ close yer’ eyes,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet, like he’s trying to lull you back to sleep.

“You’re a dirty man, Ben Hargrove,” you hiss, though you still don’t pull away.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice syrupy sweet. “But here ya’ are, lettin' me get all handsy with ya’ like this.”

Unfortunately, you can’t argue with him. He’s warm and solid beneath you, and it’s making you feel drunker than you are.

No words are further exchanged between either of you. The fire’s almost out, a low, pulsing glow in the firepit. The smoke curls lazily into the air, like an escape. Everything feels so still, like breathing will interrupt whatever is happening between you and God.

Ben’s arm stays around you, tangible and possessive. His thumb rubs slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

You should leave.

You should scream.

You should tell your dad.

Instead, you stay.

The almost-gone fire flickers. The wind causes the embers to stir. You’d like to pretend it’s the absence of the fire that makes you lean in. Pretend it’s the alcohol that keeps you against him. Pretend you regret the choices you’re making right now.

Then, despite everything, you do one of the worst things you could. You turn to him, “Can you walk me to the house please Ben?”

And he does. He walks you to the porch and pulls you in close. “Ya gettin' all soft on me now, little girl?” he mumbles into your hair. You can’t help but fist his shirt, taking in his scent before you act like this never happened.

“Let me think on that,” you answer quietly, finally making your way into the house and closing the door behind you. Fuck.

ranch hand tag list @suckitands33 @classackles let me know if you want to be tagged when i post another chapter!!

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand

summary: Your dad has hired new help on his ranch. God is definitely testing you. warnings: kinda pervy!ben, slight religious themes (reader prays), petnames (darling, sweetheart, lil lady, missy, etc??) word count: ~1.3k authors note: guys if it isnt obvious this is an au and i dont have a stable father figure i tried to give reader like a loving dad and no mom?? idk it kinda worked like that let me know how i did please!

Chapter 2

Growing up, your dad’s main rule was: “Don’t entertain the ranch hands.” You never had a problem with that until recently. Ben was a rugged, tough, dirty man who liked what he did on your family’s ranch.

It had rained the night before, evident from the humidity in the air— the kind that clung to your skin no matter what you wore. You hum, heading to where the ranch hands stay. Pie in hand, your boots splash into puddles and mud scattered on the property.

Smoothing out the sundress you picked to wear, you knock. Not loudly, but not too quiet either. Ben opens the door, and good fuckin’ god. “Hey, darlin’,” he says, leaning against the open door.

“Ben, right?” You ask, voice shaking slightly. He nods, looking you up and down, taking notice of the mud that taints the bottom of your sundress. “Brought you pie,” you offer the apple pie to the man, ”don’t tell my daddy,” is added in quick haste, you weren’t trying to get scolded by your old man today.

“Chew it finer, lil’ lady,” he drawls, tilting his head at you, taking the pie from you slowly.

“‘m not allowed to talk to ranch hands, per my daddy,” you sway a little, skin ablaze from where his fingers brushed yours.

“Well, ain’t you just all to pieces a sight for sore eyes?” his cowboyisms make you blush, the way he speaks lighting a fire in you.

“Enjoy your pie, sir!” you chirp before heading back to the house, hands shaking. The way your heart is pounding should be a downright medical emergency. When you make it inside, you take a second to catch your breath, leaning against the front door, before kicking off your boots.

“Ya’lright chickabiddy?” your dad’s voice cuts through the house as he walks towards you.

“Fine, Dad,” you mutter in response, calmed down enough. He looks at you, not believing a word you say. “Got spooked by the lambs,” you laugh softly, patting his shoulder, “always forget how noisy they get in the mornin’.”

He chuckles at you, watching you walk up the stairs, “Best ya’ tidy up yer’ mess in the kitchen ‘fore ya’ decide to change. Gonna get some work outta ya’ today,” he warns.

Holding your hands up in mock surrender, you make your way back to the kitchen, doing as he says to clean up your pie mess from earlier. You applaud yourself for making two pies this morning, one for Ben and one for your dad.

Once the kitchen is clean, you make it to your room, stripping off the dress you had on in favor of more comfortable working clothes. Did you put on that dress just for Ben to see? Yes. You groan, flopping onto your bed, running your hands over your face. From your window, you can see the bunkhouse where Ben is, although he’s working now.

You squeal, kicking your feet on your bed. Pulling out your journal from under your bed, you get to writing. The page fills with thoughts of your dad’s new ranch hand, detailing his looks, his voice, and what you want him to do to you. With the last thought, you slam the journal and look to the crucifix hanging above your door. “Lord, give me strength,” you mumble, heading back downstairs to put your boots on.

When your dad sees you, he lights up and claps his hands, “Alrighty chickabiddy! Let’s get a move on, yeah?” You laugh following him out the door, jumping over the small puddles, once again. “Want you to get the sheep–” he points to the pen, “and then head over to your gals,” he points to the hens.

