Dean Girls Library

Welcome to my recommendations.Here you’ll find a collection of writing I enjoy getting lost in 🥰😈

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

This man brings me so much joy whether I’m writing for him or his characters or I’m getting lost in worlds others create around him.

Welcome to my recommendations page !

Here I’ll add all the stories and authors I enjoy reading and escaping reality with. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Writing Room 😈

Main Blog 😘

Come To The Dark Side 🍒

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Jensen Ackles

Beau Arlen

Russell Shaw

Dean Winchester

Soldier Boy

Jack Durfy

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

don't lie to me

part I — part II — part III

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

content warning/s & word count: ben being his own warning, forbidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, age gap, language, toxic relationship, heartbreak, smut (dirty talk, fingering, clitoral stimulation, squirting, oral, p in v, marking, biting kinda, degradation, gentle humiliation), minor guilt, sneaking around, I think that's it. 6.4k

The sheets were still warm where he'd left you.

You shifted slowly, the ache between your thighs blooming all over again the second you moved. It wasn’t pain, not really. It was heat. Stretch. Residual slickness clinging to skin that hadn’t even had a chance to cool. You could still feel the dull throb of his last thrust, the lazy weight of his mouth on your shoulder, the way he’d sighed after whispering that he wanted it to stay in you.

Now he was gone, and the room felt louder without him—too bright, too still, too aware of the mess you'd both made.

You rolled onto your back, exhaling sharply through your nose as you winced at the feeling of slickness gathering again between your thighs. It was leaking out of you. Still. Hours later. As if your body couldn’t quite let go of him. As if it didn’t want to.

The sounds downstairs were soft at first. The creak of old floorboards. The whistle of the kettle. Then—

His voice.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

Your whole body jolted.

Ben leaned against the doorframe, bare-chested, coffee in hand, sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair wild. That slow, satisfied grin tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t just ruined you in a dozen different ways. Like this was all normal now. Like you were his.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” he said, voice low and rough. “Looked too pretty all curled up like that.”

You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself, heart skittering in your chest. The words were so casual. So offhanded. Like you were just his girl, and he was just your man, and last night hadn’t been a war waged on everything you used to be.

“I made coffee,” he continued. “Bacon’s on. You hungry?”

You hesitated. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Then nodded, eyes downcast.

He smirked.

“Thought so. After the stuffin’ I gave you last night, I figure you earned a proper breakfast.”

Your cheeks burned so hot you could feel it down your neck. He knew what he was doing. The way he said it—like it was sweet. Like it was a compliment. Like he hadn’t been balls-deep in you not twelve hours ago, making you sob his name into the mattress.

“I don’t want to eat with Jamie,” you said quietly, almost a whisper.

Ben’s mouth twisted.

“Ah, fuck that little prick,” he muttered. “He’s lucky I didn’t knock his teeth out after that stunt yesterday. Don’t worry about him. He can eat his dry-ass cereal in silence. I’m cookin’ for you.”

Then, softer, eyes dragging down your bare shoulders. “Go get dressed, baby. I’ll keep him busy.”

And just like that, he was gone. No kiss. No I’ll see you downstairs. Just those broad shoulders disappearing down the hall, like it was already settled. Like this was your house now.

You sat frozen for a moment, heart pounding. Then—movement. You scrambled out of bed, legs unsteady, the sheet tangling around your ankles as you made your way to the door, every step making that dull ache inside you pulse again.

The house was quiet except for the kitchen. You could hear the low rumble of Ben’s voice from down the stairs. His tone was light. Teasing. The kind of tone he’d used last night when he’d kissed the inside of your thigh and said, "bet Jamie never even touched you here, huh?"

Your chest tightened.

You padded down the stairs as quietly as you could, toes brushing cool wood, hair a mess around your face. The hallway was empty. You ducked into the downstairs guest room, rummaged through your bag for something clean. A sundress. Light and soft and floral—something innocent to wrap around all the filth still clinging to your skin.

You pulled it on quick, no underwear. Not after last night. You couldn’t even imagine trying to get panties on over this much slick. Your thighs would stick together. You’d feel him all day. You already did.

You were halfway back to the hall when you saw it.

Your top. Crumpled on the floor beside the living room sofa, like a forgotten warning. You squeaked—literally squeaked—and lunged for it, snatching it up with shaking fingers. It smelled like sex. Like sweat and his cologne and everything you shouldn’t have done.

You stuffed it into your bag.

The voices from the kitchen drifted louder now, Ben laughing at something Jamie said. Your breath hitched.

“She’s got better taste than you ever deserved,” Ben said, voice smooth as whiskey.

You didn’t breathe.

Not until you were pressed flat to the wall just outside the kitchen, bag clutched tight, your entire body trembling with the weight of what you’d just heard.

And what he really meant.

You stepped into the kitchen like a girl stepping into a bear trap—slow, silent, a little breathless. The sundress felt too light on your skin. Too floaty, too innocent, like it didn’t belong in this house anymore. Not after what you'd done.

Ben was at the stove, back turned, spatula in one hand, the morning paper folded neatly on the counter beside him. He didn’t look at you. Not yet. But you saw the way his shoulders straightened when he heard your footsteps. The way his voice didn’t lift in greeting—just deepened slightly, like he was already bracing to go to war for you again.

And then Jamie looked up.

He was hunched at the table in yesterday’s hoodie, spoon limp in his cereal bowl, eyes puffy from lack of sleep or regret or whatever brand of self-loathing he pretended not to feel these days. When he saw you—really saw you—his entire face twisted.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He snapped.

You flinched.

But before you could even open your mouth, Ben turned and launched the spatula across the room.

It clattered off the fridge with a sharp crack, making Jamie jolt like he'd been shot.

“Watch your fuckin’ tone,” Ben growled, low and lethal. “She stayed in the guest room after the shit you pulled. You’re lucky I didn’t tell her to pack your crap instead.”

Jamie flushed hard, colour crawling up his neck like shame. He stared into his cereal, suddenly very interested in his off-brand cornflakes, mumbling something you couldn’t make out under his breath.

Ben didn’t push. He just moved to the table, pulled a chair out—your chair—and nodded toward it.

“Sit,” he said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t laced with everything he’d done to you. “How d’you take your coffee?”

You sat, heartbeat stammering. “Um… milk. No sugar.”

He nodded once, poured, slid the mug toward you with quiet ease.

Then he set a plate down in front of you—bacon, eggs, a slice of toast, all still steaming.

“You need to eat,” he muttered. “Don’t want you faintin’ in my house.”

He finally looked at you then—really looked at you—and it was too much. There was heat in it. Pride. That same dark satisfaction he’d worn last night when he was fucking you through the mattress, whispering about filling you up. But now? It was wrapped in domesticity. In routine. In the illusion of normalcy.

To anyone else, it would’ve looked like nothing.

But to you?

It felt like a hand on your throat.

Ben took the seat between you and Jamie, unfolded his paper like he hadn’t just threatened his son with a kitchen utensil, and bit into a strip of bacon.

Silence stretched.

Jamie shifted. “So…” he started, eyes flicking toward you. “Can we talk, or…”

You didn’t even look at him. Just picked up your fork, poked at your eggs.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Jamie scoffed. “Seriously?”

You turned your head, slow and deliberate.

“You broke up with me,” you said, voice steady. “While you were in another girl’s car. I could hear her laughing. You didn’t even have the decency to wait until you were alone. So no—I don’t want to hear whatever half-assed excuse you’ve got lined up.”

There was a beat of stillness. Then the soft crinkle of newspaper.

You glanced at Ben.

He wasn’t looking at either of you—just scanning the news, chewing his bacon—but the corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk that made your stomach twist. Like he was proud of you. Like this whole exchange had been a test you’d just passed with flying colors.

Jamie was still staring.

“Dad?” He said, flat and wary. “Why is she still here?”

Ben didn’t look up.

“‘Cause she’s been keepin’ me company lately.”

That made Jamie pause.

Ben flipped a page, folded it over, finally looked at his son.

“Been comin’ over. Waitin’ for your sorry ass to come home from whatever you’re out doin’. Vaping in a fuckin’ parking lot or some bullshit, I don’t know. You invite her over, disappear for hours—what was I supposed to do, let her sit on the porch like a stray?”

Jamie blinked.

Ben shrugged.

“I’ve grown fond of her,” he said simply. “She’s sweet. Thoughtful. Dotes on me while you’re out bein’ a goddamn disappointment. Makes a better pot of coffee than you ever did, too.”

You stared down at your plate, hands trembling slightly on your fork.

It wasn’t what he was saying. It was how he said it.

Every word was technically clean. Civil. Parental, even. But beneath it—buried like a razor under satin—was the truth. The weight of last night. Of his body pressed to yours. Of his cum still sticky between your thighs.

Jamie didn’t speak again. Just scowled into his cereal.

And Ben?

Ben leaned back in his chair, paper in hand, and reached across to steal a piece of your toast—chewing slow, fingers brushing yours like it was nothing. But you felt it. Every glance. Every graze. Every unspoken sin curling between the lines.

And all you could think was:

You’re fucked. You’re still fucked. And somehow, this time… you want to be.

You finished your breakfast slowly, more aware of yourself than you’d ever been at this table. The fork felt too loud against the plate. The mug too warm in your hands. And Ben—Ben was silent now, calm, relaxed, the morning paper rustling faintly with each turn of the page like none of it touched him.

But you could feel it.

His thigh pressed close to yours under the table. The occasional glance over the edge of the paper, the faint tug of his lip every time you shifted in your seat and winced at the reminder of how thoroughly he'd ruined you.

The quiet intimacy of it all made your chest ache.

When your plate was empty, you stood without thinking—fingers curling around your mug, your fork, Jamie’s empty bowl, the now-cold pan from the stove. You moved on instinct, barefoot and soft-footed, gathering up the remnants of the morning like they were yours to handle. Like this was your place. Your home.

You didn’t even realise you were humming something under your breath until you reached the sink and flicked the tap on.

Ben cleared his throat behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“What’re you doin’?” He asked, voice low and curious.

You blinked. “I’m… clearing up.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. A sound closer to a groan than a sigh.

You turned just in time to see him drag a hand down his face, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying to suppress something inappropriate.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“Jamie,” he said, louder now, voice cutting clean through the kitchen air. “Go on out to the garage. Or get on with whatever dumb bullshit you’ve got planned for today.”

Jamie looked up from his phone, brows pulling together. “Why?”

Ben didn’t look at him. Just leaned back in his chair, eyes on you.

“Because I said so.”

Jamie scoffed, cutting his gaze to you.

“When are you going home?” He asked, too direct, too sharp.

You opened your mouth.

But Ben beat you to it.

“She’s stayin’ as long as she wants,” he said firmly, voice like gravel and heat. “And maybe if you pulled your head outta your ass once in a while, you'd realise she’s the only reason this place still feels like a home.”

You froze at the sink, fingers tightening around the sponge.

Ben kept going.

“Look at her. She’s cleanin’ up without even bein’ asked. Sweet as hell. Thoughtful. Not sittin’ around all goddamn morning scrollin’ through TikTok or whatever the fuck you waste your time on.”

You flushed so hard it made your toes curl, shoulders hitching as you tried not to let it show. The implication hung thick in the air. Heavy. Drenched in everything you’d done. Everything he’d seen.

Jamie stared at him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, groaning like he was fifteen again. “Just fuckin’ adopt her already.”

He pushed his chair back with an obnoxious scrape and stood, grabbing his phone and trudging out of the kitchen.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered on his way out. “And then I’m leaving for work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben called after him. “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears, champ.”

The second the door clicked shut upstairs, you let out the breath you’d been holding.

You didn’t hear Ben move.

But you felt him.

His presence behind you was instant—hot and heavy and close. You stilled as his hand slid over your hip, slow and familiar, palm splaying across the curve of your waist like it belonged there.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice a slow drag of sin across your neck, “you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy in this little dress.”

You swallowed hard, fingers slipping against the wet ceramic of the plate in your hand.

Ben leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Lookin’ like springtime and sin, all soft and sweet and drippin’ all over my goddamn kitchen.”

His hands wandered—slow, casual, practiced. One curled around your waist, the other skimming up your thigh beneath the hem of your sundress.

And then he paused.

Froze.

His fingers flexed.

And then—

He gasped. A soft, mock-shocked little sound that made your knees go weak.

“Well fuck me,” he rasped, sliding his hand higher, knuckles grazing bare, sticky skin. “No panties?”

You whimpered.

He chuckled—low and delighted, the sound vibrating straight down your spine.

“You wanted me to find this, huh?” He whispered, mouth hot against your neck. “Wanted me thinkin’ about it all mornin’, sittin’ at that table while you pretended to be a good little guest?”

His fingers slid lower, knuckles trailing between your thighs, collecting slick like evidence.

“Christ,” he muttered, almost reverent now. “Still so fuckin’ messy.”

You bit your lip, knuckles white on the edge of the sink.

Ben leaned in tighter, hand splayed flat across your stomach now, the other still ghosting over soaked skin.

“I should bend you over the counter,” he murmured. “Right now. Let the whole house hear you.”

You whimpered again, head tipping back, breath catching.

He kissed the spot beneath your ear, soft and slow, then nipped it.

“Still wanna tidy up, sweetheart?” He asked, voice a husky tease. “Or you wanna show me how grateful you are?”

You didn’t speak.

Just turned slowly in his arms, breath catching when his hands slid instinctively to your hips. He held you steady, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment—like he was always ready to catch you.

Your back hit the counter with a soft thud.

He leaned in, nose brushing against your neck, the drag of his beard making you shiver. Then came his mouth—hot, open, slow—pressing kisses up the curve of your throat, nipping just beneath your jaw like he wanted to mark you again.

Your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not yet.

Instead, your gaze lifted—up, toward the ceiling. The sound of the shower was steady now, running loud overhead. You could picture Jamie a floor up, scrubbing away last night like it meant nothing, while this—while you—were being undone again down here.

Ben followed your eyes, and when he clocked it, he smiled.

“Don’t worry about a damn thing,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “He ain’t got a clue. And if he did?” A pause. A darker smile. “Too late now.”

He kissed down your neck, dragged his teeth across your collarbone, muttering like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re drivin’ me outta my mind, y’know that? Standin’ up to him like that, wearin’ this little dress, cleanin’ up like you belong here.”

You gasped as his hands found your thighs, slipped under the hem of your sundress, and hoisted you up onto the counter with one smooth motion. Your legs parted automatically, instinctively, letting him step in close, slotting between them like a puzzle piece made just for you.

Then—his fingers. Right between your legs. No warning. Just pressure and heat and slickness already pooling.

Ben let out a low, rumbling sound that made your breath stutter.

“Still wet?” He muttered. “Still so soft for me, baby. Jesus.”

Two fingers eased inside, slow and deliberate, curling just right.

You bit your lip, tried to hold it in, but a soft moan escaped before you could catch it.

Ben’s hand came up fast, clapping gently over your mouth as his eyes narrowed, wicked and amused.

“Shhh,” he hissed. “You wanna alert my son to what we’re doin’?”

You shook your head, thighs already starting to tremble.

He started moving his fingers—slow, deep, precise. You couldn’t stop the noises now, muffled and desperate against his palm. Every curl of his knuckles hit a spot that made your stomach twist.

Ben dropped his mouth to your ear, voice so low it barely made it out.

“I’m gonna make you come just like this,” he whispered. “Nice and quiet, baby. Let me feel you pulse around my fingers.”

He moved faster. Your hands gripped his forearms, knuckles white.

“Keep those pretty little noises to yourself,” he said, a teasing growl curling under his voice. “Jamie’s got the water runnin’, but he’s not deaf.”

You whined.

Ben’s breath hitched like he felt it happen. He bent, pressing a kiss to your cheek like a reward, then moved back to your neck, teeth catching your skin again, fingers not letting up for a second.

You were so close. Too close. The pressure was tight and fast and climbing—sharp at the edges, like breaking glass.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let it go for me.”

And you did.

Your whole body locked up, thighs clenching around his waist, hands scrambling for purchase as your release hit hard and fast. You gushed around his fingers—slick and hot, soaking his hand and the countertop beneath you.

Ben groaned—groaned, like he was the one coming.

“That’s it,” he murmured, watching you with hungry eyes. “That’s my good girl.”

He slowed his hand but didn’t stop right away, working you through it, thumb brushing gentle circles as you trembled.

When it was over, when your breath was shaky and your muscles weak, he leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Still hungry?” He asked, all grin and sin. “Or you wanna say thank you first?”

Ben helped you down from the counter like you were something fragile—hands warm under your thighs, easing you gently to the floor even though your knees buckled on impact. He caught you before you could stumble, mouth curving in a crooked, quiet smile.

“Jesus,” he muttered, low and amused. “You really are fucked.”

You flushed, heart pounding, dress clinging to your sweat-damp skin.

He stepped back just enough to drag a hand through his hair, then nodded toward the stairs.

“Go shower. Take your time. Use my bathroom.”

His voice was casual, soft. Like this was normal. Like it wasn’t still dripping down your thighs.

You nodded, legs shaky as you turned toward the hallway. Barefoot. Sticky. A little dazed. You made it almost to the stairs.

Almost.

Then you heard him.

“...Fuck it.”

You turned just in time to see the look on his face. Dark. Hungry. Decided. He crossed the space between you in three long strides, grabbed you by the waist, and hauled you up against his chest like a man possessed.

You gasped.

“Ben—?”

But he was already walking you backwards, already pushing you toward the pantry door like he had to—like you were oxygen and he’d gone too long without breathing.

“Can’t let you leave my sight lookin’ like that,” he muttered, kissing your jaw, then your mouth, then down your neck. “Little fuckin’ sundress. No panties. You tryin’ to kill me, baby?”

Your back hit the pantry door.

He opened it blindly, one hand still gripping your waist, the other dragging up your thigh. Then he spun you both inside, kicked it shut, and slammed you up against the shelves so hard the flour tin rattled beside your head.

His mouth was on yours in the dark—hot, greedy, filthy. His hands groping, kneading, pulling you closer like he couldn’t get enough.

“You keep this shit up,” he panted, teeth scraping your bottom lip, “I’m gonna fall in love with you or some shit.”

You whimpered. Instinctive. Helpless.

His hand snapped up over your mouth.

“Shhh, baby girl,” he whispered, grinning. “You want him to hear?”

You shook your head, trembling.

Ben groaned—actually groaned—as he reached down, shoved your dress up over your hips, and pulled himself free with one hand. He was already hard. Already leaking. Already fucking huge.

You braced for it. You didn’t brace hard enough. He pushed in deep. One thrust. Slow and thick and overwhelming.

You screamed against his palm.

Ben’s eyes rolled back.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Feels like comin’ home.”

You clawed at his arm, gasping through his fingers as he bottomed out and stayed there, hips pressed flush against yours, body trembling from restraint.

He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“I ain’t pullin’ out,” he whispered. “You hear me, baby? This fuckin’ pussy’s mine now.”

You nodded frantically, legs wrapped around his hips, already pulsing around him.

He started to move. Slow at first. Deep. The kind of thrusts that made your whole body rock against the shelves. Cans shifted. Something clattered behind you. Ben didn’t even blink.

“Christ on a cross,” he muttered, pounding into you harder now, breath catching. “You got a fuckin’ mouth on you, huh?”

You whined again—too loud.

He slapped his hand back over your lips, grinning.

“Keep it down,” he hissed, voice shaking with laughter. “Keep it down, baby girl. Wanna be good for me, yeah?”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes now—not from pain, but from the stretch, the depth, the overwhelming pressure of it all.

Ben groaned into your neck.

“Too fuckin’ tight,” he whispered. “Like you were made for this cock. Like your body knows who it belongs to.”

You whimpered.

He fucked you harder.

“I’m gonna knock you up,” he rasped. “Right here. Right now. Stuff you full ‘til you’re leakin’ for hours.”

You came. Hard. Screaming into his palm, nails dragging down his arms, thighs squeezing like a vice.

Ben shuddered, swore, voice breaking apart into a feral moan as your pussy spasmed around him. He came seconds later. Deep. Loud. Raw. Buried in you to the hilt.

“Never fuckin’ leavin’ this cunt,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “You hear me? I live here now.”

Ben was still inside you. Still deep. Still thick. Still twitching every time your muscles fluttered around him. His chest rose and fell against yours in slow, heavy waves, both of you breathless and coated in sweat, your dress bunched around your waist and your thighs sticky from everything he’d just poured into you.

He leaned back slightly, looked down between you both like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Don’t wanna pull out yet,” he muttered.

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted in a silent whimper.

And then—

The water shut off upstairs. Both of you froze. A beat later, footsteps—loud, impatient—thudded across the floor above your heads.

Ben groaned quietly, like he was in pain. Like this was all too much for one man to handle.

You buried your face in your hands, mortified.

He laughed softly—low and warm—and pulled your hands away from your face.

“C’mon, don’t hide those pretty flushed cheeks from me,” he whispered, kissing the apple of one.

“It’s dark in here,” you mumbled. “You can’t even see if I’m blushing.”

“Oh, I know you are,” he said, grinning like the devil. “Know you well enough by now. I know what gets you all hot and bothered, sweetheart.”

You clenched around him—instinctive. Unthinking. He groaned hard, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he panted. “You’ll get me ready for another fuckin’ round.”

You giggled, breathless, lips brushing his ear.

He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Tragic. Then, finally, he pulled out—slow, deliberate, like he didn’t want to go. You whimpered at the stretch and the slick, at the obscene warmth spilling down your thighs all over again.

Ben stepped back and exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

“Damn shame,” he muttered, tucking himself back into his sweats with a faint shake of his head like he was trying to come back to earth. “Absolute fuckin’ tragedy.”

He opened the pantry door and stepped out like a man leaving confession, body loose and casual—only to jump a foot in the air when Jamie appeared in the kitchen doorway, towel slung over one shoulder, hair dripping wet.

“Jesus, Jamie,” Ben barked. “What’re you skulkin’ around like a fuckin’ ninja for?”

You scrambled to smooth your dress down, cheeks burning, trying to push your hair back into some semblance of order while still half-hiding behind the doorframe.

Jamie squinted.

“Why are you jumpin’ like a frog on coke?” He shot back.

Ben barked a laugh. “Don’t be a smartass.”

You stepped out a second later, trying to keep your legs from shaking, brushing invisible dust from your dress.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. He looked between the two of you, slow and suspicious.

“Why were you in the pantry?” He asked, tone flat.

Ben didn’t blink. “Helpin’ her find the sugar.”

Jamie’s eyes dropped to your hands. “You don’t have any sugar.”

You blinked once, then shrugged. “I just put it back.”

There was a pause. Ben smirked, watching Jamie squirm.

You cleared your throat. “May I use the shower?”

Ben turned to you like you’d just offered him salvation.

“Look at that,” he said, grinning. “So full’a manners. Jamie, you takin’ notes? That’s how a guest behaves.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Loud.

Ben jerked his chin toward the stairs.

“Go on, sweetheart. Use my bathroom.”

Jamie scoffed. “That’s not fair. I never get to use your bathroom.”

Ben snorted. “That’s ‘cause you’re a filthy little shit. Don’t want your cum or your clap on my fuckin’ tiles.”

“DAD!” Jamie shouted, scandalised.

Ben just laughed. Full-bellied. Gleeful.

You bolted up the stairs before the tension could snap all the way in two, dress swishing around your legs, thighs aching, breath short. You didn’t stop until you were behind his bedroom door, heart racing.

You were dripping. Full. Ruined. And still—God help you—you wanted more. 

The bathroom was still fogged over when you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped loose around your body, another in your hands as you scrubbed gently at your hair. Your skin still buzzed—clean, but not untouched. No amount of soap could rinse out the way he’d held you. Bent you. Filled you.

The ensuite was quiet. His bedroom quieter.

You stepped out, expecting to find your clothes waiting. Only they weren’t. No bag. No sundress. You’d left it all in the guest room. Shit.

You exhaled softly, brushing your damp hair out of your face—and that’s when you saw it.

A jersey. Thick. Oversized. Slung over the foot of the bed like it had been waiting.

You stared at it for a second too long. It was so obvious. Too obvious. A jersey he’d never even worn in front of you. Probably not in years. Folded, casual, but placed with intention.

It should’ve made you roll your eyes. Instead, you dropped the towel and pulled it on. It swallowed you. Soft and dark and warm, the collar wide around your collarbones, sleeves halfway to your elbows. You smelled him in it—soap and sweat and that spiced musk that clung to his shirts even after a wash. You felt obscene in it. Marked.

You padded downstairs barefoot, skin still damp, hair dripping against the cotton.

The living room was dim. You heard the hum of the TV before you saw him.

Ben was sprawled across the sofa like he owned the fucking world. One foot kicked up on the armrest, the other planted wide on the floor, head tipped back against the other end. He looked ridiculous. Massive. The kind of big that made you forget how small you were until you were underneath him.

He looked like comfort and destruction and something you weren’t supposed to want again so soon.

You glanced toward the kitchen. When you looked back, his eyes were on you. Wide. Slack-jawed. His gaze dropped—slowly. Took in the jersey. The bare legs. The still-damp hair clinging to your temples.

Then his hand dragged up into his hair, pushing it back as he let out a groan so low it vibrated straight through the floor.

“Knew you’d look good in that one,” he muttered. “Knew it.”

You felt the heat bloom down your throat. Your cheeks. Your stomach.

He patted his lap.

“Come on over, baby.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking once more toward the kitchen, toward the windows, toward the hall.

Ben saw it. “The little prick’s gone to work,” he said, voice rough and fond. “Won’t be back for hours.”

You nodded once. Your feet moved before you could think. Slow. Careful. You stopped in front of him, unsure of where to sit.

He didn’t wait. One big hand reached up, curled around your hip, and tugged.

You let out a soft breath as you collapsed against him, legs falling to either side of his hips, your body folding easily into his like a magnet finding its opposite. Your head dropped to the curve of his neck, breath catching when you inhaled him all over again.

Ben groaned.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You love doin’ that, don’t you?”

You smiled against his skin. Didn’t answer.

His arms came up around you slowly. One cradled your spine. The other slid around your waist. He didn’t touch you like a fuck. He touched you like you were his. Like you were delicate. Like you were exactly where he wanted you.

“You good watchin’ the game with me?” He murmured.

You nodded against his throat.

“Good girl.”

The room settled into a slow, heavy rhythm. The soft murmur of the commentators. The flicker of the screen. And the sound of your breath, caught against his collarbone.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. Yours curled against his chest, fingers brushing the side of his neck.

You should’ve felt calm. Safe. Instead—you felt like a wire pulled taut.

It started slow. Your hips shifted. Barely. Just a twitch. A nudge. The smallest roll. Ben didn’t react at first. But then—you felt it. The echo. His hips moved too. So soft. So lazy. So deliberate.

You dragged your breath in through your teeth.

He kept rubbing your back. The movement never stopped. Like he wasn’t even aware. Like you were just cuddling. Your thighs clenched where they bracketed his.

He let out a breath. Didn’t say a word. But now he was grinding too. Barely. The softest friction. Cotton on cotton. Heat on heat. You could feel him through the fabric. Hardening slow. Your lips parted. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. Still—he said nothing.

You weren’t watching the game anymore. And neither was he

The room was warm with stillness. The kind that settled heavy in the air after something wicked. The kind of quiet that followed a storm and promised more thunder if you dared stir.

Ben’s hand was soft against your back. Slow. Rhythmic. The kind of absentminded touch that would’ve felt sweet from anyone else. But from him? From him it was a warning. A claim. A leash disguised as affection.

You lay across his chest, thighs wrapped around his hips, your breath syncing to his as the football game flickered across the screen in front of you—ignored.

Your heart thudded heavy.

He hadn’t said a word since you climbed onto him. Hadn’t moved. Just that hand. Just that calm, steady breath. But you could feel it. The tension in his muscles. The shift of his thighs. The low, deliberate grind he kept sneaking in beneath you.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Smirking. At the TV. Like he hadn’t already rearranged your guts this morning and was now slowly driving you insane with the laziest friction known to man.

Your eyes narrowed.

Fine.

If he wanted to play it cool, so could you.

You shifted in his lap, hips rolling down with a little more pressure this time—more intent. You dragged your cunt over the front of his sweats in one long, slow grind, your breath catching at the friction.

A soft whimper slipped out before you could catch it.

Ben didn’t look away from the screen. But you heard it. The sharp inhale through his nose. The pause. The subtle flex of the hand on your back.

Still… no words.

You did it again. Lower this time. Deeper. The movement slow and lazy, your hips rocking like waves, like sin, like worship. You shifted your weight just enough to drag the thick line of him against you through the jersey and the cotton of his sweats, your thighs already slick and trembling.

And then—your hand. It slid down his chest. Over the jersey you wore. Down across his stomach.

Ben didn’t flinch. Not yet. But when your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats and dipped just beneath, then he moved. His head snapped toward you like a whip. Eyes wild and dark and low-lidded with disbelief.

“The fuck do you think you’re doin’?” He asked, voice low and frayed, rougher than it had any right to be.

You looked up at him through your lashes, bit your lip, and said, “Whatever I want.”

His eyes rolled back like he’d just been hit.

You didn’t wait. You pushed yourself up just enough to slide down between his legs, your knees brushing the floor, your hands dragging his waistband down.

Ben lifted his hips before you even asked. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just watched. And when you looked up at him again, wrapped one small hand around him, leaned in and took him into your mouth in one slow, wet inch—

He growled. Not a moan. Not a grunt. A growl. A deep, guttural, primal sound that rattled out of his chest like he was losing his goddamn mind.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped, hand flying to your hair. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You moaned around him.

He cursed again. And the game kept playing. Forgotten.

He was already shaking. One hand tangled in your hair, the other clenched white-knuckled on the sofa arm. His thighs were spread wide, twitching beneath you, and his chest rose in jagged stutters—like he couldn’t catch his breath, like you’d stolen it from him.

You dragged your mouth along the base of him slow. Deliberate. Spit-slicked and sinful. And when you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, swallowed around the thickness of him, his entire body jerked.

“Fuck,” Ben choked out. “Oh fuck, that’s it—baby girl, you’re gonna kill me.”

His voice was wrecked. But his mouth kept running.

“You hear me? I ain’t ever—fuckin’ ever—felt a mouth like this before. You were made for it.”

You moaned around him. He twitched in your mouth.

“Shit—don’t you fuckin’ do that. You’re gonna make me—”

Another groan. Broken. Ripped out of his throat like confession.

“You’re so goddamn good, sweetheart,” he rasped, hips stuttering up into you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this, all needy and eager—lookin’ at me like you know you’ve got me by the fuckin’ balls.”

You swallowed him again. Deep. Slow. Unrelenting. His head hit the back of the couch with a thud.

“You wanna be mine, huh?” He panted, jaw slack, eyes blown wide. “That it? Want me to ruin you so bad you never even look at another man?”

You hummed—dark and low and deliberate—and he gasped like you’d sunk your teeth into him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, baby—god, you’re perfect—fuck, you’re perfect—gonna keep you, you hear me? Ain’t lettin’ you go.”

His hand tightened in your hair. Not yanking. Just holding. Possessive. He looked down at you—sweat beading on his temple, brows drawn, mouth slack with need—and all he saw was devotion. Wreckage. Heaven with teeth.

“Shit—fuck,—you’re gonna make me lose it,” he groaned. “I’m tryin’, baby, I’m fuckin’ tryin’, but your mouth—goddamn, your mouth’s a fuckin’ miracle.”

You worked him harder now. Faster. Your hands braced on his thighs. Your eyes locked to his.

He broke.

“Christ on a goddamn shittin’ cross,” he bellowed, voice cracking, “you wanna be his step-mom?! That it? You wanna live here and wear my fuckin’ shirts and sit on my face after makin’ pancakes?! Jesus, sweetheart—marry me. Fuck.”

You moaned around him again—sweet and ruined.

His whole body jolted. Then—

He growled. It was feral. A snarl from the chest. And it came right before he slammed a hand over his mouth, like he knew if he didn’t, he’d shout it to the gods.

His other hand clutched your jaw—gentle but shaking.

“Baby,” he gasped, “I’m—gonna—I’m right there—”

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. He saw it in your eyes. You wanted it. Everything he had. Every drop.

And when he came?

It was violent. Hot. Thick. Endless.

He shouted into his hand, hips lifting off the couch as you swallowed him down in heavy, deep pulls. His thighs trembled. His abs clenched. His head dropped forward, eyes blazing, watching you take it—take him—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sagged into the cushions, panting.

You swallowed. Licked your lips. Looked up at him with innocent eyes and a ruined mouth.

Ben stared. Still trembling. Then muttered, hoarse and ruined, “…fuck me sideways.”

He was still catching his breath. One hand limply resting on your thigh, the other dragging up through his hair like he couldn’t believe what had just happened—even though he’d orchestrated every filthy second of it.

You were curled back up in his lap now, warm and pliant and tucked against his chest, the echo of everything you’d just done still clinging to your skin like sweat. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, could smell the mix of both of you on his skin.

His fingers brushed over your hip. Then your ribs. Then up your spine in long, slow strokes. Soft. Reverent.

He exhaled into your hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice gone hoarse. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

You hummed sleepily against his shoulder. Smiled against the fabric of his t-shirt. Then—his mouth again. Against your temple, your cheek, the side of your throat.

“I mean it, y’know,” he said, quieter now. Like it wasn’t just a line anymore. “I’m keepin’ you.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just nodded against his chest.

Then, soft—dry—smiling: “Jamie’s gonna have a hard time dealing with that.”

Ben snorted.

“Fuck that little punk.”

You laughed.

But he wasn’t done.

“I’m about ready to make a whole fuckin’ litter with you,” he said, voice like gravel and honey. “Tie you to this house for good.”

You grinned, wide, into his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Put you in my bed, my shirt, my fuckin’ will if I have to.”

You were still laughing softly when he reached for your face. He cupped your jaw. Pulled your head gently from where it lay against him. Made you look at him.

And when you did?

Everything stilled. His green eyes were on fire. Not wild. Not smug. Certain. Like he knew exactly what he wanted. And it was you. His thumb dragged along the hinge of your jaw. Then down. Pressing gently—commandingly—until your lips parted.

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

Then he kissed you. Deep. Slow. Ruining. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t greedy. It was like he was erasing you. Like he was kissing every old name off your skin. Every memory. Every man. Every touch that wasn’t his.

When he pulled back, his eyes were still locked to yours. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He’d already said it all.

And you? You were his now. Completely.

a/n: okay, finally. i knew a part three would come to me eventually, and here is it. i love it. i needed some intense aftercare in there because i stg i need me an older man who will just take fucking care of me. not treat me like my manchild of an ex did... you know? anyways... hope y'all like. i like. hehehehe. let me know! all the love.

Ben/Soldier Boy taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @deansbeer @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly <3

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Need more !! Love this series so much !

[beecomingnothing]

cw: smut & fluff.ᐟ shy!reader x neighbour!beau.ᐟ oral [f. receiving].ᐟ age gap [40’s & 20’s].ᐟ manipulative!beau.ᐟ name kink [i guess?].ᐟ pet names [honey, darlin, sweetheart] 18+

۫ ꣑ৎ bee yaps: so me and @bruisedfig were pondering which never leads to sane thoughts… and suggested i do this little idea for mr. beau arlen. so this one’s for you pookie ‹𝟹

all i can think about is a sweet girl scared to call beau by his first name, cause it’s ‘improper’…

he’s always been mr. arlen to you. since you were just the girl next door, trailing behind your dad while he talked lawnmowers and power tools over the fence with the handsome neighbour.

you’ve always been taught to speak with manners. to say sir, to show others respect. and every time you see him, with your hands full of wildflowers or a pie dish warm from your kitchen, it’s always a

“thank you, mr. arlen.”

“yes, sir.”

“you didn’t have to do all that, mr. arlen.”

and he always gives you that slow, tired smile. the one that crinkles up around his eyes and makes your stomach feel like there’s a million butterflies buzzing around.

it started off as innocent…

like one time last week. you’re out in the yard, a little sunburned from being in the garden too long, barefoot in the grass, pinching sprigs of lavender between your fingers. you don’t even hear him walk up until you feel his shadow over your shoulder.

“your dad around, honey?” you heard him call to you.

“dad he’s uh— he’s out right now mr.arlen sorry” you say over your shoulder, gathering the stems of flowers.

he hums low, a quiet “always so sweet” under his breath. making you duck your head and look at the grass, too embarrassed to speak.

“god, darlin’. i told you y’ain’t gotta call me that anymore.”

you blink. looking up at him slow, like you didn’t hear it right. “what?”

he steps in just a little closer. not enough to touch, but enough for your chest to flutter and your mouth to go dry.

“‘mr. arlen’ it makes me feel like some old man. i’d rather hear you say my name proper.”

“well i— i cant” your breath catches, looking down at your hands.

he tilts his head, soft grin still playing at his mouth. “no? why’s that?”

you shake your head, gentle and shy. “my dad always taught me better than that.”

he laughs, low and syrupy. like he wants to say something else, something to see how long before you’d break, but he reins it in with a shake of his head.

“mmh” he mutters, watching the way your lashes fan out against your cheeks. “i bet he did.” and he just smiles, patient. hands in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world.

“tell me somethin sweetheart, your daddy ever teach you when it’s alright to make your own rules?” he asked, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find the best way to make you crack.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

and now you were here

he found a way to make you say it. it wasn’t quick, and wasn’t easy either. he never pushed you, just waited. wore you down with soft smiles and slow glances, with that voice of his, sweet as molasses.

his bedsheets molded under your back, skin flushed and hot, thighs hooked over his shoulders. acting like he hadn’t been fisting his cock to the sound of your sweet voice for the past few months.

his scruff scraping your skin in the best way, tongue dragging slow and lazy savoring every second. hands pressing you down when your hips start to tremble, when your fingers clutch the sheets too tight.

you try to hold the sound building in your throat, but beau’s too good, to skilled given his age. long curling fingers stuffed inside you as his lips sucked harshly at your overworked clit making your back arch.

“beau—”

his name, drawn out on a moan, soft and sticky like honey between your lips. and he stills, just for a second, just enough to make you feel the weight and guilt of what you’d said.

“say it again” beau murmurs, pulling away just enough for his eyes to meet yours, a mix of your slick and saliva connecting him to you still.

you whimper, head turning to press into the pillow “i— i shouldn’t” you breathe “i didn’t mean—”

he cuts you off with a slow drag of his tongue that makes your whole body jolt, fingers holding down your doughy thighs.

“no?” he mutters “cause you said it real pretty, sweetheart. sounded like you meant it.”

two thick fingers scissor in and out of you, making you wrap your hand around his wrist to try and get him to pull his hand away from your cunt because “it’s too much.”

“c’mon don’t get all shy on me now” he drawls, dipping low again.

you try, god, you try to bite it back. but the pleasure blurs the lines.

“beau please— please let me cum” it’s breathy, cracked and broken by tears lining your waterline.

the groan against your poor cunt says everything that he didn’t.

and it’s exactly what he wanted.

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @bejeweledinterludes @deanstubble @sunnyteume @titsout4jackles @sunnyfuffly @deansbeer @littlesoulshine

if you'd like to be added / removed for the taglist pls comment or private message me ༝༚༝༚

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Beau Arlen Masterlist

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Manipulative Beau written by @honeyyxxbee

[deansgirlbaby67]

;; you guys are amazing and have inspired me to expand my writing and blog in so many ways !

Here’s what’s coming for June…

1. I am going to be expanding the characters I write for. There will be content for Jared lovers and his characters. I do have to watch some of his shows still, they are on my list.

2. I am working hard on creating a Patreon account and the perks that will go along with it. There will be exclusive content and my own personal books I have written and will be writing. I’ve wanted to be an author my whole life and you are all making it possible.

3. I will be using my other social media accounts more and I will have them posted for you to check out and follow as well :)

4. I’m looking at finding a way to offer the ability to send me requests and pay me to create your own personal story that only you will be sent and read. I still haven’t worked the kinks out when it comes to that option as of yet.

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Would you guys be interested in me doing reviews of my recommendations and or authors ?

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Jack Durfy Masterlist

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Rough Around The Edges written by @lila-lou

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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Don't Lie To Me: part 1 and part 2 written by @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery

Inviolable: part 1 and part 2 written by @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery

Shark Week written by @cherrygirlfriend

Lick It Up written by @pieandflannel

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

don't lie to me

part II

Pairing: Boyfriend's!Dad!Ben x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Ben's about to make you his. To hell with his son, he's a goddamn disappointment anyway.

Warnings: 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, implied daddy kink, breeding kink), guilt, nearly getting caught, I think that's it.

Word Count: 5,676

You were still straddling him, legs trembling, your whole body humming with the aftermath—heat blooming in your chest, your thighs, your throat. Everything was slick. Sticky. Heavy with sweat and release and something darker, deeper, that hadn't quite settled yet.

Ben hadn't let go of you.

His hands stayed firm on your waist, thumbs stroking gentle over the curve of your ribs, his breath fanning warm across your shoulder as he leaned back into the couch like he was settling in. His grey sweats were soaked through, darkened with his own release and slick from your mess, sticking to his skin and your thighs where they pressed together. He didn't seem to care. If anything, he looked smug—wrecked and satisfied in that way only men like him could pull off. Still fully dressed, still grounded, while you sat bare-chested in soaked pyjama shorts, open and ruined on top of him.

He shifted beneath you, just slightly, and you felt it again—his fingers, still nestled between your thighs, lazy and unhurried, stroking through the slick heat of you like he was petting something fragile. Like it was nothing to him. Like it was everything.

"You feel that?" He rasped, voice low, laced in grit. "Still fuckin' soaked for me. Gave you two and you're still squirming."

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, forehead dropping to his shoulder. You were oversensitive, lightheaded, and he knew it. Knew exactly what he was doing with those soft, torturous strokes.

And still—he didn't stop.

Ben chuckled, quiet and slow, and lifted his hand from between your legs. His fingers glistened in the low light, wet with you, shining across his knuckles. He watched the way your eyes followed the movement, how your lips parted just a little when he brought those fingers to his mouth.

He sucked one into his mouth, slow and deliberate. His eyes didn't leave yours.

"Jesus Christ," he murmured around his fingers. "You taste like fuckin' heaven."

You shivered. And then—something inside you broke. You followed his lead. Your own hand dragged down your stomach, between your legs, slick and shaking, until your fingers came away just as wet. You held his gaze. Let the tension stretch. Then you lifted them to your lips and sucked them into your mouth—slow, soft, moaning around your fingers as you tasted yourself, your eyes half-lidded, dazed and still trembling.

Ben froze.

His whole body went taut beneath you. And then he made a sound—somewhere between a groan and a growl, feral and low—and his hand flew back between your thighs, pressing deep again as your hips jolted against him.

"Fuckin' hell," he hissed. "Do that again."

You whined, breath catching, sucking a little harder on your fingers as his stroked over your clit again, slower this time, more intense.

"Yeah," he growled. "Look at you. Pretty little mouth on you, shit. You like that, huh? You like tasting what I've done to you?"

You moaned.

Ben's hand closed around your wrist, dragging your fingers from your mouth. Then he brought your hand to his mouth, holding your gaze the whole time. One by one, he kissed the pads of your fingers. Slow. Gentle. Possessive.

"This hand belongs to me now," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. "You don't use it unless you're thinkin' about me."

You nodded, dazed. "Yes—Ben—"

He kissed your palm, turned it over and kissed the inside of your wrist like he was branding you.

"Damn right."

His fingers were still working you, still dragging through your slick like he didn't plan to stop. And you didn't want him to. You were still buzzing, raw and hot and aching, that edge of need still singing beneath your skin.

But then the shift came. Not loud. Not spoken. Just a curl of something softer. Something real. Your breath caught, your eyes dropped, and guilt started to stir.

Ben felt it instantly. He slowed. His hands didn't stop, but his voice dropped sharper, his gaze narrowing as he caught the subtle change in you.

"Nah," he said, almost like a warning. "Don't do that."

You blinked. "Do what?"

"That look," he said, tone sharp. "Don't gimme that look. All pouty and sad like you feel guilty."

You bit your lip. Tried to look away.

"I just—I shouldn't've—"

"I'll fuck the guilt right outta you," he snapped, but his voice was more gravel than anger. "Don't play dumb. I know you want it. I know you've been wantin' it a long fuckin' time."

You didn't deny it. Couldn't. Because your body was already reacting again—his words pushing that low ache back into full bloom, that filthy, aching want clawing up your spine.

You thought of every moment you'd stolen glances at him across the kitchen. Every time his arm brushed yours, every time he told a joke and your stomach flipped for no goddamn reason. All those nights Jamie left you alone in his house and you sat with Ben instead. How many times had you stared at his hands, his mouth, and wondered?

Too many.

And now you were here—drenched, breathless, and still trembling on his lap while his fingers circled between your thighs like they belonged there.

He leaned up, mouth close to your ear, voice shredded and dark and sweet all at once.

"Don't think I didn't catch you starin' all those times," he whispered. "I saw you. Every fuckin' time. Pretendin' you weren't lookin' at me like that."

You whimpered. "Ben—please—"

He kissed your neck, hot and open, dragging his mouth to your jaw before his fingers slipped deeper again, pushing you right back toward the edge.

"You're mine now," he breathed. "Say it."