“My gals? Daddy, don’t be silly, they’re not mine…” You trail off, shoving your dad softly before departing for the sheep pen, grumbling the entire way. Once you get there, you head straight for the water troughs, checking the water inside. Looks clean enough. Now, the exciting part: you beeline for the lambs in the barn attached to the pasture. “Hi little babies!” You smile and walk toward them, their excited bleats carrying loudly. You pick up the one closest to you, nuzzling its filthy face to yours.

“Didn’t strike ya’ as a gal who actually got'er boots dirty,” you whip your head around to see Ben in all his work-worn, dirty glory. “But ya’ sure look good doin’ it, sweetheart,” he shrugs, coming closer to you.

You can’t help but back up, holding the lamb closer to you. “Thank you, sir,” comes out as an almost whisper, your heart rate picking up. A smile makes its way back onto your face, yet it’s still weary.

“Don’ do that,” he shakes his head, stopping where he is. When he gauges your confused reaction, he clarifies, “act like yer’ scared yer’ daddy’s comin' back, like ya’ didn't want this in the first place.”

“I don’t– What are–” you stumble over your words, trying to put your excuse together.

“That pie weren’t no one-off good deed from a little gal like yerself, we both know that, plain as the ears on a mule.” You flush, caught. When you shift from one foot to the other, holding the lamb closer, Ben smirks like a crazed man. You put the lamb down and turn, ready to go check on the hens. Ben moves closer, “Go get a move on to yer’ daddy now, lil’ missy,” he grunts, patting your behind softly. A yelp escapes you, the touch startling, but not unwelcome.

You spin your head back at an alarming pace, a scowl carved into your face. “Do not touch me like that,” you scold, pointing your finger at him. He rubs his neck sheepishly, though his smirk never leaves. You huff and cross your arms, scowl still painted on your face, “I could get you fired, y’know.”

Ben has the nerve to laugh at you, “Oh darlin', ya wouldn't go doin' that.” He moves closer again, looking at you with something like sin in his eye, “Ya'd miss me way too much.”

“Fuck you,” you spit at him, backing up and making your way out of the barn.

“Now, now, don’ go airin’ yer' lungs, sweet girl,” he almost chastises you, finger-pointing and all. “Didn’t seem like ya’d be too big for yer’ britches,” Ben mocks.

“‘Too big for my britches’ an’ I’m askin’ you to not touch me? What a fuckin’ gentleman. Thought you cowboys were all about chivalry,” he’s close enough to touch, so you do just that, shoving him harder than you’d do normally. He barely fuckin’ moves.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, voice low. You really are trying to see past his rugged looks to hone in on his chauvinistic behaviors, but it’s more difficult than anyone will give you credit for.

You hear your dad call your name from somewhere around the pasture. Ben grins again, watching you shift in nervousness, “Better get goin’, little girl.” Unfortunately, you decide to listen, darting to where your dad’s voice came from.

Distracted, you run into him, hitting him with an 'umpf' and falling on your butt. You shoot up, dusting yourself off, cringing at the mud decorating your clothes. “Sorry, daddy, got distracted by the lambs. Love those little critters,” you smile at him, it's not exactly a lie.

“I know ya’ do,” he laughs and ruffles your hair, pushing you softly. “Ya’ ever make it to yer’ hens?”

“Fuck,” you mutter, earning a pinch on your arm.

“Language, missy.”

“Apologies, daddy, but no, I’ll head over now,” you beam at him, embarrassed.

“Ain't no trouble, I'll have Ben handle it.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders and shakes you softly. You laugh, turning away to hide the blush that creeps over your neck and face. “He's the best dang ranch hand I ever had, I reckon that's the truth!” Your dad’s voice rises, excited to talk about the man he hired.

“Alright, alright, I believe you!”

“Ya’ better,” he pushes you softly in front of him. “Get some grub started fer all us, yeah?” You nod, heading back to the house, running straight to your room. Your room greets you, journal still on your bed. You dive to your knees in front of your bed, kneeling to pray. “Lord, I’m sorry. It’s wrong of me to defy my daddy and en’ertain Ben. You know I’ve never talked to any of ‘em! An’ he’s got me cussin’ and thinkin’ impure thoughts, Lord, what do I do?”

[ccupidzbvnni]

if i wrote ranch hand!ben who would read it i love using cowboyisms so expect a lotta those

okay i caved it’s posted and i will start writing more ranch hand ben you have invaded my fucking brain

ranch hand/cowboy!ben x reader

yes

no

Voting ended onJun 4, 2025

[ccupidzbvnni]

babysitting

a/n trying my hand at soldier boy let me know how it is!!

warnings soldier boy idk, language, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey), no use of y/n

“Thank you, Grace Mallory,” Billy Butcher mutters under his breath, sarcastic as hell. Instead of just biting the bullet and freezing over Soldier Boy once again, she cut a deal with The Boys to keep him on their team. “Easier to keep an eye on him,” she insisted.

“Listen,” Hughie starts, trying to satiate the brit, “it’s not that bad… he can help!” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low. Although it’s no use, Soldier Boy’s enhanced senses pick up on the jab. He huffs, crossing his arms and resting his feet on the desk he was sitting at. He could help, hell, now it was his job to help, but because that little cum-guzzler wanted to force him to? Fuck no.