"I'm—" your voice cracked, breath catching as your body rolled with his rhythm. "I'm yours, Ben. I'm yours—fuck—"

"Damn right you are."

His hand worked you, two thick fingers buried to the knuckle, curling just right, dragging slick and slow along the gummy-soft spot that made your legs tremble and your vision blur.

You whined, body jolting, overstimulated and messy, the wet squelch of him working you open echoing between your thighs like something obscene. You were sitting in his lap, still wearing your soaked shorts pushed to the side, sweat sticking to your spine, chest bare and rising fast.

And Ben?

Ben was losing his fucking mind.

"Look at you," he growled, eyes locked on the way you clenched around his fingers. "Goddamn perfect. Can't believe I let him keep you as long as he did."

Your breath hitched.

He twisted his wrist slightly and your hips bucked forward, your hand scrambling for purchase on his shoulder.

"Fucked around with you for years," Ben kept going, tone low and dangerous, "draggin' you along like a fuckin' accessory, leavin' you sittin' at my table with those big eyes and polite little smiles while he couldn't even bother comin' home."

You moaned, shuddering against his chest.

"I used to sit there and wonder how the hell he pulled you," he muttered, "how the fuck a guy like that landed a girl like you. You'd laugh at my jokes, bring me beers, always check on me like I was the one you were comin' over to see."

He curled his fingers hard and you cried out, thighs trembling.

"And him?" Ben scoffed, kissed your throat, voice thick with rage and filth and want. "Little shit was too busy lookin' at himself in the mirror. Couldn't touch you right. Couldn't see you."

You gasped, hips rolling against his hand. "Ben—fuck—"

"I should've taken you off his hands two... three years ago," he hissed, mouth dragging wetly across your jaw. "Should've bent you over my goddamn kitchen table the second he walked out the door. Should've made you mine before he ever got the chance to waste you."

You whimpered.

"You like that?" He rasped. "You like hearin' me talk shit about him while I've got you drippin' on my fingers? That do somethin' for you, baby girl?"

You couldn't answer. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs twitching violently, your whole body trying to stay upright while his fingers ruined you.

"'Course you do," he growled. "Bet you've been fantasisin' about this. Bet you pictured me touchin' you while you laid next to him at night, wonderin' why it never felt like enough."

He pushed in deeper, faster, harder now, his hand slapping wetly between your thighs as your hips rolled helplessly with each stroke.

"Bet you touched yourself after comin' over here," he kept going, voice shaking. "Sat in your bed at night with your hand between your legs, wishin' it was mine."

You moaned, tears threatening the corners of your eyes.

Ben's mouth found your neck again, kissed you hard there, then muttered against your skin:

"Could've had this for years, baby. And you're tellin' me I waited for nothin'?"

You shattered.

You came on his fingers again, harder than before, your body arching, your hips grinding down as his hand kept moving through it, riding you out, coaxing it longer, slower, deeper. Your breath hitched in your throat, your moans broken and raw, and Ben just held you, let you shake in his lap while he watched you completely fucking fall apart.

"That's it," he breathed, almost reverent. "That's what you fuckin' deserve."

You were still catching your breath, chest rising against his, thighs trembling around his lap, when he slid his arms around your back and under your thighs, and stood. You yelped—more out of surprise than anything else—your arms flying around his shoulders to cling to him as he rose with you cradled against his chest.

Ben just grinned.

"Jesus," he muttered, low and amused, "you weigh fuckin' nothin'."

Your cheeks flushed. "Ben—"

He adjusted you higher with a flex of his arms, one hand spreading across the bare curve of your back, the other under your legs, and started walking toward the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like your bare chest wasn't pressed to his shirt, like your wet shorts weren't clinging to his soaked sweats, like you weren't still twitching from the orgasm he'd just pulled out of you with nothing but his fingers and a few choice insults about your ex... his son.

"I could keep you here forever," he murmured, voice close to your ear, just shy of reverent. "Right here. Right fuckin' here."

You whimpered.

Ben chuckled, pleased.

"Nah, don't start cryin' again yet," he said, kicking the fridge door open with his foot and grabbing a cold bottle of water from the shelf. "You need to hydrate first."

You blinked at him, head resting limply against his shoulder, and mumbled, "Hydrate?"

He looked down at you, raised an eyebrow, then grinned.

"I'm plannin' on dehydratin' the fuck outta you, sweetheart."

You let out a sound between a laugh and a moan, breathless and half-delirious, pressing your face to his neck to hide the way your whole body went hot all over again. He smelled like sweat and sex and his own damn ego, and you were pretty sure you were melting into him with every step.

Ben carried you out of the kitchen without so much as a stumble. Past the guest room. Your eyes fluttered open as he started up the stairs.

"Where're we—"

"My room," he said simply.

You swallowed.

It hit different. Not dirty. Not even shocking. It felt... final. And you liked it.

He carried you through the doorway and nudged it shut with his foot, crossing the room in a few heavy strides before sitting down on the edge of his bed—still holding you. Still wrapped around him like you belonged there.

You did.

He leaned back just slightly, adjusting you until your knees were bracketing his hips again, and handed you the bottle of water.

"Drink," he ordered, but it came out warm, like a grin was tucked in the word.

You obeyed without question, twisting the cap and taking a slow sip, your hand shaking just enough for him to notice. He watched you the entire time, eyes flicking between your lips and your throat as you swallowed.

"Good girl," he muttered, brushing a hand over your hip. "Need you hydrated if you're gonna keep screamin' for me like that."

You nearly choked.

Ben grinned, shameless, his hands resting easy on your thighs.

"That's right," he added, quieter this time. "You get comfortable. You're not leavin' this bed unless I carry you out again."

You whimpered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, voice lower than before.

"And I'm not carryin' you anywhere for a while."

Ben didn't give you a chance to move.

Once the bottle was mostly empty and your breathing had steadied—just barely—he curled one arm around your waist, twisted at the hips, and eased you down into the pillows like you weighed less than his temper. The sheets were cool against your back, but the pillows?

They smelled like him.

Leather and smoke and sweat and something woodsy underneath—familiar and overwhelming and male. You sank into them like you were sinking into him, chest still bare, thighs still shaking.

Ben hovered over you for a moment, eyes dragging down your body, slow and greedy, until they stopped between your legs. At your soaked shorts.

He smirked. Then he met your eyes again, lazy and dangerous.

"Jamie ever eat you out?"

You choked on the last of your water. Actually choked. The bottle sloshed and your mouth snapped shut in panic as a splash of cold water spilled down your chin and throat. You coughed, sputtering, eyes wide as Ben let out a deep, amused laugh and leaned in with the hem of his shirt, wiping gently at your face.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he said, mouth curved like he was so damn pleased with himself. "I just asked a question."

You squeaked.

He dabbed the wet spot on your chest, then dragged his knuckles down your sternum like a man testing your heart rate.

"Well?" He asked, still grinning. "Did he?"

You stammered, half-horrified, half-falling apart. "I—I mean... yeah. Sometimes. But not really. He didn't... he didn't like it."

Ben went silent.

Then scoffed. Loudly. Dramatically. He rolled his eyes, muttered a string of curses, and then—like he couldn't believe what he was saying—shook his head and sat back onto his heels at the foot of the bed.

"Unfuckin'believable," he grumbled, hands already at your waistband. "Raised a goddamn pussy."

You blinked down at him, stunned.

"Who the fuck doesn't eat pussy? What the hell else is he doin' with his time?" He slipped his fingers beneath the band of your shorts, tugging slow as he went. "Christ on a damn cross. No wonder you were always walkin' around here all tense and twitchy."

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something, but he had already peeled your underwear down with your shorts and tossed them both to the floor like they'd offended him.

His eyes dropped to your centre. And stayed there.

Ben let out a low, feral-sounding hum, head tilting slightly as he just looked—slowly dragging his gaze up and down your folds, glossy with arousal, lips swollen, twitching under the air of the room.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. "Prettiest pussy I've ever seen and the little shit didn't even touch it?"

He shook his head again, muttering, "Fuckin' criminal."

You stared at him. Breathless. Legs open. Shaking.

And he just kept going. As casual as someone picking a movie on a Friday night.

"God, you poor thing," he murmured, hands firm on your thighs now, spreading you wider as he settled between them, stretching out on the bed like this was something he did every morning. "No wonder you're so fuckin' needy."

"Ben—"

"I'm gonna fix that, baby," he said, voice lower now, rasp scraping the base of his throat. "Gonna make this sweet little cunt forget he ever existed."

He kissed the inside of one thigh. Then the other. Then, still staring up at you through his lashes like a goddamn animal ready to worship something he planned on ruining, he said:

"Real men eat pussy."

And lowered his mouth to yours.

Ben didn't ease into it. One second you were laid out beneath him, bare and trembling, thighs spread wide on his bed—and the next his mouth was on you, dragging hot and open over your folds like he'd been starving for it. Tongue heavy, lips soft, hungry.

You gasped—head falling back, hips jerking—

"Oh my God—Ben—"

He growled into your cunt like the sound of his name made him harder, the low rumble vibrating through your core, sending sparks up your spine. His hands came up to grip your thighs, spreading you even wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh like he was holding you open for the damn altar.

His tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds before circling your clit—lazy at first, then more pointed. Focused. Like he already knew exactly what you needed.

You whimpered, squirming, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair.

He groaned—loud—like your taste was better than anything he'd ever had in his mouth.

"Fuck, baby," he muttered, voice muffled against you. "You taste like goddamn candy."

Your legs trembled. Your hips bucked up into his mouth and you tried—tried—to get words out.

"Ben—wait—Ben, you need to—"

He didn't. He did not wait. He just doubled down, sucking your clit between his lips like he owned it, one hand slipping under your thigh to tilt your hips just right while his tongue worked you with slow, devastating intent.

"F-fuck—Ben—please—"

You felt it rising—faster than it should've, already threatening to break. And with it came panic. Breathless, stuttering panic.

You writhed, trying to push at his shoulder.

"Ben—fuck—you need to put a towel or something down—"

He froze.

Not stopped—his mouth was still right there, warm breath ghosting over you—but he lifted his head just enough to look at you, brows drawn together, one eyebrow cocked like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Why?" He asked, voice muffled by your pussy.

You went crimson.

Your hand flew up to your face, your body tensing in pure mortified horror as you mumbled through your fingers, "I—I'm a squirter."

Silence. You peeked through your fingers.

Ben's eyes darkened. Then he sat back slightly on his heels, both hands still on your thighs, and looked so deeply offended you almost started laughing.

"You're tellin' me..." He blinked. "You're sittin' here drippin' wet, legs spread, and about to fuckin' squirt—and Jamie didn't spend his goddamn life down here?"

You choked on your breath, half-laugh, half-moan.

Ben shook his head, dragging his hand down his face. "Christ almighty. I didn't raise a son—I raised a disappointment."

And then—he dove right back in.

You yelped, hips jolting as he devoured you this time, tongue moving faster, more focused, lips wrapping around your clit with obscene wet suction while his hands held you down like he was anchoring you in a storm.

You cried out, head thrashing against his pillows, the burn behind your eyes building and burning and rising.

"Go on," he growled between licks, fingers slipping inside and pressing just right. "Be a good girl. Make a fuckin' mess on my face. Show me what that pussy was meant to do."

Your whole body tensed, your back arching off the bed.

"Ben—Ben—fuck—"

"Do it," he hissed, licking deeper. "Come all over me. Ruin my fuckin' sheets."

And then—

You broke.

With a strangled cry and a full-body twitch, it hit. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking off a cliff, and your thighs shook as the flood let loose—gushing against his mouth, coating his lips, his chin, his beard, the sheets beneath you.

Ben didn't pull back. He groaned—actually groaned—and kept licking like he wanted every drop, dragging his tongue through the mess with a filthy, reverent sound you'd never forget for the rest of your life.

When he finally came up for air, his beard glistened, his eyes were black, and he looked—insatiable.

"Yeah," he panted, licking his lips. "That's mine now."

Ben crawled up your body like he owned it.

His beard scratched against your inner thigh on the way, still damp from your release, his breath hot as he moved—hands wide on the sheets, arms caging you in. His eyes were black with it, hair mussed, chest rising like he'd just run five miles uphill. You could still feel the wet cling of his mouth on your skin.

Then his lips caught yours.

And he kissed you.

Deep. Slow. Wrecked. Tongue heavy in your mouth, dragging across yours with a low, hungry groan that made your toes curl into the sheets.

"You got no idea what you've done to me," he muttered against your lips, voice wrecked. "I'm about to fuck your brain outta your head."

You whimpered.

He grinned—smug, feral—and reached down between you, hand wrapping around his cock, dragging the head through your folds. You weren't sure when he'd lost his sweats, but you were completely fine with it.

You gasped, twitching beneath him.

His eyes flicked up. "Jamie use a condom?"

You blinked. Flushed. Nodded. "Y-Yeah. Always."

Ben's brow ticked.

"Good."

You swallowed, breath catching. "I'm on birth control," you whispered. "And... clean."

He stilled. Lifted his head. Raised an eyebrow. "Doll," he said, tone dry as sin, "you askin' me for something?"

Your whole body flushed hot.

"I just—I mean, if you—"

He dragged the thick head of his cock through your folds again, slower this time. You whimpered, legs twitching.

"Uh-uh," he said. "Use your words."

Your breath hitched.

He slapped his cock against your clit—once, twice—and you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he rasped, voice wrecked and teasing all at once. "You want me to fuck you raw, you say it."

You looked up at him—wild-eyed, wrecked, trembling.

And whispered, "Please, Ben. I want you to fuck me raw."

He groaned—deep, guttural—and then without another word, he slammed into you.

You cried out—high and gasping, back arching off the bed as he bottomed out in one long, thick stroke. He filled you to the brim, stretched you open, held you there.

"Oh fuck," he muttered, head falling to your shoulder. "Jesus Christ—you're perfect."

You moaned, hands clawing at his arms, your body twitching around him.

"This pussy," he gasped, hips pulling back and slamming into you again, "this fuckin' pussy is mine now."

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just gasps and broken moans and the stretch of him inside you, thick and hot and bare.

He rocked into you again. Then again.

"I should kick that little shit out," he growled, pace quickening. "Make this your room. My girl. My fuckin' house."

You moaned—loud, wrecked.

"You'd like that, huh?" He panted, lips brushing your jaw. "Move in with daddy. Let me keep you like this every night."

You clenched around him and he groaned, hips stuttering.

"Goddamn, baby," he hissed. "You've got the best fuckin' pussy I've ever been in—swear to fuckin' god—"

You cried out again as he hit deeper, harder.

"Can't believe he wasted this," Ben snarled, voice cracking. "Can't believe I waited this long. You're mine now. Say it."

"I'm yours," you gasped.

"Louder."

"I'm yours, Ben—I'm yours—"

"Damn right."

And he kept going. Fucking you deep. Bare. Like you were never leaving his bed again.

Ben was pounding into you now—hard, relentless, sweat slick between your bodies, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room like applause for the filth you were making together. His cock dragged deep with every thrust, hitting that spot again and again until your legs were shaking, your vision going soft around the edges.

You were crying out—loud, unfiltered, whimpering his name like a prayer you didn't mean to say.

And then—

He tapped your ass. Just a light slap.

You whined. High-pitched. Shaky. Immediate. Ben froze for half a second. Then made a sound—somewhere between a moan and a growl—and grinned.

"Oh," he rasped, eyes lighting up like you'd just handed him a fucking gift. "Oh, baby. That's what you like?"

Before you could answer, he grabbed your leg and hiked it high around his waist, holding it there as he started slamming into you again—harder now, rougher, angling just right so every thrust shoved your spine deeper into the mattress.

And he spanked you. Hard.

You screamed.

"Fuckin' hell," Ben groaned, sweat dripping down his neck. "You gonna cry for me now? Gettin' your pussy stuffed and spanked at the same time? Poor little thing doesn't know what to do with herself."

You sobbed a moan, delirious, barely holding on.

He smacked your ass again. Then again.

"You take it so fuckin' well," he hissed, and then—like it was the most casual thing in the world—he dragged two fingers up your cheek, tapped at your lips.

You opened your mouth automatically. He spat in it. Wet. Hot. His. You moaned around it, eyes rolling back. Ben leaned in, grabbed your face, and kissed you like he was trying to drink his own spit from your tongue.

Then he flipped you.

One second you were under him, boneless and raw—and the next you were on your side, his chest to your back, his arm under your neck like a pillow, and his other hand over your mouth, two fingers pushing between your lips again.

"You keep suckin' on my fingers like that," he growled into your ear, "I'm gonna come just from the fuckin' view."

You moaned, muffled and broken, his cock spearing into you from behind with deep, punishing thrusts that made your whole body jolt with every snap of his hips. His hand on your mouth tightened slightly, fingers still in, palm hot against your cheek. He was everywhere. Inside you, behind you, around you.

"Your fuckin' pussy," he snarled, lips dragging down your neck, "I'm in love with it."

You whined—embarrassed, feral, soaked.

"I am," he went on, unbothered. "Fucked it once and I'm already thinkin' about movin' you in, never lettin' you leave this bed."

His thrusts got meaner—snapping up into you with bruising rhythm, every word laced in possessive madness.

"You're gonna make an old man believe in love again," he growled, "and that's your fuckin' fault."

You were trembling, stuffed full, drooling around his fingers, losing your mind.

He nuzzled the side of your face with something dark and reverent, and whispered, "This pussy's the only thing I believe in now, baby. You hear me?"

You moaned, nodding frantically.

He bit your shoulder. Then kissed it. Then fucked you harder. Ben was groaning into your ear, words tangled in breath and sweat and raw hunger.

"Such a good fuckin' girl," he panted. "Takin' it so good. Lettin' me ruin you like this."

You were gone. Mindless. Babbling—wet sounds pouring from your mouth as your thighs shook and your body writhed against the press of his chest to your back.

"I love it," you whimpered. "I love it—I love it, Ben—please don't stop—"

He chuckled—dark and obscene—like your incoherence was a reward.

"Yeah, you do," he growled. "Love gettin' split open by me, huh?"

You nodded, cried out, tried to say yes, but it came out as a slurred little sob of a sound.

He pulled out suddenly—your whole body twitching at the loss—and flipped you like you weighed nothing, dragging you on top of him, straddling his cock with shaky legs and blown out eyes.

"C'mon," he murmured. "Ride it, sweetheart."

You whimpered, trying—your hands on his chest, your hips rocking down—but you were too far gone. Your limbs weren't working right. Your thighs trembled and your arms buckled, and you nearly collapsed onto him with a breathless, desperate cry.

Ben just laughed.

"Aw, look at you," he cooed, cruel and sweet at once. "Fucked out already. Useless little thing."

He flipped you back again—hard this time, landing you flat on your back and slamming back into you in one brutal stroke that made you cry out.

"Don't worry, baby," he rasped, breath hot against your throat. "I'll get you ridin' me someday. Gonna train that pretty little pussy 'til you can take it on top like a fuckin' champ."

You sobbed—whiny, shaking, babbling more of his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say.

He groaned into your neck.

"Fuck—you keep clenchin' like that and I'm not gonna last."

You whimpered, nodded, legs wrapped around his waist tight enough to bruise.

"What?" He asked, grinning as he fucked into you deeper. "That little nod mean something?"

"I—I want it inside," you stammered. "Please, Ben—want you to come inside—"

Ben snapped. He buried himself to the hilt, chest pressed to yours, and growled so deep it shook your bones.

"You want me to knock you up, baby?"

You gasped, nodded again—fucked out, soaking wet, wrecked.

He dragged his mouth down your jaw, lips brushing your ear.

"Didn't have you pegged for that kinda girl," he rasped. "Want my fuckin' cum inside? Want me to fill you up and watch it leak outta you?"

You moaned—high and broken.

Ben rutted into you harder now, faster, one hand slipping between your legs to rub fast circles over your clit, making your whole body twitch and arch beneath him.

"God damn—you're gonna make me come," he snarled. "Gonna shoot it so deep you won't stop thinkin' about it."

"Please—Ben—please—"

"Maybe I should knock you up," he hissed, filthy and grinning. "Raise this one right."

You sobbed, body locking up—

And he came. Hard. Hot. Groaning into your throat as he fucked you through it, hips rolling slow and deep as he emptied every last drop inside you.

"Take it," he muttered, still thrusting. "Take all of it. So fuckin' good for me."

The room was hot with sex and sweat and the weight of everything you couldn't say yet. Your chest rose in ragged little gasps as you blinked up at the ceiling, vision hazy, muscles limp and twitching beneath the weight of Ben's body still draped over yours.

His breath ghosted against your collarbone, damp and heavy.

He was still inside you.

And you felt it when he finally, slowly, pulled back—soft and slow, like he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. The drag of him made you whimper, slick and sensitive, your thighs twitching as the stretch faded and left only heat and a slow, sticky ache behind.

Then you felt it: a slow trickle of warmth slipping down between your legs.

Ben caught it. He reached between your thighs, dragged two thick fingers through the mess leaking out of you, and pushed it back in with a low, satisfied growl.

You gasped, whole body flinching.

He pressed a lazy kiss to your mouth, then pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "That's a problem, sweetheart."

You blinked, dazed. "Wha—what is?"

He slid his hand up to your waist, palm splayed over your side.

"How bad I want it to stay in you."

You whimpered.

Ben chuckled.

"Don't worry," he whispered, dragging his mouth along your jaw, "I'll put more in later. We should get some rest."

You didn't respond. You couldn't. You were mush—soft and ruined and humming with overstimulation—and he knew it. He kissed you again anyway, slow and warm, nothing like the way he'd fucked you just minutes earlier.

Then he peeled himself off the bed, bare and golden in the lamplight, stretching like a man who'd just finished a workout.

"I'm gonna get us some water," he said, reaching for his sweats but not bothering to pull them on.

You nodded, lips swollen, barely breathing.

He started toward the door, and just as he reached it, he paused—one hand on the frame, head turned just slightly. A slow, wicked grin curved across his mouth.

"You know," he said, voice low and amused, "I should've fucked you in Jamie's bed."

You let out a horrified little squeak, dragging the pillow over your face with a muffled, "Ben!"

He laughed—deep and delighted.

"Next time."

And then he walked out, bare-assed and smug, disappearing down the hall like a man who had nothing to hide and everything to claim. You peeked out from under the pillow just in time to watch him go—broad back, muscled legs, that obscene swagger of his hips.

And all you could think—while his cum still dripped down your thighs and your body hummed with everything he'd done to you—was I'm fucked.

And you were. In every way.

You didn't know what woke you. Maybe it was the creak of the stairs. Maybe it was the sharp click of the front door locking, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of boots too light to be Ben's.

But the second it registered, your entire body went cold.

You were still tangled in the sheets—naked, used, filled to the brim with Ben's cum. His arm was slung low around your hips, his chest warm against your back, breaths slow and even against your neck.

You stiffened.

"Ben," you whispered, nudging his wrist. "Ben. Ben."

He groaned low in his throat, shifting behind you. "What?" He mumbled, voice wrecked and sleepy. "You want more already, greedy girl?"

Your face lit on fire. You smacked a hand over his mouth, hissing, "Jamie's home."

That woke him up.

Sort of.

His eyes cracked open just enough to register the situation, and he exhaled slow through his nose, dragging the sheets up with one arm and tucking them tight around you like he was shielding treasure.

"Then be quiet, sweetheart," he muttered, voice dry. "Daddy's got this."

You barely had time to sink beneath the covers, tucking yourself between his side and the mattress, heart slamming in your chest, before there was a soft knock on the door.

Then it opened.

"Hey, you up?" Jamie's voice. Light. Cautious.

Ben didn't move much—just cracked one eye, rubbed a hand over his face, and grunted, "Barely."

You could hear Jamie take a step into the room. The floorboard creaked near the end of the bed. You pressed your face to Ben's hip, barely breathing.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Jamie said. "Just came to grab some tools from the garage."

Ben snorted. "At 5 a.m.?"

There was a pause.

"Didn't sleep much," Jamie said, his voice tight.

Ben exhaled hard. Then: "You're a fuckin' braindead little prick, you know that?"

Jamie let out a tired little scoff. "Jesus, Dad."

Ben didn't move. Just let the silence stretch.

"You let a girl like her go," he said eventually. "Never understood how you pulled her in the first place."

You froze under the covers.

Jamie was quiet.

"She wasn't all that," he muttered.

Your breath hitched.

Ben went still. You felt it—his hand tightening ever so slightly on the sheets. But his voice stayed level.

"Right," he said. "Not all that."

There was another pause. Then the sound of Jamie shifting, maybe starting toward the door—but he stopped again.

"Why are there two water bottles?" He asked.

Ben didn't miss a beat. "Woke up thirsty," he grunted. "Had one, finished it. Got another."

Jamie didn't answer. You heard him hover for a second too long. And then—finally—the creak of him leaving. You didn't breathe until you heard the click of the front door again. Then you pushed the covers down and surfaced—face flushed, heart pounding.

Ben was grinning. Smug and half-awake, pillow creases on his cheek, hair a disaster, still glowing from the night before. He looked over at you and reached a hand out lazily to drag you back toward him.

"Next time you're suckin' my cock while he's in the next room," he murmured into your mouth, voice like gravel and smoke, "if you really wanna see me lose it."

You whimpered. Whined. Buried your face in his neck. He just chuckled—deep and low—and kissed the top of your head like a reward.

You were wrecked. Messy. Sticky. Still dripping. And absolutely, completely, irreversibly—

Fucked.

a/n: I'm not even sorry... this entire thing is just smut. Seriously, I warned y'all. This fic... I'm ovulating, okay? I have no other explanation for this. Love it though. Anyways, I really hope y'all like. I'm wrestling with a part three, but honestly? I kinda just love this as is. We'll see, it wouldn't take much convincing. LMAO. Let me know what you's think. 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 @mochminnie <3

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

don't lie to me

part I

Pairing: Boyfriend's!Dad!Ben x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend's been treating you like shit for too long, and tonight? Is the straw that broke the camels back. Lucky for you, his dad is around to comfort you.

Warnings: 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.

Word Count: 7,131

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

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

inviolable

part II

Pairing: Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ben has been distant since that night, and you've been growing restless. Your dad has decided to throw one of his impromptu Sunday barbecues, one of the ones that Ben always attends. And you're gonna show him exactly what he's been missing.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben is his own goddamn warning, age gap, pining/mutual pining, forbidden romance, forbidden relationship, secret/hidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, possessiveness, jealousy, smut (clitoral stimulation, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, dry humping, p in v, kissing, spitting), dirty talk, mild misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,848

A/N: CHRIST. This one made me feel things. I honestly can't deal with the whole 'forbidden romance/relationship' trope, it gets me fucking going. I know y'all been waiting around all day for this one, and I can only apologise for how long it's taken me to get it out. I had a ton of laundry and stuff to do around my house. Guess one of the cons of getting my passion for writing back is the fact that I let my housework fall into entropy so quick. Thank you for all your support, and thanks if you read part one and this part all the way through. Feel free to give me any feedback. <3 All the love.

Without further ado: INVIOLABLE

There are things in this world meant to remain untouched. Sacred things. Hallowed things. Bound by blood, by time, by unspoken law. To trespass against them is to court ruin—to lay hands upon the inviolable and feel the weight of the world shift beneath your feet.

Some doors are never meant to be opened. Some lines are never meant to be crossed. Some names are never meant to be spoken in the dark, breathless and trembling, as hands that should never touch find purchase in forbidden places.

But the thing about forbidden things? They don’t stay untouched forever.

You were gone.

Completely. Utterly. Gone.

Ben’s fingers were too deep, too perfect, too relentless—sliding in and out, curling just right, fucking you open, stretching you, working you closer to the edge with every filthy, practiced stroke.

And his mouth. His mouth was ruining you.

His hand was still fisted in your hair, gripping the back of your neck, holding you there, keeping you pressed against him as he kissed you like he had no intention of letting you go.

Wet. Deep. Ruining.

Your jaw slackened, spit pooling, mixing with his, slick and messy, stringing between your lips when he pulled back just enough to speak—

"You’re fuckin’ droolin’, Lamby," he muttered against your lips, grinning when you whined.

Your body clenched around his fingers, slick dripping, soaking his hand, making filthy, obscene noises every time he fucked them back into you. You whined again, high-pitched, wrecked, a fucking mess in his lap.

And Ben just grinned wider.

"Christ, you’re a fuckin’ mess, huh?"

His fingers buried deep again, pressing hard against that gummy spot inside you, and your entire body seized.

"College boy wouldn’t have known what the fuck to do with this."

You shuddered.

"He’d have fumbled with you like a fuckin’ idiot—"

His fingers fucked into you harder, sharper, faster, obscene and wet and so, so slick.

"Wouldn’t have even known where to put his hands, would he?"

You whimpered, high and helpless, lips parting, breath catching against his mouth.

"Bet you’d have let him, though."

You shook your head.

Ben chuckled, dark, teasing, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as his fingers slowed to a deep, devastating press, stroking against the spot that had you seeing fucking stars.

"Bet you’d have let that fuckin’ pussy get you all worked up—"

His thumb slid up, pressed against your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

"—just to lay there, disappointed, pretendin’ you came so you wouldn’t hurt his fragile little ego."

You whined, wrecked, body tightening around his fingers.

"That what you want, darlin'?"

You shook your head again, desperate, panting, moaning as his fingers curled inside you again.

"No?"

Another stroke, another press, another perfect, unbearable roll of his wrist.

"That why you’ve been battin’ those big eyes at me?"

You nodded, whimpering into his mouth, hips rolling down, seeking, chasing, needing.

"That why you’ve been paradin’ around in those little fuckin’ cut-offs, actin’ like you don’t know what you’re doin’?"

His teeth caught your bottom lip, sucking, tugging, groaning into your mouth when you clenched up around his fingers.

"That why you’ve been temptin’ me, huh?"

Your thighs shook, your stomach burned, your whole body locking up as you got closer, closer, closer—

"You need a proper fuckin’ man to teach you this shit?"

Your head dropped forward, forehead knocking against his, moaning, shaking, losing it.

"That it, Lamby?"

His fingers worked faster, sharper, his grip on your neck tightening.

"You need me to teach you?"

You nodded, whining, wrecked, incoherent.

"Then fuckin’ come for me."

And that was it.

You broke. You came so fucking hard, body arching, a long, broken moan spilling into his mouth as you gushed around his fingers.

And Ben?

Ben swallowed it all. Groaning, sucking your tongue into his mouth, licking into you, filthy, desperate, unrelenting. His fingers kept working you through it, not stopping until you were shuddering, boneless, gasping against his lips, shaking in his lap. And when he finally pulled his fingers free, soaked and glistening, slick dripping down his knuckles—

He brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean.

Then he groaned. Deep and low, a sound that vibrated through his chest, something guttural and wrecked, something that made your whole body quiver in his lap. His eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back against the couch as his fingers slipped from his mouth with a slow, obscene pop.

You watched. Trembling, wrecked, staring as his tongue dragged over his lips, collecting every last trace of you, like he was savouring the taste. Like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking had.

Like he was starving for more.

"Gonna show you," he muttered, voice gravel-thick, eyes slitting open, burning into yours.

A pause. A breath.

"—how real men eat pussy."

Your mouth parted, a shuddering exhale slipping from your lips, body already throbbing, aching, begging for him to just move. You opened your mouth to respond—

But he was already moving. Fast. Unrelenting. Immediate. One second, you were in his lap—the next, you were on your back, spine sinking into the couch, legs sprawled open beneath him. Your breath hitched, the world spinning, your fingers scrambling to grasp onto his shoulders as he pressed his mouth to yours again, groaning against your lips.

Hot. Wet. Messy. He kissed you deep, unhurried, dragging his tongue over yours, swallowing every little whimper you made.

Then—his lips trailed lower. Slow. Methodical. Deliberate. He kissed down your jaw, hummed against your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse point, sucking, nipping, soothing the sting with the heat of his tongue.

His hands—palms wide, warm, rough—smoothed down your sides, gripping at your curves, grabbing at you like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Your dad’s old t-shirt—the one you’d thrown on just to be comfortable, to be cozy, to relax—was pushed higher, higher, higher.

And then—his mouth found your chest.

Even through the thin, worn fabric, you felt the heat of him, felt the wet press of his tongue as he licked over your nipple, felt the sharp, delicious scrape of his teeth before he sucked over it, groaning low against you.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice muffled, vibrating against your skin. "So goddamn responsive."

You whimpered, hips shifting, body thrumming, pulsing, desperate for more.

But then—a sharp sting. You gasped as his palm cracked against the inside of your thigh, the heat of it spreading, pulsing, your whole body jerking from the impact.

"Better keep fuckin’ quiet," he warned, voice rough, commanding, low.

Your breath shuddered. You nodded.

Ben just smirked against your stomach. Then, lower, lower, lower. His mouth ghosted down the soft expanse of your belly, his lips dragging, his tongue licking a hot, filthy stripe up the centre, slow and deliberate.

You twitched beneath him, writhing, helpless, gasping when he pressed a wet kiss just above the waistband of your panties.

"That tickles—" you started, voice hushed, breathless.

Ben just laughed. A soft, deep, filthy sound.

"Yeah?" He mused, smirking against your hip, his fingers already curling into the band of your panties.

A pause. A glance up. His eyes locked onto yours, dark, wicked.

"That’s real fuckin’ cute."

And then—he slid your panties down your legs.

You shivered, body flushing hot, but before you could even process the exposure, the vulnerability, the sheer fucking filth of it—

Ben pocketed them.

Your breath hitched.

"Addin' these ones to my collection." A pause. A smirk. And then—his voice dropped. Low. Dark. Unforgiving. "Try to keep as still as you can."

You opened your mouth to respond, to snap something back, to challenge him—but the words died in a sharp, broken whine.

Because Ben latched onto you. No hesitation. No teasing. No mercy. His mouth sealed over your clit, lips sucking, tongue flicking, hot and wet and devastating.

You cried out, body arching, hands flying down to his hair, tangling in it, gripping, pulling.

And Ben just groaned.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ."

His voice was wrecked, muffled against your cunt, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he spread them wider, shoving them apart, holding you open for him.

"Wanted to do this for so goddamn long."

His tongue flattened, licked a thick, slow stripe up the centre of you, before his lips sealed around you again, sucking, drinking you down, making a mess of himself.

And you were gone. Shaking, writhing, clutching at him, gasping, whimpering, falling apart under the sheer weight of his mouth.

And Ben?

Ben just held you down and kept eating. Because Ben was ravenous.

There was no hesitation, no mercy, no restraint. Just his mouth, hot and wet and relentless, lips dragging over your slick, tongue lapping you up like he’d been starving for it.

Like he needed this more than air. Like he really had been waiting years. And you—

You were coming apart. Shaking, trembling, panting like you were praying for something, anything to ground you, but there was nothing.

Nothing but his tongue, his fingers, his teeth, his groans vibrating against your cunt, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you thought he might leave bruises. And then his fingers slid inside, slow at first, dragging against your walls, stretching you, filling you, pressing deep, curling just right.

And you jerked. A choked little gasp falling from your lips, your spine arching, your nails scratching against the cushion beneath you.

"Better be quiet now." His voice was low, gravel-thick, wrecked, smug as all hell. "Or your daddy’s gonna hear you."

Your breath hitched. Your head tilted down, half-lidded, dazed, desperate, trying to blink up at him.

"Wha—"

You never got to finish. Because Ben latched onto you again. Sucked, hard. Curled his fingers. And you saw fucking stars. Your whole body seized, stomach clenching, toes curling against the cushions, the sofa, the air, hands tugging at his hair because it was too much, too much, too much—

"Ben—I—oh, fuck—"

But he wasn’t stopping. He knew it was too much. He knew you were trying to scramble back, trying to escape, thighs trembling, legs squeezing around his head, hands pulling at his hair.

But he just growled. Deep, low, like he was enjoying the struggle. Like he was enjoying ruining you. Like he wanted you wrecked beyond repair.

And then—it happened again.

Your body broke apart, wrecked and overstimulated, your moan catching in your throat, nothing but breathless gasps spilling past your lips.

And still—he kept going. Kept licking, lazily now, dragging you through it, through the aftershocks, through the overwhelming pleasure, through the shaking, the trembling, the wreckage.

And you—

You were flat against the couch, mouth slack, panting up at the ceiling like you were praying to some unseen force to save you.

But there was no salvation here. No mercy. Not from him.

Because finally—finally—Ben pressed one last kiss against you. Then leaned back, wiping at his beard. And when you tilted your head, half-lidded, wrecked, chest heaving, trying to focus on him—

There he was. Smirking. Smug as sin. Looking at you like he’d just had the best fucking meal of his life. Like he’d never tasted anything better. Like he was already planning when he’d get his next bite.

And you didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t know how to respond, how to think, how to even fucking move. So you just stared at him, wide-eyed, body boneless, raw, ruined.

And then, barely above a whisper—

"Thank you."

Soft. Sweet. Breathless.

And Ben’s smirk turned into something darker. Something deeper. Something insatiable.

Like he hadn’t even gotten started.

Ben’s hands pressed into your thighs, keeping them open, keeping you pinned down beneath him, spread wide, shaking and wrecked, ready for more. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, about to dive back in.

"Ain’t done with you yet, Lamby—"

But then—a creak. Upstairs. A single, sharp, tell-tale groan of floorboards beneath shifting weight. And everything—everything—stopped. Ben’s body locked up, his muscles going rigid beneath his shirt, frozen between your thighs, his breath caught sharp in his throat.

And you could do nothing but stare down at him, wide-eyed, panic flooding through you, heart pounding against your ribs so hard you swore he could hear it.

Another sound. Footsteps. Retreating toward the upstairs bathroom.

Your fingers tightened in the cushions beneath you, your breath slow, careful, straining to hear, neither of you daring to move. And Ben just stared. Right at you. Right into you. His mouth was still wet, still slick, still glistening with you, his beard damp, his fingers twitching against your legs like he didn’t know whether to move or stay fucking still.

You both just waited. Another sound. The toilet flushed. A moment later, footsteps again—closer this time.

"Hey—" Your dad’s voice, calling your name from the top of the stairs.

 Your whole body seized. Your stomach plummeted, breath stalling, throat closing.

Ben’s hands flexed, his grip tightening, his body still between your thighs, his head tilting up ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, lips parting like he was about to tell you what to do—

And then he nodded. Sharp. Subtle.

Answer him.

You swallowed. Tried to force the panic from your voice. "Yeah?"

Silence. Then—

"Ben still here?"

Ben nodded. Slow. Measured. You cleared your throat, fighting the breathlessness, forcing your voice steady.

"Yeah—uh—he's still here."

A pause. Your dad grunted. "Alright. Lock up after him."

Another pause. Footsteps. A door shutting. Floorboards creaking again. And then snoring. Loud, immediate, unrestrained, the same deep, throaty rumble you’d heard every night for years.

It was over. The moment had shattered, sharp and ugly, jagged edges slicing through the heat. Ben sat back slowly, carefully, bracing his hands on his thighs, exhaling hard through his nose.

And then—he shook his head. Once. Twice. His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. Just sat there for a second, staring past you, staring at the floor, at the couch, at his hands.

You swallowed again, throat dry, head spinning, your stomach still tight, still pulsing with the ghosts of what had just happened. Slowly, you sat up, pulling your dad’s old T-shirt back down over your thighs, hands smoothing over the fabric, trying to shake the lingering sensation of his hands gripping you open.

And Ben ran a hand through his beard. His jaw flexed, his brows furrowed, his shoulders tight. His eyes flicked toward the window, distant, as if he could still feel the weight of you against his mouth, as if he was already regretting it. And then, voice gruff, low, sharp—

"Shouldn’t have fuckin’ done that."

A pause. A breath. His hand curled into a fist on his thigh, his jaw ticking once, his whole body still heavy with heat, but his eyes were clouded now—dark, unreadable, guarded. Like he was forcing a wall back up, shoving something down, willing himself back into the version of himself that didn’t just bury his face between your legs like he was dying for it.

And you—

You weren’t sure what you felt. Because you were still panting, still warm, still aching for more. But something had shifted. Something was different now. Something had cracked, but instead of breaking apart, it was sealing shut.

And you didn’t know how to stop it.

Ben exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed himself up, heavy hands wiping slow over his jeans like he was trying to rid himself of the feel of you. His palm dragged over his mouth, his jaw flexing tight, shoulders rolling like he could shake it off, but you could see it in him, the way he was still caught in the moment, still feeling it.

He grabbed the half-drained beer from the table, tipped it back, chugged the rest like a man putting out a fire in his throat, then set the bottle down with a sharp clink that made your stomach clench.

And then—his eyes dropped to you. Serious. Stern. Final. You swallowed, opened your mouth. His hand shot up. A sharp flick of his wrist.

Stop.

Your mouth snapped shut.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, weight shifting from one foot to the other, that wall between you building brick by brick, barricading him from what he just did, from the fact that he’d fucking devoured you like a starving man and almost—almost—fucked you right there on the couch while your dad slept upstairs.

His voice, when it finally came, was rough. Gravel scraped against steel.

"I don’t regret anythin'."

Your breath hitched. Your stupid, desperate heart tried to twist it into something hopeful.

"But it ain’t happenin' again."

That hope curled in on itself, blackened at the edges.

You blinked, trying to process, trying to understand, but your chest felt tight, too tight, and all you could do was shake your head, because why? You knew he wanted it. Knew he still wanted it. Knew he was fighting himself, fighting this, and it was infuriating.

"Why?"

Ben scoffed, short and sharp, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe you’d even asked. Like the answer should be so fucking obvious.

"Jesus Christ, kid. You’re my fuckin' goddaughter."

You clenched your jaw.

"And?"

His head snapped toward you, eyes flashing, breath catching like you’d just hit him with a hammer.

"And?" He repeated, voice low, disbelieving, the sharpest thing you’d ever heard. "And I've known you since you were in fuckin' diapers. I've watched you grow up. I shouldn’ta fuckin' touched you. Shouldn’t have let you—" He broke off, exhaling hard, rubbing a hand down his face. "I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you."

Your stomach dropped.

"You didn’t take advantage." The words shot out, urgent, desperate, sharp. You sat up straighter, fought past the lump in your throat, because you needed him to understand. "You didn’t—Ben, I’ve had a crush on you since I was—"

"Shut up."

The command was low, firm, final.

You blinked up at him, breath shuddering in your lungs.

"It ain't fuckin' happenin' again," he repeated, voice like iron. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch, snatched up his smokes with a sharp, jerky movement, like he just needed to get the fuck out.

Your throat burned. You didn’t even know what expression you were making, but Ben felt it. Saw it.

"Don’t give me that look." His tone was sharp. Almost cruel. A preemptive strike. A warning.

You swallowed it down.

And then he was turning. Walking toward the door, broad shoulders tight, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You watched him go, barely breathing. The door creaked open. He stepped outside. The night air rushed in—cool, biting, thick with the scent of rain and cigarette smoke.

He climbed into his truck. Started it. And then—he was gone. No glance back. No second thoughts. No lingering hesitation.

Just gone.

And you stood there, legs still trembling, the ghost of his hands still on your skin, wondering what the fuck you’d just done.

The worst part wasn’t that he left.

It was the way he acted afterward. Like nothing happened. Like it hadn’t meant anything.

That first time he came back—just a few days later, lounging on the couch with your dad, watching baseball, drinking a beer—he barely looked at you. Just a quick, clipped, Hey, kid, before turning back to the screen. You felt it then, the first sting of it, like a slap to the face you hadn’t been expecting.

Then the weekend came, and he was back again—this time helping your dad with the truck. You brought them both a beer, and Ben muttered a low Thanks, sweetheart—but he didn’t look at you. Just twisted the cap off, tipped it back, chugged half in one go, then disappeared under the truck again, like you weren’t even standing there.

A week passed. Then another. And another.

Each time he came around, it was worse. A nod. A fleeting glance. A quick word to acknowledge your existence and then nothing else.

It made your stomach churn, your hands clench into fists at your sides. Because how the fuck could he sit there, in your dad’s house, where he had spread you open with his hands, his mouth, his fucking teeth, and pretend like it hadn’t happened?

Like he hadn’t felt it too.

And now? Now, it had been three weeks.

A hot, sticky Sunday. Sweat beading at the nape of your neck, thighs sticking to the chair. Your dad had thrown together an impromptu barbecue—because that’s what he did, always had, always would. A few of his buddies loitered around the grill, their voices blending together, talking about war stories and how much better beer tasted in the summer. A few of their wives sat on the patio, sipping wine, fanning themselves with old magazines, laughing about some gossip from town.

But Ben?

Ben wasn’t here.

You hadn’t even seen his truck roll up. And that? That was pissing you off even more than his avoidance.

Because he always came to these. Always showed up for your dad, always sat in that old lawn chair with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smirking and rolling his eyes at the same tired jokes they’d all told a thousand times.

But today? Today he was nowhere.

You exhaled sharply, setting your drink down with a little more force than necessary, eyes darting toward the driveway. Nothing.

Your fingers curled against your bare thigh, nails pressing against the heat-flushed skin.

He was avoiding you. Really avoiding you. And you were fucking done pretending not to notice.

The late afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky, thick and golden, stretching long shadows across the yard. The heat clung to your skin, sticky, oppressive, making the condensation on your beer bottle all the more tempting against your palm. Laughter and easy conversation rolled through the backyard—your dad’s friends nursing beers, flipping burgers, tossing around their opinions on which team would win the league like old, worn-out playing cards.