“Oi, I ain't complainin’ ‘bout our li’le situation,” Butcher gestures to Soldier Boy at the desk, “‘m jus’ sayin’ he needs a babysi’er or somethin’ while he’s ‘ere.” Hughie studies the look in Butcher’s eyes and shakes his head aggressively.

“No, no, no,” he groans, knowing exactly what he’s planning. “I’m not gonna let you,” Hughie crosses his arms, still shaking his head, “she doesn’t need to be a part of this.”

Soldier Boy’s interest is piqued; he’s never seen the kid fight back against Butcher. He takes his feet off the desk and readjusts, resting his hands on his thighs. “You made ‘er part of this by tellin’ ‘er in the first place,” the supe hears from the bigger man, his curiosity begging to overtake him, but he refuses to turn his attention to the two men.

“Fuck you,” Hughie shoves past Butcher and storms out of the building, dialing a number while he leaves. What the fuck is goin’ on. Soldier Boy thinks to himself. Butcher struts over to him, clearing his throat.

“Alrigh’,” he claps his hands, “found you a babysi’er!”

–

Butcher knocks four times on the door of the apartment, then crosses his arms. Soldier Boy decides to lean on the wall opposite the door, not really expecting much of his “babysitter”. The door opens, and Hughie appears, a scowl fixed on his face. He opens the door just enough for both of the men to see him and not the apartment behind him. “Come on now!” Butcher grumbles, “You know how this works, kid.”

“Promise me nothing will happen,” Hughie addresses Soldier Boy directly, newfound confidence lacing his demand.

“Fuck do you mean?” he pushes off the wall and closes in on Hughie. The man raises his hands in surrender, trying not to get hit again by the supe. He opens the door more and motions for the pair to come inside. The apartment is cozy: art lines the walls, soft, warm lighting fills the space, plants everywhere; it has this vintage charm to it– a woman lives here. Soldier Boy scoffs, occupying the hall with his large frame, “Jesus, smells like lavender and daddy issues.” Hughie whips his head around, surveying him before deciding against saying anything.

The three men fully enter the apartment, Butcher closing the door behind them, and Hughie sits on the couch. “I’d like to watch the interaction before I leave you alone with her,” he says, folding his arms, annoyed. Bingo. Soldier Boy leans against the wall near him, surveying the kid and his demeanor. Hughie says a girl’s name, and she walks out of a room in the small apartment.

The supe stands up straighter, looking her up and down, just taking her in. He tilts his head, a lazy smirk sneaking up his face, “Don’t think I’m gonna promise you anything cum-guzzler.” Hughie stands up, getting in between the bigger man and the woman while Butcher just stands there impatiently. The woman laughs softly, and it makes Hughie’s cheeks heat up from embarrassment.

“Hugh, it’s fine,” you plead from behind him, poking him in the back. He huffs and backs away from you, letting you see Soldier Boy in all his glory. He, once again, looks you up and down, his gaze lingering on your body. “Hi,” you wave, staring at his face, almost like a challenge.

Soldier Boy’s smirk grows into a full grin, meeting your eyes, “Hey sweetheart, what are ‘ya doin’ with this shithead and his little pet?” Referring to Butcher and Hughie. You cock your head to the side, a soft smile growing, despite the supe’s vulgar words.

“They’re my friends,” you shrug, not wanting to give him the time of day. Your friends in question continue to observe, Hughie’s nervousness permeating the atmosphere of your apartment.

He chortles, a pretty thing like you friends with people like them? He couldn’t believe it. A girl like you shouldn’t be locked away in an apartment at the beck and call of loser shits like Hughie. “I don’t believe that for a second, baby,” he checks you out again.

You shrug again, “Better,” is all you say. The supe likes the small resistance you give him, not enough to actually anger him, but enough to provoke.

“Okay,” Butcher’s booming voice cuts whatever apprehension was between you and Soldier Boy. “‘ughie? Let’s get a move on, eh?”

Hughie sighs and pats you on the shoulder, “Call me if you need anything.” You nod, waving bye to both men as they exit your apartment. Once they leave, the tension is palpable. The supe is still leaning on the wall, albeit relaxed again, watching you.

“Hungry?” you ask, heading toward the small kitchen of your apartment. Soldier Boy grunts when he follows you, invading your space. You turn, face level with his neck. “Can you, like, back up?” you grumble, crossing your arms.

“And why would I do that, babydoll?” his sleazy tone sickening. You scoff at him, unbelievable.

“You’re in my apartment,” you challenge, tone sharp.

“Oh, baby, we’re not doing this,” he chuckles, leaning in closer to you. Your heart skips at the closeness despite his mocking tone.

“Doing what?” Your voice comes out shakily, it’s hard to keep your composure when a large, though unpleasant, man is overwhelming your space. You can’t deny his attractiveness, it’s just harder to place when he’s being a dickhead.

“Keep actin’ all high and mighty, honey,” he drawls, stepping back a little, finally letting you catch your breath. “This little innocent lamb act ain’t foolin’ me,” he runs a hand through his hair, sizing you up.