And you?

You were perched at the grill beside your father, your tiny cut-offs riding high on your thighs, the tight little vest clinging to you, the delicate lace trim along the hem adding just enough softness to catch the eye. His eye.

If he even had the nerve to look.

Because Ben still wasn’t here. And that fact alone had your stomach coiled tight, your jaw clenched behind each polite sip of beer.

You weren’t sure which was worse—the way he’d been avoiding you for weeks, acting like nothing had ever happened, or the fact that you still wanted him to look at you.

And then—

The sound of tires crunching over gravel.

Your fingers flexed against your beer bottle. Slowly, you turned, heart hammering even though you already knew. The driver’s side door swung open first. And there he was.

Ben stepped out, broad, imposing, every inch the same bastard who had ruined you three weeks ago and left you stewing in it. The sun caught in his hair, burning gold into brown, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the damn good shape of him under that fitted white tee. The sight of him alone was enough to light a fire in your chest—but then the passenger door opened.

And she stepped out.

No.

Your grip tightened around your beer.

She was exactly how you remembered her. The perfect kind of effortless, all long legs and glossy hair, the kind of woman who knew she looked good and didn’t have to try. She stepped up beside him, one hand curling possessively around his arm, looking up at him with that soft, familiar fondness that made your teeth clench.

Ben barely reacted, just exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at his jaw before leading her up toward the grill where your dad—and you—were waiting.

Your chest burned. You knew he was saying something to her, but all you could hear was static.

And then—

"Okay, hon."

The words sent a white-hot bolt of rage through you.

She pressed a slow, easy kiss to his lips before swaying away, off toward the patio where the other wives sat nursing their own drinks, welcoming her with lazy, knowing smiles.

Ben just stood there, hands settling on his hips, not even fucking looking at you.

Your father snorted. "’Bout time you fuckin’ showed up." His eyes flicked toward the woman who had just drifted away. "Why’d you bring her?"

Ben rolled a shoulder, casual. Too casual.

"Just keepin’ things casual this time."

Casual.

Your stomach turned. Your fingers itched to throw your beer at his fucking head. Instead, you breathed through it. Smoothed the lace trim of your vest. Kept your face carefully pleasant as you took another slow sip, the chilled beer sliding down your throat, washing down the burn of your rage.

Fine. If he wanted to act like this was nothing, then so could you.

"Daddy?"

The moment the word left your mouth, you felt it.

A shift.

It was small at first, subtle—the way Ben exhaled through his nose, the way his shoulders stiffened just a fraction.

But you weren’t done.

You let your fingers graze along your father’s arm as you turned to him, deliberately sweet, the same saccharine tone you’d perfected over the years, the same tone you knew worked him like a charm.

"Do you need any help?"

Ben still wasn’t looking at you.

Good.

"Need me to grab more ice?"

Your dad hummed, reaching for his beer. "Yeah, could probably use some. But finish up your drink first."

"Or I could make up some lemonade, Daddy?"

The words were too soft, too pretty, too damn innocent.

And this time? Ben looked. His head tilted just the slightest bit, his gaze flicking toward you, landing heavy on your legs, lingering on the hem of your shorts before snapping back up.

That was all you needed.

Victory.

You held his stare for a second too long, letting your mouth curve into something just shy of smug before turning your attention back to your father, pretending you hadn’t even noticed.

But you had.

And now?

You were going to spend the rest of the night reminding him that you weren’t the only one suffering.

It played out over hours, stretched thin over the hot Sunday air, coiling tighter with each passing moment.

You played the role well—the doting daughter, the ever-helpful presence, the sweet, saccharine thing running around the backyard like you weren’t doing it all for him.

The lemonade?

Made with extra care. Stirred slowly, poured sweetly, handed out with a soft, practiced smile—the kind that made the older men chuckle and the wives murmur about how well your daddy raised you.

The beer?

Always ready, always delivered with a light touch to a shoulder, a too-pretty "Here you go, Daddy", never once acknowledging the way Ben was watching you.

Because he was watching.

Even when he tried not to. Even when he kept his focus on his beer, on your father, on the fucking game on the television inside—he was watching.

You felt it every time you moved. Every step. Every shift of your hips. Every time you bent just a little more than necessary to set something down.

And he?

He stayed silent. Stayed still. Drank more than usual.

But you could see it.

The way his fingers gripped the neck of his beer bottle a little too tightly. The way his jaw clenched every time you laughed just a little too sweetly. The way he exhaled hard through his nose when you brushed against one of the younger guys hanging around the grill, your hand featherlight over a shoulder, your voice dripping honey.

And then—

The evening settled.

Your father, the other men, the women—all gathered, seated, loose with drinks and conversation. Laughter curled thick in the humid air, mixing with the low hum of crickets, the scent of charcoal and beer lingering in the warmth of the night.

You took one last slow sip of your drink, then set it down with delicate finality.

And then you locked eyes with him.

Ben.

Seated in his usual lawn chair, legs spread wide, shoulders taut beneath his white tee, his beer bottle hanging loose between his fingers, gaze heavy, unreadable.

You let a slow, smug little smile creep across your lips. Then you lifted an eyebrow—just a fraction.

A silent challenge.

Then—you turned, slipping inside without a word. The door to your bedroom was almost shut when it happened. The sudden, solid weight of his boot, jamming it open.

Your stomach flipped, but you barely had time to react before he was inside—pushing the door shut behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.

And then—the lock.

Your breath caught. Big hands on you. Fast. Rough. Commanding. A firm grip on your lower back, pulling you flush against him—against the solid heat of his body, against the scent of beer and cigarettes and something darker, something unmistakably Ben.

Your lips barely had time to part before—

"You fuckin’ little tease."

His voice was a low growl, the deepest, roughest thing you’d ever heard, curling hot and sharp against the shell of your ear.

You smirked. Smug. Victorious. Exactly how you wanted to feel. Because this was what you wanted. This was what you worked for. So you tilted your chin up, let him feel the way you smiled against his jaw, let him feel just how much you knew you’d won.

"Took you long enough."

Ben made a sound—low, sharp, dangerous. And then—

His fingers curled into your waist, firm, bruising. And in one quick, effortless motion, he had you pressed back against the wall.

The breath rushed from your lungs.

His hips slotted tight against yours, pinning you. His hands—bigger than you remembered, hotter than you remembered—gripped your thighs, keeping you right where he fucking wanted you.

"Yeah?" He breathed it against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. "That what you wanted, Lamby? Huh?" His fingers dug in, dragging you up against him, against the hard press of his cock. "Wanted me to fuckin’ follow you inside? Wanted to see how far you could push me?"

Your smug little smile faltered. Because he was seething. Seething with three weeks of pent-up frustration, with three hours of being played like a goddamn fool.

"You think you’re real fuckin’ cute, don’t you?" His voice dropped to a rasp, low and knowing, his fingers dragging slow along the edge of your tiny fucking shorts. "Swayin’ around in these little fuckin’ things, all eyes on me, beggin’ for it."

Your breath hitched. "Y-yeah," you whispered, barely able to get the word out. Because fuck.

He chuckled, but there was no humour in it.

"Not so fuckin’ smug now, are you?"

Your stomach flipped.

His hand slid up your thigh, gripping tight, holding you in place. His mouth brushed along your jaw, his breath hot, teasing, lethal.

"Go on, Lamby." A pause. His thumb traced the hem of your shorts, so fucking slow. "Tell me how bad you wanted this."

You felt the hard cut of his breath, the way his hands flexed against your thighs, the steel tension coiling tight beneath his skin. The air between you snapped taut as a live wire, the smirk still curling on your lips like you hadn’t just thrown gasoline on the fire.

But then Ben laughed. Low, rough, dark. Not a sound of amusement. A sound of realisation.

"You really are a fuckin’ brat, huh?"

His grip tightened. And then, suddenly—he was moving, his hands sliding to your hips, gripping you tight, shifting your weight, pressing you higher up against the wall.

"Gettin’ all smug ‘cause you got me here, ‘cause you spent all goddamn day prancin’ around like a little cocktease—"

Your breath hitched. Because holy fucking shit.

He rutted into you, slow, deliberate, the thick press of him grinding hard against the tiny shorts you should’ve worn just a little fucking smaller.

"‘Oh, Daddy, do you need any help?’" He mocked, voice dropping to a mean, syrupy drawl. "Need me to grab more ice, Daddy? Want me to make some lemonade, Daddy?"

You flushed hot. Because he knew. He fucking knew you’d been playing him all day. And now? He was playing you right the fuck back.

"You're an ass," you bit out, panting now, pressing your hands against his shoulders like you could push him away, like you weren’t grinding down against him right back.

Ben grinned. A wicked, sharp thing.

"‘Course I am, sweetheart."

His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you against him, his cock pressing thick and heavy through his jeans, his breath hot against your jaw.

"You think I didn’t know?"

His lips ghosted against your neck, not quite a kiss, just heat, just a taunt.

"Think I didn’t fuckin’ notice?"

He rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, just to hear your breath stutter.

"You spent all goddamn day beggin’ for it."

And fuck, he was right. But you weren’t going to tell him that. Instead, you smirked, because you still had the upper hand. You still had the last move.

"You wanna know something?" You murmured, voice soft, teasing, sliding like silk over the heat of his skin.

Ben’s brows twitched. His jaw tightened. But he didn’t pull back. Didn’t move.

"I’m not wearing any panties."

That was it. The final straw. The last fucking match on an already burning house. Ben let out a sharp, harsh breath—then dropped you. Not gently. Not carefully. Just let you slip from his hands like he couldn’t fucking stand to keep holding you up.

And then—

"On your fuckin’ knees."

Oh.

The floor hit your shins before you even fully registered the words, heat flashing white-hot down your spine, through your stomach, pulsing between your legs.

Because he sounded different now. Not teasing. Not playful. Not even angry. Commanding. Rough. Like a goddamn order.

Your fingers fumbled, shaking with anticipation, trying to get to his belt, to the button of his jeans, but he just laughed. Mean. Cruel. Too fucking knowing.

"Oh, now you’re in a hurry?"

Your breath shuddered out of you, heavy, desperate.

"Ben—"

"Nah," he cut you off, tilting his head, smirking as he watched you struggle with the buckle. "You wanted to act all high and fuckin’ mighty all night? Gettin’ me all wound up, makin’ your little fuckin’ show out there?"

Your fingers finally got the buckle undone, got the button popped, yanking at the denim, but he just chuckled, dragging it out, watching you get impatient, desperate—

And he slapped your hands away, fisted his cock and slapped it against your cheek. The sound was sharp, obscene, the weight of it heavy, hot against your skin.

Your mouth parted. Your thighs pressed together. Your lungs stopped working.

"Open fuckin’ wide, darlin'."

Your lips parted—instinct, desperation, pure fucking submission.

And Ben?

He took his time.

Gripping the thick base of his cock in one hand, your jaw in the other, tilting your head just how he wanted. Holding you there, holding you still, making sure you felt it—the weight of it just against your tongue, just pressing inside, inch by inch, so slow it was fucking torturous.

His breath caught, deep in his chest, his head dropping back for a second as he let out a low, guttural groan, his throat working, his fingers tightening against your jaw.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

It was a prayer and a curse all in one. A realisation. A confirmation of just how fucked he really was.

And then—

His head snapped back down, that mean smirk curling sharp against his face.

His hand left his cock, slid to the other side of your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hinge, holding you open just how he liked.

"This—"

His hips snapped forward. Hard. Brutal. All the way.

Your eyes went wide, gag reflex kicking up instantly, drool pooling hot and messy under your tongue, running down your chin, choking on the thick press of him.

Ben laughed. Low. Dark. Cruel.

"This is what you fuckin’ get for messin’ with my head all day, you know that?"

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, your hands gripping onto the backs of his thighs, nails pressing deep through the denim, trying to keep up, trying to fucking breathe—

"Aw, what’s the matter?" He taunted, mocking, smug, pressing his thumb against the bulge in your throat, feeling himself there, deep, buried. "Not so cocky now, huh?"

You hummed, desperate, needing more, and he felt it. Felt the way your thighs pressed tight together, the way you squeezed your legs, the way your whole fucking body trembled with need.

And Ben?

He groaned. Real, low, heady. Because god-fucking-damn.

"Good fuckin’ girl," he praised, but it was mean, condescending, dripping with something filthy. "Look at you. Suckin’ me down so good. Tryin’ so hard."

Your head went blank. Nothing existed except the stretch of your mouth, the wet heat between your legs, the way he tasted—

"Bet your little fuckin’ cut-offs are ruined, huh?"

You whimpered around him, fingers digging harder into his jeans, nails biting at denim, thighs clenching together like you could press away the ache.

"Goddamn," he hissed, voice wrecked, hips rolling forward, slow, measured, deep. "You were made for this, weren’t you, Lamby?"

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut, lost in it, floating, gone.

And then he pulled back. Fast. Sharp. Gone. A loud, wet pop, your mouth chasing after him instinctively, your breath heaving, spit slick and shiny across your lips, trailing down your chin.

His palm met your cheek. Not hard. Just a single, firm, condescending little pat.

And then, his voice, sharp, commanding, low:

"Get your ass on the bed."

A pause. A breath. His eyes flicked down, slow, heavy.

"And take those fuckin’ stupid shorts off."

You scrambled up from your knees, hands shaking, fingers fumbling as you yanked at your shorts, kicking them down your thighs, dragging them off in one frantic motion. Your vest followed, leaving you bare.

And Ben laughed. Mean. Smug. Fucking cruel.

"Look at you."

Your stomach clenched.

"Desperate little thing, huh?"

Your breath hitched, body flushing hot, hotter, the humiliation only making it worse, making it better.

Because this was Ben. The same Ben who had always been careful with you. Gentle. Protective. Doting. But not now. Now, he was watching you with something dark, something dangerous, something completely fucking unrestrained.

And you loved it.

You barely had time to clamber onto the bed, barely had time to settle, to breathe, to take in the fact that you were bare, waiting, spread out for him, before he grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head in one sharp motion, then shoved his jeans down with the same kind of impatience you’d had stripping your own clothes off.

And fuck.

Your stomach flipped.

All muscle. All heat. All rough, hard edges, broad shoulders, thick arms, that golden tan, that trail of dark hair leading down—

He caught you staring. Smirked. And then he moved. Up onto the bed, knee pressing between your legs, forcing them wider, crowding you, caging you in, lowering himself over you, covering you with heat and scent and weight.

His arm curled around your lower back, and suddenly—

You were airborne.

A soft, startled gasp broke from your lips as he hauled you up against him, completely lifting you off the bed, holding you there—skin to skin, chest to chest, stomach to stomach—before slamming you back down, hard, sinking his weight into you, his hips rolling slow and deliberate against yours.

Your head spun. Your lungs forgot how to work.

"Christ on a fuckin’ cross—" his voice was wrecked, half a growl, half a groan, his mouth crashing onto yours, hot and heavy and sloppy, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching on your bottom lip.

You whined, clawed at his back, nails digging into hard muscle, dragging down, desperate to keep him as close as possible.

He groaned, grinding his hips against the soaked heat between your legs, dragging his cock through your slick, teasing, torturing, making you feel every thick, heavy inch of him.

"Been wantin’ this, huh?"

Your head fell back against the pillows.

"Yeah," you gasped, breathless, ruined, needing.

"Yeah, I fuckin’ know."

His lips pressed against your throat, teeth grazing, sucking, biting, leaving his mark right there where no one else would see.

"You ready for this?"

His hand slid between your thighs, fingers brushing, teasing, feeling how soaked you were.

"Ben—"

"You sure, Lamby?"

Your stomach clenched, thighs trembling, body arching up into him.

"Yeah," you panted, nodding frantically, whimpering when he slid against you again, when his cock dragged slow and thick between your folds, coating himself in you.

And then his lips brushed yours again.

"That’s my good girl."

He lined himself up, and sank in. The first push in was slow.

Deep. Careful. Like he was testing you, testing himself, testing how long he could hold on before he lost every shred of self-control.

And fuck, you felt it. Felt the thick stretch, the deep, deliberate press of him sinking inside, inch by inch, forcing your body to open up for him.

Your mouth fell open, a breathless gasp tumbling free as your fingers clawed at his shoulders, dragging down his back, needing something to hold onto because your entire world was shattering around you.

"Jesus fuck—"

Ben’s jaw clenched, his arms caging you in, biceps flexing as he braced himself above you, his forehead dropping against yours for half a second as he fought to stay slow, to stay in control.

His breath shuddered, hot and heavy, his mouth hovering just above yours. "So fuckin’ tight, baby."

A low, wrecked groan rumbled from his chest as he pulled back just an inch, then pushed in a little deeper, hips rolling slow, controlled, torturous.

"You feel so fuckin’ good," he grit out, his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Fuckin’ knew you would. Knew you were made for me."

And God. That did something to you.

That flipped something inside you, sent something unraveling, burning, made you arch up into him, made you clutch at his shoulders, made your thighs squeeze around his waist, locking him closer.

Because this was Ben. This was your Ben. The only one you’d ever wanted, the only one who had ever mattered. And now? Now, he was inside you, surrounding you, filling you, owning you.

"Ben—"

Your voice broke, shattered, your nails biting into his skin, your body desperate for more, for everything, for him.

"Shhh, I got you," he murmured, low and soothing, his lips brushing soft against your cheek, against your temple, against the hinge of your jaw. "Gonna take such good care of you, baby. Gonna make you mine."

Your chest heaved, your heart pounding against his, wild and erratic, because fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—

And then he pulled back, and slammed in.

"Oh—oh fuck—"

Your body jolted, a sharp cry breaking free, your mind yanked back to the present, back to the way he was stretching you, filling you, wrecking you completely.

And Ben? Ben grinned. Mean. Smug. So fucking pleased with himself.

"Yeah?" He rasped, rolling his hips again, slow and deep, then slamming forward hard. "That what you needed, sweetheart?"

You whined, writhed, clawed at his back, needing more, more, more.

"Fuckin’ knew it."

His mouth was everywhere. Lips and tongue and teeth on your throat, on your jaw, on your cheek, sucking bruises into your skin, licking into your mouth, swallowing every desperate, wrecked little noise you made.

"Knew you’d take me so fuckin’ good."

His teeth scraped against your pulse point, his hands gripping your hips tighter, rocking into you, dragging himself through your slick, the obscene wet sound of it filling the room.

"My perfect little Lamby."

Your breath hitched, your head spinning, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding onto him like you’d fucking drown if he stopped.

"Always knew you were mine," he muttered against your throat, dragging his tongue over the mark he’d just left.

"Ben—"

"Say it."

"Yours—"

"That’s fuckin’ right."

Another deep thrust, his hips grinding down, dragging the thick, hard length of him against the most sensitive part of you.

"You’re mine, baby."

A kiss against your cheek.

"Always fuckin’ have been."

A lick at your jaw.

"And now?"

His lips brushed against your ear, voice dropping lower, rougher, darker.

"Now, you’re gonna let me fuckin’ ruin you."

His rhythm deepened, roughened, hips snapping against yours with punishing force, dragging deep, filthy sounds from your throat, sounds that barely sounded like you anymore.

His grip on your hip was hard, bruising, but the other hand? Gentle. A contrast. A contradiction. A cruel, beautiful juxtaposition. Because while he was wrecking you, pounding into you, splitting you open on his cock, taking you like he owned you—

His other hand cradled your cheek. Soft. Tender. Worshipful.

"So fuckin’ beautiful," he rasped, voice wrecked, ruined, breaking apart with every thrust.

And then warm spit hit your cheek, and his palm smeared it across your skin, rubbing it in, marking you, branding you.

A sharp, desperate moan tore from your throat, your hands clawing at his back, nails dragging over heated skin, your mind fogged, blank, gone.

And then—

His fingers flexed, slid down, wrapped around your jaw, holding your face in his hand, thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers gripping the other, forcing you to look at him, to see the hunger, the devastation, the pure fucking need carved into his features.

And then—

"Christ, I think I fuckin’ love you."

Everything. Stopped.

His hips never faltered, never missed a stroke, never lost rhythm—but your world shattered. Because fuck. Because holy fuck. Your stomach flipped, your heart stuttered, your head spun, because he wasn’t supposed to say that.

Because you thought it. Because you felt it. Because you had always known.

And that was it.

That was all it took. The words slammed into you, sent you spiralling, sent you over the edge so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You came instantly. Hard. Harder than you ever had before. Your thighs shook, your back arched, your breath caught on a sharp sob, your entire body clamping down around him, gripping, milking, convulsing with pleasure so sharp it almost hurt.

And Ben felt it.

"Oh, fuck—"

A low, wrecked groan tore from his throat, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking, his cock throbbing inside you, chasing after you, chasing after his own release.

But then—

"I gotta pull out," he panted, voice strained, breath uneven, muscles trembling from restraint. "Can’t fuckin’—"

You pouted.

And he laughed. A disbelieving little scoff, shaking his head, pressing a messy, wet kiss to your lips, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down before pulling away.

And he slid out, the loss of him making you whimper, already aching to be filled again—

His hand wrapped around himself, his fist moving fast, desperate, slick with everything you’d given him.

"Jesus—fuck—"

A deep, guttural groan, his head tilting back, his body shuddering as he finally let go, finally broke apart, finally unraveled completely. And he spilled hot over your stomach, painting you, marking you, panting like he’d just run miles, completely spent, completely ruined, completely fucking yours.

For a moment, there was only the sound of breathing. Harsh, heavy, wrecked.

Ben’s weight pressed into you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, broad chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat, his scent wrapped around you like something tangible, like something you could hold.

Your stomach was still messy, sticky with him, cooling in the humid air, your thighs trembling, your body still thrumming from everything he had just done to you.

And him?

Ben was still panting, still hovering above you, his face buried against the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing lazy, thoughtless kisses along your skin, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, even now.

Your fingers curled in his damp hair, nails scratching light against his scalp, soothing, grounding, loving.

And then your brain caught up. Your stomach flipped. Because oh, fuck. Because he had said it.

"Christ, I think I fuckin’ love you."

The words lingered, heavy, thick, pressing into your skin like bruises, like a brand, like something permanent.

You grinned. Wide. Stupid. Completely helpless against it. And before he could react, you moved. Fast.

You twisted out from under him, bracing your hands against his chest, pushing him back, laughing breathlessly as you tackled him straight onto the mattress, knocking the air from his lungs.

"What the shit—?"

His hands caught at your hips, steadying you instinctively, holding you close even as he fell back, head bouncing against the pillows, arms coming up to cage you in.

And you? You just curled into him, into his warmth, into the strong, steady weight of him. Your legs tangled with his, your arms wrapping around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest, the slow, steady thud of his heart beating against your ear.

Ben exhaled hard, like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or completely fucking undone by the way you were holding onto him.

And you kissed him. Not on the lips, but everywhere else. Little, fluttering, barely-there kisses. Along his jaw, against his cheek, into the rough, scratchy warmth of his beard. Soft, adoring.

And then—

"I don’t know if you meant that," you murmured, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, voice quieter now, tinged with something raw, something real.

Ben stilled beneath you.

You swallowed, heart pounding, fingers curling against his ribs.

"If it was just some spur-of-the-moment thing."

A beat. A pause. A breath.

And then—

You lifted your head, met his gaze. And told him the truth.

"But I love you."

His fingers twitched against your hips.

"I always have."

Ben exhaled hard, and smirked. Because of fucking course he did.

"Yeah?" He rasped, tilting his head, one hand sliding slow up your spine, the other curling possessively around your jaw, brushing his thumb against your lips.

You nodded.

He grinned. "That’s real fuckin’ good to know, sweetheart."

And he kissed you. Deep. Slow. Sweet in a way that almost hurt.

Because yeah—

Your dad was still outside. Everyone was still outside. And eventually? You’d have to go back out there. But for now?

For now, Ben was yours. And you were his. And nothing else fucking mattered.

There are things in this world that were never meant to happen.

Things that should have remained buried beneath the weight of time, of expectation, of unspoken rules written in blood and history.

Some lines were meant to hold. Some boundaries were meant to endure. Some names were never meant to be spoken like a prayer, gasped against heated skin, against lips that never should have met.

But the thing about inevitabilities?

They don’t wait for permission. They don’t care for consequence. They do not ask—they take, they claim, they make and unmake, until there is nothing left but the truth beneath the wreckage.

And the truth? The truth is that some things were never meant to remain untouched.

Not this. Not you. Not him.

Because the weight of the world had shifted beneath your feet long before either of you dared to fall.

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @sl33pylilbunny @drakulana (I so hope I haven't forgotten anyone. <3 pls let me know if I have!)

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

inviolable

part I

Pairing: Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ben's your dad's best friend, his partner in crime, your godfather. You've harboured a secret crush on him for years, and maybe—just maybe—he's got some hidden feelings of his own that he's kept bottled up for too long.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben is his own goddamn warning, age gap, pining/mutual pining, forbidden romance, forbidden relationship, secret/hidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, possessiveness, jealousy, smut (clitoral stimulation, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, dry humping, p in v, kissing, spitting), dirty talk, mild misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,741

A/N: I'm back. Christ, I'm on a proper mission with writing at the moment. Must be the insomnia. Thank god for it though, eh? Anyways... this is a little something that's been in my head for a long old time, it's based off a weird dream I had a couple months back (I was watching The Boys damn near constantly, like falling asleep with it on and everything, as well as reading a bunch of SB smut) and I just built on it, and it's kinda run away with me a lil bit. <3 Lot of the plot in this first instalment... plot is a term I use lightly. Because—what goddamn plot? Hope you guys like the little Sameo! (see what I did there? Cameo... but... Sam? No? Sorry.) So... this is part one. This one will definitely only have two parts... and knowing me, I'll have it finished by some time tomorrow night. So, yeah, while all the warnings listed above may not be evident here? They will be in the next part. S'gonna be a doozy. Until then? All the love.

Without further ado: INVIOLABLE

There are things in this world meant to remain untouched. Sacred things. Hallowed things. Bound by blood, by time, by unspoken law. To trespass against them is to court ruin—to lay hands upon the inviolable and feel the weight of the world shift beneath your feet.

Some doors are never meant to be opened. Some lines are never meant to be crossed. Some names are never meant to be spoken in the dark, breathless and trembling, as hands that should never touch find purchase in forbidden places.

But the thing about forbidden things? They don’t stay untouched forever.

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was always there, a quiet, undisturbed thing, like a seed buried deep beneath the soil, waiting for the right moment to break open.

Ben had been a constant for as long as you could remember. Your godfather. Your father’s best friend, his shadow, his second half in ways that made it impossible to imagine one without the other. There was no family barbecue, no holiday gathering, no Sunday spent in the backyard without him. He was always there, cigarette tucked behind his ear, beer in his hand, voice rough and low like gravel warmed by the summer sun.

And God, he had always been so handsome.

Even as a child, you’d thought so—before you even knew what handsome was supposed to mean. You just knew you liked looking at him, that your stomach flipped when he laughed, that you wanted him to notice you. And he always had.

Where your father had rolled his eyes at your endless energy, Ben had indulged you. When your dad had said no, Ben had smirked, crouched down, and let you climb onto his shoulders anyway, holding you steady as he walked around the yard like you belonged there, like he didn’t mind carrying your weight. He let you hang off his leg, dragging him down with your tiny hands locked around his knee, and he would walk anyway, his booted steps slow and exaggerated as he played along, dragging you through the grass while you shrieked with laughter.

And the gifts. The perfect gifts.

It had been your sixth birthday when he’d given you the lamb. A stupid little stuffed thing, soft and floppy-eared, but from the moment you’d unwrapped it, it had been yours. Clutched in your arms at bedtime, dragged through the house by one matted paw, tucked beneath your chin when you curled into your father’s lap.

"Lamby," you’d called it, with all the solemnity of a child bestowing a title upon something sacred. And it had stuck.

Your father’s friends had made it a joke—called you Lamby just to get a rise out of you, to tease you until you were red-faced and flustered. "Only Uncle Ben is allowed to call me that!" you would snap, every single time. And your father had only laughed, nudging Ben with a knowing grin, muttering something about his little admirer.

You hadn’t understood what that meant back then. You hadn’t known it was anything more than adoration.

But then puberty hit.

And the adoration didn’t go away. It just... shifted.

You told yourself it was still innocent. That it was normal to notice the way his arms looked in his rolled-up sleeves, the way he leaned against your father’s truck, the way his voice melted into you like whiskey and smoke. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything when you hated seeing other women near him. When he brought girlfriends to family parties, when they sat too close, when they ran their hands down his arm or pressed their lips to his cheek, it made your chest ache with something raw and unfamiliar.

He was yours.

Not in any way that made sense, but still. He was your Uncle Ben.

And then came the night after your eighteenth birthday.

You had been drunk. Slurring your words, tripping over the sidewalk, clutching your best friend’s arm as she tried—and failed—to keep you both upright. The thought of calling your father had been enough to send panic clawing up your throat, so you’d called the only other person you trusted.

He had picked up on the first ring.

And twenty minutes later, his truck had pulled up to the curb, headlights slashing through the dark, his expression set in something between relief and exasperation. He hadn’t lectured you. He hadn’t yelled. He had just sighed, tipped your chin up to look at him, and said, "This gonna become a regular thing, Lamby?"

And God, you had hated how warm that stupid nickname made you feel.

He had dropped your best friend off first, watching until she was safely inside, then pulled into your driveway and put the truck in park. He had glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim glow of the dashboard, fingers drumming against the wheel before he spoke.

"I can’t lie to your dad, you know."

"You won’t have to," you had promised, voice soft and a little too sincere.

And that had been enough for him. He had ruffled your hair, just like he always had, fingers threading through the strands before falling away. "Get inside, get some water, and go to sleep. No more stupid shit."

You had nodded, cheeks burning, throat tight. You had felt so young then, under the weight of his gaze. Too young. But you weren’t. And someday, he was going to realise that too.

Then came 4th of July weekend, the year you'd turned nineteen. 

The heat had been unbearable.

Thick and wet and heavy, clinging to your skin, making the air hum with something dense and slow-moving. The whole backyard had smelled like charcoal and cut grass, the acrid tinge of fireworks powder settling into the summer air as your dad and his friends—Ben included—set up the launch station.

You’d spent the whole day running back and forth between the house and the yard, fetching ice-cold beers, mixing up pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, your father muttering something about not letting his old ass friends drop dead from heatstroke. It should have been annoying, but you liked being useful, liked the way they all grumbled their appreciation, knocking back the drinks you handed them, sweat dripping from their temples.

And Ben? You’d liked it most when he reached for the glass.

The way his fingers had brushed yours, barely noticeable. The way he had tilted his head back, swallowing deep, Adam’s apple bobbing, before exhaling with a low groan. "Christ, Lamby. Think you saved my goddamn life."

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did.

But you had.

And now, as the sun dipped low, casting everything in burning gold, you were perched on the picnic table, watching them finish the setup. Your legs bare, thighs sticky from the heat, the denim of your cutoffs riding too high—not that you were about to fix it. Your father was barking out orders, directing Ben and the others, but you could tell they were moving slower now, the heat catching up with them, exhaustion weighing down their steps.

Then Ben sighed, slapping his hands against his jeans. "Goin’ for a smoke," he muttered, and without much thought, he came to rest right beside you.

Not on the bench, but on the table itself. Perched, ankles crossed, the slight shift of the wood beneath his weight making you acutely aware of how close he was.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, that earthy scent of sweat and sun-baked skin mixed with the cigarette as he lit it, fingers cupping the flame from the breeze before shaking the lighter closed.

And then—he glanced at you.

Just for a second too long.

Just long enough for your heart to stutter, for something low in your stomach to twist itself into a tight, hot knot. He looked away too fast, like he caught himself before it could mean anything, and it made you feel a little sick with wanting.

So you grinned, cocked your head, and asked, "Can I try?"

His reaction was instantaneous. A sharp scoff, a low laugh, and then—"Fuckin’ behave yourself."

Your breath hitched.

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did. But you did.

Something in his voice, in the rough scrape of it, made the air feel different. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or something else, but either way—your face burned with the heat of it.

You tried to brush it off, tried to act like it didn’t matter, but as he took another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the humid air, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d felt it too.

The fireworks had gone off like crackling constellations, splitting the night sky into pieces, blooming in colours that made your father’s face glow with the kind of pure, boyish joy that made your chest hurt. He had been beaming, beer sloshing in his hand as he threw an arm over one of his old friends, laughter bubbling from his chest.

The rest of them had been just as bad, slurring through old war stories, cheering every time another explosion thundered overhead.

You had slipped away at some point, away from the heat of bodies and the tang of sweat and liquor in the air. The mosquito lamp buzzed softly from the porch as you leaned against the railing, staring out into the yard, the scent of burning gunpowder still thick in the air.

Then—footsteps behind you.

Ben.

"Knew you’d be hiding somewhere," he muttered, already pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He perched on the railing, flicked his lighter open, and took a slow, deep drag. Then, without looking at you—without any warning at all—he pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it out.

"Just this once."

Your chest constricted.

For a second, you just stared at it—like maybe if you reached for it, you’d burn yourself on something else entirely. But he was watching now, eyes flicking sideways, and you didn’t want to look like a kid.

So you took it. Put it between your lips. Inhaled, tried not to cough.

Ben chuckled. "Look at you. Lil’ fuckin’ menace." Then—softer, lower, just for you: "Lamby."

That did something to you.

Something dangerous. Something hot and breathless and twisting, your whole body thrumming with something bright and stupid and electric.

Then, before you could even process it, he was holding out his beer. "C’mon. Might as well complete the set."

You took a sip, felt the cold bite of it trickle down your throat, the taste of smoke still lingering on your tongue. Ben watched, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, before he tapped his nose with two fingers and winked.

"Don’t tell your dad."

And just like that—he stood, stretching, rolling his shoulders before heading back toward the others.

You sat there, reeling.

Preening.

Because it wasn’t much, was it? Just a cigarette, just a sip of beer, just a joke. Except it wasn’t. Because it had been just for you. Because you’d felt seen in a way that made something curl and bloom in your chest.

And later, when the house was quiet—when the night was settled, heavy, deep—you still weren’t asleep.

The guys had been too drunk to leave, sprawled across couches, filling up the guest rooms, your father snoring loud enough to shake the goddamn walls. But you were still awake, still buzzing, still aching with something you couldn’t name.

And then—footsteps. Soft. Slow. Passing by your room. You watched the shadow slip under your doorframe.

And then—pause.

Just for a second. Not long. Not even long enough to be real. But you felt it all the same. The moment passed. The shadow moved on. The footsteps faded.

And still—you sat there for the next hour, face buried in your pillow, biting back the giddy, breathless, shaking laughter in your chest. Because whether it had been him or not, it didn’t matter.

You wanted it to be.

And when your first date had come around, you had been so excited.

Not the kind of giddy, fluttery excitement that made you feel small—no, this was something deeper, something that made you feel light on your feet, steady in your chest. It had been a long time since someone had noticed you like that, since someone had looked at you and seen more than just the girl they grew up around, more than your father’s daughter.

And Sam had seen you.

A guy from a couple of towns over, nice enough, awkward but in a way that had made you laugh, spilling beer on you at the bowling alley before immediately scrambling for napkins, his face red as he apologised over and over. He had stayed with you the whole night, ditching his friends without hesitation, choosing instead to sit in a dimly lit booth while the two of you talked.

Not just talked—really talked.

Folklore. Mythology. The things that made your brain buzz, the subjects you had been considering studying in college, but never quite voiced aloud to anyone who might take it seriously.

But Sam had taken it seriously.

He had leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, asking real questions, pushing deeper, not just humouring you, but actually listening.

And when he had asked you out, when he had ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck, waiting for an answer—

You had squealed. You had said yes immediately, heart skipping, stomach twisting, exchanging numbers before parting ways, feeling like maybe—just maybe—you were stepping into something new.

So tonight, you had dressed for it.

Your prettiest sundress, soft and light, swaying when you moved. Sandals, simple but delicate. You had done your hair, your makeup, catching your reflection before heading downstairs, thinking—"I look… grown up. Pretty, even."

The thought had felt strange, thrilling, like shedding something old, stepping into something undiscovered.

And then—you walked into the living room.

Ben and your dad were lounging on the sofa, beer bottles in hand, eyes fixed on the baseball game you hadn’t even realised was on. The room smelled like cologne and sweat, hops and leather, the low murmur of the commentators filling the space.

You had barely glanced at them as you passed, already reaching for your bag, when you said, "Sam’s gonna be here soon to pick me up."

And that was when Ben spoke.

"Who the hell is Sam?"

His voice had been flat, clipped, like he was barely paying attention—but then your dad answered.

"Some guy who asked her on a date. Seems like a good kid. Bit of a square."

You had opened your mouth to protest, to defend Sam, to tell your dad that being a square wasn’t a bad thing, when you felt it—

Ben’s eyes on you.

A slow, sweeping once-over.

Your breath caught, the moment thickening, stretching, twisting into something you weren’t sure you were imagining.

Then he turned back to your dad, muttered, "She’s too young to be goin' on dates."

And your stomach dropped. Not because you were embarrassed—no, because of the way he’d said it.

The rough edge to it. The way his fingers tightened around his beer bottle, the way his jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing where he leaned into the couch. It wasn’t some offhand comment—it was something else.

Your dad had only laughed, smacking Ben’s arm, shaking his head. "She’s twenty now, man. C’mon."

Ben didn’t answer. Not at first. Just took a long sip of his beer, eyes flicking back toward the screen, but not really watching.

And that’s when your heart started pounding.

Because your father had been fine with it. He had laughed it off, joked about it, made peace with it weeks ago.

But Ben? Ben wasn’t fine.

Ben was annoyed.

And you didn’t want to play things up in your head, you didn’t, but he was coming across jealous.

And that—that made your chest feel too tight, too warm, something curling behind your ribs, something you shouldn’t want as badly as you did.

Because Ben had never looked at you like that before.

Sam had been sweet.

That was the only way to describe him. Sweet. Earnest. Polite in a way that most guys weren’t. He had kept his hands to himself all night, opened doors for you, paid for dinner even when you’d offered to split, and had spent most of the drive home talking excitedly about a new book he thought you might like, glancing over at you every so often like he couldn’t quite believe you were still sitting beside him.

And maybe that’s why you let him walk you to the door.

Because it had been nice. Because he had treated you like someone special, not just a pretty girl, but someone he actually wanted to know.

You had stood there on the porch, shifting slightly, fingers curling around the strap of your purse as he leaned in.

Not too fast. Not too forceful. Just slow, like he was making sure you had time to pull away if you wanted to. And maybe you would have let him kiss you. Maybe you would have closed the gap, felt something soft, something simple, something nice.

But you didn’t.

Because the second your lips almost met—

The door swung open.

And there stood Ben.

Big. Broad. Muscular as hell. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, eyes hard and cold and fixed—not on you, but on Sam.

"’Bout time you got home, Lamby."

Your stomach dropped. Not because of the nickname, but because of how he said it. Because it wasn’t warm. It wasn’t teasing.

It was territorial.

And Sam? He felt it too. You could tell by the way he shifted his weight, by the way he glanced at you, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping back, voice soft, awkward.

"I had a great time."

"Me too," you said, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He hesitated, gave you a small smile, then turned, walking quickly toward his car, never once looking back.

You stood there, arms wrapping around yourself, watching the red glow of his taillights as he pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.

And then—you turned, crossed your arms tighter, and fixed Ben with a glare.

"What the hell was that?"

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He just… looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged over your bare legs, the hem of your dress, the soft slope of your throat, the lingering flushed heat of almost being kissed. His gaze swept slow, unhurried, deliberate, before finally settling on your face.

And his nostrils flared.

You shifted your weight to one leg, your jaw tightening, mirroring the way he stood, meeting him with a glare of your own.

And then—he scoffed.

"Get your ass inside," he muttered, stepping past you, brushing against your shoulder as he did, bigger than you, overwhelming in a way that made your stomach twist. "Before I tell your old man you were about to let some lanky fuckin’ two-pump chump feel you up on the doorstep like you’re easy or somethin’."

You bristled. Your whole body went rigid, something inside you snapping.

"If I didn’t know any better," you bit back, sharp, breathless, "I’d think you were jealous or something."

Not your wisest choice.

Because Ben went still. Not in a way that meant hesitation. Not in a way that meant denial. No—he stilled like a predator hearing its prey snap a twig.

Then—he moved.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. Slow. Unavoidable.

Stepping forward, backing you up against the frame of the doorway, dipping his head down just enough so his mouth was level with yours, so his voice coiled low and hot in the air between you.

"I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight," he murmured, so quiet, so rough, "but it sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You gasped. Your body locked up, breath hitching, eyes going wide.

And Ben just smirked.

Like he liked that reaction. Like he had wanted it.

Then—he straightened. Stepped back like nothing had happened.

"Better get upstairs, get into your comfies," he muttered, voice gruff, unreadable. "Come watch the football with me ‘n your dad. Or I’ll take you over my fuckin’ knee for the backtalk."

Your breath shuddered. You nodded. Wordless. Weak. Then you turned, stepping inside, feeling the weight of his eyes on your back as you headed upstairs—

And you knew.

You knew that nothing about tonight had been normal. That something between you had shifted. Twisted. Changed.

You took your time.

Stripping out of your sundress, pulling on one of your dad’s old t-shirts—soft, worn, faded, the fabric thin from years of washes, hanging loose over your frame. Bare legs, bare feet against the cool wood floors as you splashed cold water over your face, washing away the night.

Washing away Ben’s words. Or at least, trying to.

But they sat heavy in your head. The way he had looked at you. The low scrape of his voice, the bite of it, the way your whole body had locked up at the filth that had dripped from his mouth.

"It sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You shuddered, inhaled deep, let the cold burn of the water centre you before heading downstairs.

The game was still on when you walked back into the living room, your dad and Ben both where you had left them—sprawled out, half a beer deep, yelling at the screen like the players could actually hear them.

Ben saw you first.

His eyes flicked over you, quick, assessing, then—that nod. That slow, subtle nod to himself, like he was fucking appraising you. Like you were something to be measured, studied, cataloged.

You ignored the way it made your stomach twist.

Instead, your dad’s attention finally snapped toward you, and his brow furrowed.

"I been wonderin’ where the hell that shirt went," he muttered.

You just grinned, gave a smug little shrug, before nudging his leg with your bare foot, signaling for him to move over.

"Looks better on me, anyway."

Your dad snorted. "The hell it does." Then, before you could flop onto the couch, he smacked your foot away. "Grab a couple more beers before you park your ass."

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told, gripping the hem of the t-shirt and curtseying, voice sickly sweet.

"Yes, sir."

Then you saluted him, just to really drive it home.

"Fuckin’ wiseass," he muttered.

Ben just chuckled, deep in his throat, like he was trying not to laugh.

You disappeared into the kitchen, grabbed three beers, popped the caps off, and pressed two of them against your chest as you sipped from the one in your free hand, the glass cold against your skin.

By the time you returned, the game had picked up speed, your dad too distracted to care when you plopped the bottles down on the coffee table and threw yourself onto the couch between them.

"Could have moved your lazy ass, y’know," you muttered.

Your dad just scoffed, didn’t look away from the screen.

But Ben?

Ben side-eyed you, slow and heavy, and when he spoke—you felt it.

"Keep up the cheek, Lamby, and I’ll take that beer off you."

Your fingers tightened around the bottle.

"Don’t know what the fuck you’re so cocky about," he muttered, tipping his own beer to his lips, voice just this side of gruff. "Stealin’ one of my beers like I gave you any kinda permission to."

Your stomach flipped. But you didn’t let it show. You just sighed, long-suffering, exaggerated as hell, before taking another slow, deliberate sip, the bubbles sharp against your tongue.

And then—you settled. Leaning back, letting yourself sink between them, wedged in the space you’d claimed a thousand times before.

Except this time, it was different. Because this time, you felt Ben. Felt the heat of him, so close, so solid, so unignorable. And it took everything in you not to shiver.

Because even if you were watching the game—

He was watching you.

The game rolled on, the low drone of the commentators mixing with the occasional grumble, scoff, or sharp curse from your dad or Ben. You sat nursing your beer, the bottle cold between your palms, the sharp bite of it against your tongue as you stared at the screen, more focused on the way the room shifted around you than on the game itself.

Your dad was getting tired. You could tell.

He tried to pretend he wasn’t—hiding yawns behind his bottle, stretching in that slow, lazy way that meant his body was giving up on the night before his mind was.

You, on the other hand, were stretching out more. Slow. Casual. Your bare feet crossed at the ankles, propped up on the coffee table, legs long and catching the glint of the TV, skin warm under the flickering glow.

And Ben noticed.

You felt it, even if he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached for his cigarettes, shaking the pack once before holding it out toward your dad.

Your father just waved a lazy hand, shaking his head. "Not for me, but might as well light one up in here. Don’t drag your ass outside on my account."

Ben just nodded. Grunted. Then—he lit up, fingers steady, bringing the cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his lips as he inhaled, slow and deep.

The scent hit you instantly—smoke and something deeper, something heavy and masculine, something that made the air feel too thick.

Then your dad yawned—loud and unrestrained.

"Shit, I’m beat," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’ll gimme a ring tomorrow or somethin’, tell me how it ends?"

Ben just grunted again, smoke curling from his mouth as he nodded.

Your dad turned to you next. "Lock up after him when he heads out, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," you murmured, waving him off.

He just rolled his eyes before disappearing upstairs.

And then—it was just you and Ben.

You went to shift over, to slide into your father’s now-empty spot, but—

Ben clicked his tongue.

Your breath hitched.

Not because of the sound—but because he didn’t even look at you when he did it. Just sat there, lips still wrapped around his smoke, one arm swinging lazily over the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed, commanding.

"Stay put."

So you did.

But the shift in weight, the pull of gravity, had you falling into his side—your shoulder brushing up against the heat of his broad chest, pressing up into the space right under his arm.

And that was when it hit you.

The smell of him.

The mix of soap, sweat, beer, and smoke, clinging to his skin, wrapping around you like a hand at the base of your neck. It made your head feel light, your skin too tight, your thighs press together just a little too much.

You took a sip of your beer, trying to steady yourself, trying to act normal.

And then—without really thinking, without really meaning to—you turned to him.

"Can I have a puff?"

He scoffed. Didn’t answer right away. But that was fine, because you were already reaching up, already plucking the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to your own before he could stop you.

And when you took a slow, deep drag, before reaching up and placing it right back between his lips—

The eye contact?

Was fucking unbearable.

The kind of slow, steady hold that made the air thick and stifling, the kind that felt like something physical pressing against your chest.

Your lips curled into a slow, shit-eating grin. And then—you exhaled. Blew the smoke right into his face.

Ben didn’t move. Didn’t react. Not at first.

Just let the smoke roll between you, let the weight of it settle as he stared right into you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark, unreadable.

And then—he smirked, slow and knowing, that cocky, heavy-lidded thing that made your breath hitch even though you refused to let it show.

"You’re fuckin’ trouble."

You just smiled, all sweetness and venom, voice syrupy smooth.

"Learned from the best."

His expression twitched—just a fraction. He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face, before finally pulling the cigarette from his lips. His fingers curled around it loosely, letting the smoke rise, twisting in slow tendrils toward the ceiling.

Then—his voice dropped.

"Nah."

His eyes dragged down over you, slow, tracking every inch. His gaze stopped at your thighs, where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, baring just a little too much of your skin.

Then lower. Down your legs, down to your feet.

"I mean it," he murmured, voice gravel, something heavier lurking beneath it. "You are trouble."

Your mouth went a little dry. But you tilted your chin up anyway, feigning innocence.

"Oh yeah?"

He hummed, a slow, lazy sound, before shifting in his seat.

"Didn’t like the way you looked at me earlier."

That threw you. Your brow furrowed, beer bottle cooling between your palms.

"What?"

His jaw ticked. He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, exhaling through his nose.

"After that little cocksucker left," he muttered, voice low, cutting, "you looked at me with a sharp little glare. Didn’t fuckin’ like it. Not one bit."

That made your lips twitch.

"Maybe that’s because you were acting like an overbearing ass."

The moment the words left your mouth—

His palm cracked against your bare thigh.

Not hard. Not painful. But sharp. Sudden. Enough to make you yelp. Your whole body jerked, legs snapping together, feet moving off the coffee table—

But before you could fully pull away—

Ben grabbed them. Big hands, rough hands, curling around your ankles as he shifted you in one easy movement, and the momentum sent you falling back against the arm of the couch, spine hitting the worn fabric, breath catching in your throat.

By the time you realised what had just happened—your feet were pinned in his lap. And he was staring at you. Sharp. Knowing. Unreadable.

Your stomach flipped. You squinted at him, eyes narrowing in accusation, your body already on edge, already tense. Because you knew. You knew exactly where this was going.

And Ben knew you knew.

His smirk shifted—turned into something smug as fucking sin. And then, he moved. His free hand dragged along the sole of your foot, fingers skimming, featherlight. A slow, deliberate touch.

Your whole body jolted.

"Ben—"

His fingers danced over your skin again, dragging across the arch of your foot—and you burst into laughter. Sharp, breathless, uncontrollable.

"Shove off, you big asshole—"

He only chuckled, voice gruff, satisfied.

"Better keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered, pinning your feet harder, his other hand relentless as he tickled along your soles, grinning as you squirmed. "Or your old man’s gonna come down and bust some heads."

You tried to snap your foot back, tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too big, too fucking relentless.

"Dad’s snoring like two bears having a fight up there—" you gasped between giggled curses, thrashing uselessly. "Not even a nuclear blast’d wake him right now—"

Ben let out a bark of laughter.

"Christ," he muttered, still grinning, his fingers raking over your skin again, making you kick and writhe. "You got a fuckin’ mouth on you."

You writhed in his grip, half-giggling, half-breathless, your muscles burning from the struggle as he pinned your feet down like it was nothing. Like you weighed nothing.

"Gonna fucking kill you," you gasped, still kicking uselessly, your ribs aching from the laughter that you hated, that you didn’t want to be enjoying as much as you were.

"Oh yeah?" Ben drawled, voice low, amused, unbothered as hell. "You ‘n what army, Lamby?"

Your frustration surged, and before you could think—before you could talk yourself out of it—

You got a leg free.

And with one smooth, defiant movement, you lifted your knee, stretched your leg out, and pressed your toes against his jaw, pushing his face away.

"This one," you muttered, breathless, still flushed from the tickling.

And for a second, everything stopped. Because Ben froze, his fingers locked around your ankle, catching it before you could pull away, holding it there.

And then—his gaze dragged down your leg. Slow. Deliberate. Lazy in the way that only meant he was taking his time.

You felt it.

Felt his touch, felt the way his fingers tightened, felt the way his eyes swept over your thigh, over your skin, the places where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, the hem curled high from how you’d been squirming—

And then, he saw.

His stare landed on the place between your thighs, on the thin, soft fabric of your panties, barely visible from the angle you were sitting at.

And your entire body lit on fire. Your stomach plummeted, heat spreading up your spine, over your chest, over your face, until you felt like you were glowing under his gaze, burning under it.

And Ben sucked in a sharp breath.

One second. Two.

Then, suddenly, violently, he shoved your leg back down, his fingers gripping too tight for a beat too long before letting go.

He sat up straighter, bracing his elbows on his knees, reaching for his beer like it was the only thing in the room that made sense.

The bottle tipped against his lips. He took a long pull, his throat working, his jaw tight, his whole body stiff.

You just stared at him. Stared at the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his fingers twitched against the glass, the way he muttered something too low to catch, barely audible under his breath.

And you wanted.

You wanted so fucking bad—

To crawl into his lap, to trace the sharp edge of his jaw, to tangle your fingers in his hair, pull, make him look at you the way you needed him to.

Because he looked so fucking good like this. Like a mountain of a man, big and broad and sturdy, something you wanted to climb, sink onto, plant your flag in.

Your fingers tightened around your own beer bottle.

You tipped it back, taking a long drink, letting the liquid burn its way down, grounding yourself, steadying yourself.

Then—without a word—you shifted, leaning forward to set the bottle on the table, before settling back into your new spot.

Your feet still in his lap.

Ben didn’t react. Didn’t flinch at the contact, didn’t shove you off. He just watched the game. And after a moment, his hand—big, warm, heavy—started rubbing absentmindedly over the arch of your foot.

The game had all but faded into background noise.

The occasional roar of the commentators, the distant sounds of the crowd—none of it mattered. Not when his hands were on you. Not when he had been absently kneading his thumbs into the arch of your foot for the last ten minutes, rolling slow circles into your skin, his grip firm, practiced, easy.

You could feel the rough heat of his callouses, the way they pressed just right, the way his fingers flexed, working the tension out of your muscles like it was second nature.

And he wasn’t even thinking about it.

That was the best part.

Ben was just sitting there, cigarette balanced between his lips, rubbing slow, absentminded strokes over your skin while he watched the game, like he hadn’t once stopped to consider how fucked this was.

So you smirked.

"Let me bum one."

His fingers paused. Then—a glare. Sharp, lazy, warning.

"Cut it with the fuckin’ lip."

But you weren’t done. You tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice turning syrupy-sweet.

"Oh, come on, Uncle Ben..."

That made his jaw clench.

"Let me bum one," you pressed, pouting, teasing, just to see how far you could push. "You know you wanna."

And then, just to twist the knife—

"Corrupt me a little bit."

That did it.

Ben sucked in a sharp breath, something dark flickering through his eyes, his whole shoulders locking up—

And then his cigarette fell. Right into his lap.

"Shit—!"

He jerked upright, cussing, ash scattering over his jeans, pushing your feet off his thighs, slapping at the embers, brushing at the fabric as he snatched up the cigarette and stubbed it out fast in the ashtray.

You should have felt bad. You didn’t. Because you saw it. The shape of him. The press of something thick and stiff against his thigh. And suddenly—your whole body went hot. Because you weren’t imagining it. He was affected.

You were getting to him.

Your stomach coiled tight with satisfaction, your pulse thudding at the base of your throat, and you barely even thought before you moved.

You sat up slow, shifting forward, reaching for the cigarette in the ashtray, fingers just about to brush it when—

Ben’s hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. His grip was strong. Firm. Tight enough to hold you in place, but not tight enough to hurt.

And when you turned to look at him, his face was dark. His eyes were on fire.

"Fuckin' quit it," he muttered, voice rough, almost wrecked, something like threat and warning and desperate restraint all tangled together.

And then, just low enough that it sent heat licking down your spine—

"Or I’ll tan your fuckin’ ass and send you up to your bed snifflin’ and sobbin’ like you fuckin’ deserve."

Your breath hitched. The air between you thickened.

His fingers burned into your wrist, his body coiled tight, his chest rising and falling just a little too hard, a little too sharp.

And you? You should have backed down. You should have apologised, pulled away, let the moment die.

But instead—

You just tilted your head, blinked up at him with wide, mock-innocent eyes, voice so quiet it could have almost been sweet.

"Promise?"

Ben went still. Not stiff. Not tense. Just—still. Like a predator right before it pounced.

And you felt it—the moment he cracked. The moment you broke him.

Ben didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just sat back, spine sinking into the couch, exhaling slow and deep through his nose, his fingers still wrapped tight around your wrist.

Then—he shifted. His body sprawled wider, his legs spreading, one arm draping across the back of the sofa, his whole presence turning into something vast and unavoidable, taking up space like he was daring you to crawl into it.

And he patted his lap.

"C’mere."

Your breath stuttered. You should have hesitated. You should have played coy, drawn it out, but you didn’t. You scrambled. Too fast. Too eager. Hands bracing against his shoulders, knees pressing to the outside of his thighs, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, settling into the space he had made for you.

And fuck—he was warm. Solid. Unshakable beneath you. His hands landed on your bare thighs, big and hot, fingers spreading, gripping you just enough to make you feel held.

And then—his eyes lifted to yours.

"You," he murmured, voice low, steady, edged with something raw, "are workin’ my last fuckin’ nerve."

You grinned. Syrupy-sweet, saccharine, the kind of smile that could make a saint burn alive.

"I’m happy to work something else, if you want."

The slap came fast. Sharp. Sudden. His palm cracked against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt, your breath hitching, your fingers tightening where they had settled against his chest.

"Where the hell’s this fuckin’ attitude come from?" He muttered, jaw tight, eyes dark, heavy.

You shrugged, playing at innocence, eyes lidded, mouth curling.

"Dunno." Another shrug, slow, deliberate. "Probably frustration."

That made him squint. Accusing. Waiting. Expecting.

So you tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice dropping into something honey-thick and dangerous.

"I mean…" A pause. A breath. A glance down at his lips before dragging your eyes back up to his. "You ever thought about how hard it’s been for me?"

He didn’t blink.

"Enlighten me."

You leaned in just a fraction, your fingers smoothing over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the warmth of his skin even through his shirt.

"How I’ve had to spend the last few years," you murmured, voice soft, feigning confession, "watching you walk around with your tight shirts, and your big arms, and that beautiful fucking hair and beard that could give a saint bad thoughts."

Ben huffed. Lips parting, breath sharp, eyes dragging over your face like he was looking for something. Then—his fingers squeezed, pressing into your thighs, holding you just a little tighter.

"One to fuckin’ talk," he muttered.

Your stomach flipped.

"Oh yeah?"

Ben scoffed. And then—he let it out.

"Had to put up with you swayin’ around in those little cut-offs—"

His hands slid higher, fingers flexing just beneath the hem of your dad’s t-shirt, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"—watchin’ your ass eat ‘em up every time you walked away from me—"

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"—legs on fuckin’ show, flutterin’ those big eyes at me like you’re fixin’ to get fuckin’ stuffed."

Your whole body flushed with heat. You sucked in a breath, sharp, uneven, lips parting before your tongue darted out, wetting them.

And then—you mock-gasped. Eyes wide, voice soft, laced with something insidious.

"You’re my godfather," you whispered, tilting your head, watching him twitch at the words. "You’re having impure thoughts about me?"

Ben exhaled hard. His grip tightened—just for a second, just long enough to send a pulse between your thighs. Then he groaned. Long. Frustrated. Dropped his head back against the sofa, dragging a rough hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling like he was praying for salvation that wasn’t coming.

And then—his voice. Low. Wrecked. Raw.

"Christ on a cross."

A breath. A sigh.

"Don’t fuckin’ remind me. Your old man’d fuckin' kill me."

Ben’s voice was low, rough, edged with something like guilt—but not enough of it to stop him. His fingers flexed against your thighs, thumbs brushing higher, the pads of them teasing dangerously close to where you wanted him most.

"If he knew the kinda shit I’ve been thinkin’ about you since you turned eighteen—"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your whole body going hot at the admission.

Since you turned eighteen. Since you’d beenlegal. Since the world had decided you were fair fucking game.

You gasped, mock-shocked, but real heat licking through your veins.

"What kinda stuff?"

Ben stilled. For a second, he just looked at you, his green eyes burning, pinning you in place. And then, low, quiet, wrecked—

"Stuff that makes me feel like a fuckin’ pervert."

Your stomach dropped. Your whole body tightened, throbbed, ached. And then you laughed. Low. Sweet. Dangerous.

"I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

Ben grunted, his grip tightening on your thighs, squeezing, pressing.

You tilted your head, grinning down at him, teasing, watching the way his jaw flexed, the way his fingers itched to grab you harder.

"I’ve been thinking about you when I touch myself."

He groaned. His head tipped back, his whole chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp.

Your hands slid up his chest, nails scraping lightly over fabric, feeling the way his body locked up beneath you.

"I think about how your hands would feel between my legs," you whispered.

Another grunt. A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching, his grip bruising, branding.

Your breath shuddered, your body buzzing, your mind spinning with the filth of it all. But you weren’t done.

"I wonder if you’d let me sit on your face."

His whole body went rigid.

"Wonder if I’d feel that nice, clean beard between my thighs—"

Ben rutted up into you.

A sharp, unconscious thrust, his cock pressing up through denim and cotton, so fucking solid that you felt it pulse against you.

You gasped. Your fingers dug into his chest, your whole body throbbing.

But then—his head snapped back up. His eyes met yours again. Dark. Hungry. And then his lips curled.

"You wanna talk about confessions?"

You swallowed, hard.

"Few months back."

His hands slid lower.

"Stole a pair of your panties outta the bathroom."

Your heart stopped. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, pulse hammering between your ribs.

"Pretty little pink ones," he murmured, low, knowing, like he was fucking testing you. "Little bows on the sides."

You gasped.

"I’ve been looking for those—!"

His smirk deepened. Then—he rolled his hips into you again. The pressure made you whimper, made your head drop forward, your forehead nearly brushing against his.

"You ain’t gettin’ ‘em back."

Your stomach coiled, tight and hot and pulsing.

"Been using ‘em."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, knuckles going white.

"At first, just sniffin’."

Your whole body burned.

"Then the scent went."

Your nails dug into him.

"So I started usin’ ‘em to jerk off."

A sound escaped you, something breathless, wrecked.

His smirk turned downright wicked.

"Not a trace of your scent left in ‘em now, Lamby."

He ground up into you harder, your panties soaked, pressed against the thick ridge of him through his jeans.

"They’re mine now."

You whimpered. Writhed. Because fuck. He was just as wrecked for you as you were for him. And now—neither of you could take it back.

You shouldn’t have said it. You knew it was cruel, knew it was the final fucking push, knew it was only going to break him more—

But you said it anyway.

"If I’d known that sooner," you purred, voice silky, sinful, designed to ruin him, "I would’ve left more out for you."

Ben groaned. Deep, guttural, wrecked, his fingers clamping tight around your thighs as he dragged you along his cock. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. The ridge of him pressed up against your cunt through your soaked panties, denim rough, thick, a perfect contrast to the slick heat between your thighs.

"You’re a fuckin’ menace," he muttered, gritting his teeth, his hips shifting up just enough to make you gasp. "Been temptin’ me too much."

You gasped. Let your nails scratch over his chest, let your mouth part into a mock-pout, breathless, needy.

"That’s not fair."

Ben huffed, blinking hard, like he was trying not to look at your lips.

"What’s not fair?" he muttered, voice gruff, strained, thick with restraint.

"Knowing I’ve been batting my lashes at you—" you breathed, voice sickly sweet, ruined, eager, "and you’ve been stringing me along."

His fingers twitched.

"Not giving in."

His thighs tensed under yours.

"Not giving me what I deserve."

The slap came sharp. Not as hard as before, but closer. Higher. Right at the crease of your thigh, just barely missing where you wanted it most.

Your whole body jolted. Your breath hitched. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clinging to him.

And then—his voice.

"If I gave you what you deserved," he muttered, voice low, deep, dangerous, a fucking promise, "you wouldn’t be walkin’ right for a week."

A slow, agonising pause.

"And your dad’d know it was me."

Your stomach dropped. A full-body shiver ran down your spine, curling at the base, settling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his shirt. Your mouth parted, a small, helpless sound escaping before you could stop it.

And Ben?

Ben felt it. He heard it. And it made him fucking crazy.

"You scared my date off earlier," you gasped, voice small, teasing, ruined. "You owe me now."

Ben’s jaw clenched.

"Should at least make up for it," you whispered, barely any breath behind it, "by letting me touch your cock."

He cursed. Low. Filthy. His fingers dug into your thighs, a full-body shudder raking down his spine, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

Then—his eyes snapped to yours. Dark. Sharp. Unforgiving.

"You sure?"

The words came gritted, strained, wrecked.

You nodded. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second guess. Just nodded. And that was it. That was the final straw.

Ben moved fast.

His hand shot up your thigh, rough and unhesitating, fingers hooking under your panties, yanking them to the side—

And then he was inside you. Two thick fingers, stretching you, filling you, sinking to the knuckle in one sharp, devastating push.

You gasped, body arching, your forehead nearly bumping into his.

Ben groaned. His other hand snapped up, tangled into your hair, gripping the back of your neck, pulling you down, down, down—

And then—

He kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Ruining. His mouth slotted over yours like it belonged there, like he had been starving for it, like he couldn’t fucking breathe without it.

His fingers plunged deep, curling, pressing up against the spot that made you quake, made you whimper right into his mouth.

"Keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered against your lips, licking into you, filthy, hot, deep.

You moaned, soft, helpless, rocking into his fingers, clenching down on them, your breath shuddering, uneven, wrecked.

"That’s it," he breathed, groaning, his teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging, biting.

His hand tightened at the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping you locked against him.

"You’re a soaked little thing, huh?"

You whimpered.

He dragged his fingers deeper.

"All this for me?"

Another groan, another thrust of his fingers, sharper this time, rougher, working you open.

"Fuckin’ hell," he rasped, swallowing your moans, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, groaning as he sucked, wet and hot and desperate.

His tongue slid past your lips, licked into you, a full-bodied claim, filthy, unrelenting.

And you—

You couldn’t think.

You could only cling to him, whimper into his mouth, lose yourself in the feeling of his fingers inside you, wrecking you, coaxing you closer to something you’d never felt before.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3

[daylighted-deactivated20250825]

─ HIDE AWAY THE SIGNS, dad's best friend ! jackles

you didn't think jensen was leaving and saying goodbye without a proper taste of you, did you?

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this series if you're a minor. hefty age gap. oral (f receiving). dirty talking. manhandling. edging (kind of). thigh biting. minor exhibitionism. he's mean </3. word count. 3.4k

sneak into his room here!

THE FIRST THING YOU HEAR WHEN you wake up is the sound of rustling around on the other side of your bedroom wall. with an odd sense of disappointment, you realize immediately what it is. suitcases zipping, bedsheets rippling as the big duvet is fluffed and spread flat over it. you’d know the sound of someone preparing to leave anywhere — you’d only just done it days ago prior to returning home. 

it feels wrong to get up and say goodbye. to your parents, jensen was a stranger you talked to sometimes, when you passed each other. even in your mind, you only knew him at base level. you don’t know his favorite color, what high school he went to, if he had any pets wherever it was that he was from. 

so you weren’t going to say goodbye. you’d sit on your bed and stew on this realization that it was fun while it lasted, but it wasn’t meant to last. not really. you’d been told to get some spontaneity in your life by him, made to step out of every single comfort zone you had, and now you could say you did. that was the whole point, wasn’t it? he was sent into your life by some god, probably not any that were going to let you through heaven’s gates or anything, and now that he’d served the purpose he came for, he’d leave.

it still felt bittersweet in the most painstaking of ways. you didn’t have to completely close yourself off from him to know that fact.

the sound of things flipping around halts, and the door clicks shut, and footsteps start down the hallway to the staircase, not once pausing in front of yours. 

somehow, it hurt more that he’s just as dismissive as all of this as you were trying to be. you were trying, he didn’t even need to make the efforts to push you out of his head, it seemed.

four days you’d been home and you hadn’t reached out to your friends. you pull your phone out of your pocket to do that, needing some sort of distraction from the fact that you’d let yourself become your dad’s best friend’s temporary plaything while he stayed over. maybe he had a wife back home, not a dog. maybe his favorite color was the color of her eyes. maybe they met in high school.

the thought makes you feel sick, your fingers hovering over the group message with your friends in town.

you nearly jump out of your skin when a knock echoes on the doorframe behind you. there, standing in its open space, is jensen. 

“weren’t downstairs,” he says, eyebrows raising like he was accusing you of something. he’s wearing a baseball cap, the brim shadowing over the greens of his eyes. the strap of his duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, catching on the bunched up fabric of his hoodie. “thought i’d come up here n’ see why.” 

you raise your eyebrows right back at him, just as much accusation in them as his. “well, i’m not your girlfriend or anything, so…” 

“no, you aren’t,” he says easily, crossing his legs at the ankle as he braced his shoulder on the doorframe. “but i thought we were past the point of pretending we weren’t something.” 

“what’s that supposed to mean?” 

he raises a closed fist, holding up fingers as he counted them off. “friend. good fuck. good fuck who’s a friend. fuckbuddy—”

“your best friend’s daughter,” you interject, hissing it through your teeth at him, eyes darting over his shoulder to make sure both of your parents were downstairs like he’d implied. “you should do better to keep that little tidbit at the front of your arguments.” 

jensen takes a step into your room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. “if you wanna play mean, pretty girl, by all means, i’m not stoppin’ you. but i’ve already warned you that you won’t like it when i’m mean.” 

“why are you so adamant on me going to tell you goodbye, huh?” you sit up on your bed now, no longer laying on your stomach facing the pillows, but flipped over to properly argue. all of the hurt you felt over the fact that this was ending and it meant nothing by this point was starting to bubble over, out of your control. “you probably have a wife at home! you probably— probably have a job, and kids, and a dog named, like, spot or something—” 

jensen nods along with everything you’re rambling on about, his lips pursed in disamusement. it’s when you stumble on the syllables out of your mouth that the sentences falter, and you’re staring at him with your chest heaving and your lip wobbling against your will. you weren’t supposed to miss him, and especially not now, when he wasn’t already gone. “you done?” 

“no!” you choke on it, spit it out like it burns your tongue. “i bet you’re really happy, too, with your little family. i bet you came here and saw something young, and new, and because you’re jensen ackles you couldn’t help yourself! you never could help yourself, i know this, dad always said so — you’d see one thing you wanted, and you—” 

his duffel clatters to the ground with a heavy thud, the strap scraping along the hardwood as it lands. you can barely process jensen’s footsteps crossing the space to you before he’s hauled you into his arms, all of your protests dying in your mouth. 

he’s taking you down the stairs, your mouth opening and closing before you can even think of telling him no, or to put you down, or to never let go. 

over his shoulder, you see your parents small forms from the screen door of your front entrance. they’re at the mailbox, talking to one of your neighbors, both of their backs to you and the neighbor turned to face them, capable of seeing you at any moment through his peripheral vision if he chose to glance over. 

you duck your head like that alone could save you from that possibility, tucking it behind jensen’s shoulder. “talkin’ to me like i’ve got somethin’ to prove,” he rasps in your ear, scoffing in disbelief, “who do you think you are, tryin’ to make me feel guilty?” 

jensen shoves you onto the countertop, his head hovering over you, looming like a shadow — overtaking you in a single breath. “the news flash, sweetheart, is that i don’t owe you shit.” his fingers close around your thigh, digging into the bare flesh as he pushes it open. “i don’t owe you my wife’s name, my kids’ names, my fuckin’ dog’s name, if i had any of that shit. i don’t owe you what my job is. i don’t owe you what i do in my freetime.” 

he curls his index finger over the crotch of your panties and tugs downwards, his other hand forcing each of your thighs up to wiggle the fabric down your legs. immediately, your eyes dart to the doorway, to the screen door open for anyone to see, to where you’re directly in the sights of any potential straying eyes. 

“and you know what i especially don’t owe you?” jensen asks, sinking his teeth into the inside of your thigh, nipping at the skin before lapping it under his tongue. he sits back a little, just enough so that one hand could come up and flip his baseball cap backwards on his head. “i don’t fucking owe you on why i like you, pretty baby,” he hums, giving you a wolfish grin before diving into the space between your legs, his head beneath your skirt.

you couldn’t hide your sharp gasp, not when it was all so sudden, and not when the scratch of his beard teases and rubs at the highest parts of your inner thighs and the sensitive skin of your folds, his tongue dipping between them to lick a stripe up the wet slit. one of your hands curls around the edge of the countertop, the other clamps over your mouth to keep quiet.

the last thing you wanted was for either of your parents to wonder what you were making noise for, or for your neighbor to catch too much movement through the glass door and peek over, and to see jensen’s head between your legs, or the throes of ecstasy he was beginning to drag you through. 

his hands grip your calves, keeping your legs open for him with a bruising grip on the skin, but his tongue and lips play a different story. they’re slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring the proper taste of you and not just the fleeting flick of his tongue or the wetness around his fingers. the thought alone has you squirming on the marble surface, knowing that he was teasing you on purpose, that he was just as capable of being much worse as he was being much more ravishing. 

his tongue flicks over the bundle of nerves between your folds and your fingers tighten over your mouth, just in time for him to suck it between his two lips. one of jensen’s hands lets go of your calf to grab upwards at your wrist, looking up at you with dark eyes through the span of his eyelashes. 

“uncover it or we’re going to the living room,” he breathes, his voice a delicious vibration against your clit, “and if you keep pushing me, baby, i’ll put you on the porch.” 

you let go of your mouth with haste, looking down at him with wide eyes. “but—” 

“you think i’m scared of them?” he asks, eyebrows bouncing up on his forehead. “why would i be? you think you’re nothing to me, that this is just bullshit, so why should i care who sees what i do to you? why should i care about you at all?” 

jensen’s glistening lips curl up into that sneering grin again, and he pushes your one leg open further, moving it to the back of your knee to hook his fingers around it and drag you closer to the edge of the countertop. he shifts his attention, trailing his tongue downwards to lap at the seeping wetness from your entrance, before pushing through it and into the tight throb of your heat.

it’s all you can do to not make a sound. the only outlet you have is the grip he still has on your wrist, your nails dug hard into the back of his hand. he doesn’t lift his head to see as he lets go of your hand to smack your digging nails away from his skin, the crescent marks evident in the tanned skin. 

instead, he grabs your fingers in a vice grip, holding them in his own tight enough that you can’t pull them free — like he’s almost afraid of the risk that you’ll let go. he’s relentless in his unabashed tongue fucking, breaking away for seconds at a time to suck and lap at your clit before returning. 

your breath leaves you in heaving gasps, your thighs closing tighter around his head, writhing against him. it only seems to encourage jensen further, the arching of your hips into his face making him groan in between your pussy lips.

he takes the time to learn all of your secrets. how you can’t help a gasp when he nuzzles closer, his beard leaving red splotches on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. how your spine arches when his teeth graze the throbbing nub of your clit. how you whimper softly, just for him, when he closes his mouth around your clit and sucks at it until it aches, and soothes it with the lap of his tongue as he collects every bit of your wetness on it and breathes it in. 

“please—” you beg, though you’re not sure for what, not when he’s started to pay special attention to your clit again and every thought in your head becomes a puddle, replaced with a constant buzz that only builds and builds.

he nips at it again and you whine throatily, just as he relents. jensen’s head dips lower to your entrance again, moaning against the new wave of wetness he finds in place of what he’d just swallowed down. “please what?” he rasps, making your toes curl at his sides. “thought i wasn’t happy with you. thought i was real fuckin’ happy to get away from this pussy.” 

“no!” you gasp the word out, no breath left in your lungs to rise above that sweet whisper of a sound. “no, no, no—” 

“yeah, you backtrack real fuckin’ fast when i’m eating your pussy, huh?” his laugh is bitter and cruel, but the kiss he presses to your clit is sweet, and so is the look he gives you through his eyelashes. a thin strip of green around the expanse of his pupils, big and glossy like he might actually like you, but dark enough to remind you that this, like everything, is a fleeting moment in a span of millions of other little moments.

you’re right on the cusp of the feeling you’ve been chasing, and he’s stopped. his cheek is pressed against your thigh, lips wet with the taste of you, the facial hair around his mouth wet and red from the friction. “you want the truth?” 

your heart screams yes. “no.” your head’s answer slips through your teeth.

he nods once, letting go of the back of your knee to smear his finger teasingly along your entrance, brushing the juices upwards and circling the pad of his thumb over your clit. “try again.” 

you shake your head. the tightness is beginning to curl up beneath your navel, each little brush of his thumb starting a slow crescendo. your head knocks back against the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, your legs spreading open wider in an attempt to grind your hips against his touch. 

jensen grabs your inner thigh again and holds it tight in his big hand, keeping you from squirming too much, no longer about to push you over the edge of the impending orgasm. “try. again.” 

you let out a little mewl at the lack of his touch leaving you panting and empty, the pleasure teetering right over the cusp. “stop it,” you manage to whimper out, again trying to wrestle your hand free from his other one. 

his lips twitch. “do you. want. the truth?” 

“no,” you rasp back at him, leaning your head off of the cabinets to be closer to eye level with him. 

silence follows like a heavy blanket. his thumb strokes slowly along the inside of your thigh where he holds it steady, his eyes never once dragging away from your face. “okay.” 

there’s no preemptive warning before jensen lets go of your leg and slides two fingers deep inside of you, just like there’s no preparation as he pumps them, curling them upwards to brush against the gushy spot inside of you that makes you whine again. the sparks of pleasure are so much more intense with how close you were, everything building at a speed you can’t keep up with. 

your fingers go slack in his grip, your head tipping forward that little bit more to press your forehead to his while you try to catch your breath. never once did jensen take his eyes off of you. and again, he doesn’t falter in that eye contact when he pulls his fingers out of you.

each breath is shallow in your lungs, your lips trembling as you fight against the need to scream and whine and hit him, probably, if you had access to your dominant hand. yeah, you’d hit him, and then you’d kiss it better, and—

“i meant it.” jensen ducks his head to catch your downturned eyes, nudging your head up with his nose along your jawline to force the eye contact. “when i said i wanted you to look at me. wanted you to see me.” he lets go of your hand, then, and surprisingly, you don’t swing on him. not immediately, anyways. “you’re the only fucking person here in this place who doesn’t have some idea of me in their head, you know that?”

you guessed he was right, but how were you supposed to take any of this to heart when you felt like you were made of lightning? when your tears sprung in your eyes with the need for release that he wouldn’t give and kept you from getting on your own? “you try and lie to yourself, baby, try to make yourself feel better about the fact that i’m walkin’ out of that door today. you made up stories to make it easier, assigned me a happy family waitin’ back at the ackles residence, just so you didn’t have to think about the fact that i’m gonna be in my bed every night, fucking my hand raw to the thought of what those moans would sound like if i didn’t have to force them into a pillow, or my fingers.” 

jensen leans up to brush his mouth along yours, glancing between the both of your eyes for an answer he’s not getting. “now are you gonna be a good girl and let me make you come on my tongue, or do i have to keep arguing with you?” 

he doesn’t move an inch as he waits. his eyes are brutal, piercing, watching you with a conviction that no one else has dared to. everyone around you has had high expectations without the room to catch you if you missed them, but his expectations are in the realm of something you want.

just like you’re the first person to look at him without the precognitive impressions your father tried to instill in you, he’s the first person to look at you and see past the goals and the blind hope. you could fall and he’d catch you, so long as you fell from somewhere within what you wanted, and not someone else.

you nod, but it’s not enough. his voice is made of gravel and sin when he whispers, “use that pretty little voice of yours for me.” 

“okay,” you sputter out quickly, as if that alone could make him give in any quicker. “yes, yes yes—” 

his head cocks in his amusement. “yes what?”

“yes, i’ll be good—” 

jensen let go of your hand and your thigh at once. his forearms slip underneath your knees to drag you just a little closer, pulling your thighs up and over his shoulders. and when his tongue dips between your folds and licks up the slick slit before he can close his mouth around your clit again, he moans. 

he licks at your clit and your entrance like he’s starving, nibbling along your clit with each flick of his tongue, each slight movement of his head making the raw skin of your inner thighs that much more inflamed. 

it doesn’t take long for the crest of your orgasm to crash over you, not with the way he ravished with tongue and teeth along your puffy clit and dove his tongue into your entrance with the same intensity he fucked you with. your head tips back into the cabinets, shaking fingers pressed to your mouth being the only thing stopping you from letting out a wail that would inevitably alert the whole town to what you were doing. 

jensen doesn’t stop, though, as you ride out the intensity of your comedown. he laps up every drop of your juices, soothes the beardburn on your inner thighs with kisses along every part of your skin he can reach, sucks your throbbing clit in between his lips just to feel you squirm a couple more times.

when he finally rises to his full height, dropping your legs back down from his shoulders, he keeps his palms on top of your thighs, rubbing little circles through the fabric of your dress. “you look pretty like this,” he whispers, capturing your lips in a kiss so much more gentle than how he was being before, pressing the taste of yourself back into your mouth, “i think i need to see you like this more often.” 

it takes a moment for the words to register, blinking your eyes back into focus when you meet his again. “you can’t—” 

jensen gives you an unimpressed look, still wearing the slick of your juices along his mouth like a wet trophy. he goes to the fridge to take out the nearly empty orange juice bottle he’d drank from a couple days ago, messing with the cap between his two fingers. “give me your phone.” 

you want to question him, but the look he gives you makes your mouth shut. you pull your phone out from underneath your thigh, something that just makes him smirk. he holds the juice in one hand and your phone in the other, swiping through things outside of your line of sight.

he looks kind of ridiculous, in an endearing sort of way. he has an uncapped bottle of orange juice in one hand and a cell phone in the other, mouth wet like he’d been drinking right— 

oh. you almost laugh, then, at how simply he’d reduced what he’d just done to the cover story of drinking juice. like he hadn’t just about had you in tears for the third time in his weekend stay with how good he’d made you feel. 

you hop off of the counter onto wobbly legs, bending down to tug your panties back up from where he’d aimlessly tossed them beneath you. 

the screen door squeaks open and slams shut just as you straighten back up to your feet. your heart nearly leapt out of your chest at the sound of it, at the intensity of the close call you’d narrowly missed. 

jensen forks over your phone again, giving you a wink in the process. “should be all good.” 

“hey, you heading out?” your dad asks from the kitchen doorway, patting his hand on the kitchen wall. he glances between the both of you with a little grin, so oblivious it’d make you feel nauseous if you weren’t so focused on staying upright.

jensen lifts the juice bottle to his mouth again, finishing the rest of the juice off in a quick swig before wiping the excess — and the remainder of your wetness — away with his thumb and sucking it into his mouth. he doesn’t even need to look at you for you to stumble on a breath, looking down at the phone in your hand. 

“yeah,” jensen says, placing the glass bottle down next to you on the countertop you leaned up against. “got a little thirsty. needed somethin’ sweet to tie me over on the drive.” 

he shrugs his duffel over his shoulder again. you can hear the rustle of it without needing to look up, afraid that your expression will give everything away if you look at him now. “bye, little lady,” jensen says, and that draws your attention. he’s devastating like this for many reasons: because he’s leaving, because he smiles with the sun in his teeth, because he can be so sweet after he can be so mean. his two finger salute makes you smile, and you mimic one right back to him before his back turns again. 

daring to see what he did on your phone, you find it open to text messages, where he’d sent something to, assumedly, his number from your phone, after very sweetly naming his contact daddy a.

to: daddy a staying at a hotel for a few nights. i’ll send the room number if you’re feeling brave enough to sneak out.

a dare and a promise all in one. you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, your face blooming in pink, just as your dad lets out a scoff of laughter. “and i always thought that orange juice was too sour, not sweet.”

notes | i dont rly have commentary for this one i just want in his drawls so bad. i was sweatin from the moment i wrote him turning the hat around ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags | @soldiersgirl @seven7lee @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @winchestersbgirl @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @lonelylonelybaby @mourningthewicked @ultravi0lence14 @1-imbroglio @hughesinthebox @angels-silhouette @blossomingorchids @chris444evr @cassiecourtemanche @writtenbyhollywood @adrienneleclerc @losers-clvb @bluemerakis @fuckedupfate @legalmente-loca @k-slla @fxckingjo @blueschevy @fitxgrld @viluren @youdontknowe @sizzlingcheesecakepanda @cupidluvzz @lanasgirlfr @h8aaz @coralfacecrown @doublecrazyyymofo @1ghxstt1 @mahi-wayy @narniabusinessbitch @zqarax @angelicjackles @arcannaa @am0rem @sthefferrete @v1v1-3 @spxideyver @suckitands33 @beausling @pieandflannel @briisbananass @cowboysandcigarettes @deanswidow @aurevina

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

I love this series ! More please !!

[lila-lou]

✨Age gap crush - Pt. 1/2✨

Summary: Jensen froze—biggest age gap crush? Jared smirked, already knowing the answer. Because Jensen didn’t do attachments. But with you? He already had.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language

Word Count: 6341

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 🩷

The hotel room was quiet, except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the soft rustling of sheets behind you. Stepping out of the bathroom, steam curled around you as the cooler air of the room brushed against your damp skin. The towel wrapped tightly around your body felt like the only barrier between you and the weight of his gaze.

Jensen was lying on the bed, one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other resting against his bare stomach. The soft morning light cast shadows over his toned chest, highlighting the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. His green eyes, sharp and amused, traced you slowly—like he had all the time in the world.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, good morning to me”, he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something else—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You tightened your grip on the towel, swallowing the warmth creeping up your neck. “Enjoying the view?”, you muttered, trying to sound unaffected.

He chuckled, low and husky, shifting slightly but never breaking his gaze. “Oh, absolutely. Best way to wake up”.

Your stomach twisted at the way he was looking at you—like he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how flustered you were.

You cleared your throat, the towel still clutched tightly in your grasp. "I thought you'd be gone by now", you muttered, eyes flicking toward the digital clock on the nightstand—but the numbers blurred together. You had no idea what time it was.

Jensen’s smirk deepened. "Didn’t have the heart to leave you just yet", he drawled, stretching out like he had no place to be, no convention to rush off to. "Besides, you looked too damn peaceful earlier. Didn’t want to wake you".

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to mask the way your stomach flipped. Peaceful wasn’t the right word. Wrecked, maybe. Spent.

Last night had been… intense. The kind of night that left your body sore in the best possible way, your mind hazy, your legs barely functioning by the time he'd finally let you rest. And now, standing here, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours—it all came rushing back so vividly you had to fight the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

Jensen noticed. Of course, he did. His eyes darkened, amusement flickering beneath them like he was reading every damn thought in your head. "You okay there, sweetheart?". His voice was smooth, teasing.

You huffed, turning toward the dresser for something—anything—to distract yourself. "I don’t even know what time it is", you admitted, your voice quieter this time. "You really should be gone. The convention—".

"Still got time". His voice was lazy, like he didn’t have an entire schedule waiting for him. "And you really think I’d leave without a proper goodbye?".

This—whatever this was—wasn’t supposed to feel so dangerous. The two of you had set the rules from the start. No public outings. No red carpets. No standing in any kind of spotlight.

After all, he had enough attention on him—especially after the divorce. He didn’t need the world picking apart his personal life, and neither did you. It worked this way. Just the two of you, in stolen nights like this.

But mornings like this? Where he stayed longer than he should, watching you like you were the only thing worth his time?

Those were the moments that scared you.

And when Jensen sat up, his bare chest shifting with the movement, his smirk softening into something almost… fond, you knew you were in trouble.

"C´mere", he murmured, patting the space beside him.

You swallowed hard. You should tell him to get dressed, to go. To remind him of the agreement.

But your body had other plans.

And Jensen knew it, too.

You hesitated as you reminded yourself what this was supposed to be. Casual. Private. Simple.

But Jensen made it impossible to keep things simple.

The way he looked at you—like he had all the patience in the world, like he knew you’d give in before you even did—was downright dangerous. You hated that he was right.

Slowly, reluctantly, you moved toward the bed, stopping just short of where he was sitting. His gaze flickered down to your legs, still damp from the shower, before dragging back up to meet your eyes. He reached out, fingers ghosting along the edge of your towel, not tugging—just there—a silent invitation.

"You’re thinking too much", he murmured, voice low, rough from sleep.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head. "Maybe because I should be thinking", you shot back, but you didn’t step away.

Jensen’s smirk returned, but there was something softer beneath it. Something more dangerous than the teasing. "Tell me you don’t want me here", he challenged, his hand resting on your hip now, warm and steady. "And I’ll go".

You parted your lips, inhaling as if you were actually about to say the words. You knew he’d keep his word. He always did.

But you didn’t want him to go.

You wanted this—the way his presence wrapped around you, the way his voice sent shivers down your spine, the way his hands on your body made everything else disappear.

That’s what scared you the most.

Jensen tilted his head, waiting. Not pushing, not rushing. Just waiting for you to be honest with yourself.

And you hated that you broke so easily.

Instead of answering, you exhaled shakily and let your knee press onto the mattress beside him, crawling up just enough for him to lean back slightly, welcoming you. His hands slid up your thighs, warm and familiar, but his eyes never left yours.

"That’s what I thought", he murmured, pulling you onto his lap, your towel slipping just enough for his fingers to dip beneath it.

Your stomach clenched. "You’re an ass", you muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Jensen chuckled, his lips grazing your jaw as his grip tightened, anchoring you to him. "Yeah, but you like me anyway".

And you hated that he was right about that, too.

Your breath hitched the moment you felt it—him—hot and hard beneath you, pressed insistently against the thin barrier of your towel. A sharp contrast to the teasing smirk still tugging at his lips, like he wasn’t fully acknowledging just how much you could feel him right now.

But he knew. Of course, he knew.

Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle beneath your palms. He was still naked, still radiating heat, and the moment your hips shifted—just the slightest bit—the friction sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through you.

Jensen groaned softly, low in his throat, his hands tightening around your thighs. "Shit", he muttered, voice raspier now, thick with something that wasn’t just amusement anymore.

You swallowed hard, pulse thrumming against your skin. "You should be getting ready", you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction, breathless as it was.

Jensen hummed, tilting his head, his lips brushing your jaw, his stubble rough against your sensitive skin. "Mmm. Could say the same for you", he countered, his fingers toying with the edge of your towel. "But here you are. On top of me".

Your stomach flipped, your thighs squeezing instinctively around his waist. He was right there, and your body knew it, heat pooling low in your belly, thighs already aching from the way last night had left you.

His hands slid up, tracing the curves of your waist beneath the towel, moving slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. "Y’know", he murmured against your skin, voice dropping lower, rougher, "if you’re really worried about me being late, maybe you shouldn’t be sitting on my dick right now".

A sharp exhale left you, your fingers flexing against his shoulders. "Jensen—".

"What?". His lips ghosted over your neck, fingers finally gripping your hips properly now, rolling you against him just enough to make your breath catch. His cock pressed right where you needed it, even through the towel, and suddenly, your brain short-circuited.

You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was him guiding you, or your own body betraying you—but the moment your hips rocked, the friction made your nerves spark, made heat flood your core.

Jensen groaned again, this time deeper, almost gritted, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. "Yeah", he muttered, breath warm against your ear. "Exactly".

You hated how easily he ruined you. Hated how you didn’t stop, how you didn’t want to stop.

"Fuck you", you breathed, but you were already rolling your hips again, chasing that slow, delicious friction, the warmth pooling between your legs unbearable now.

Jensen laughed, the sound vibrating against your throat. "You already did, sweetheart", he teased, nipping just below your jaw. "And by the way you’re moving? You’re about to do it again".

With a sharp tug, the towel was gone, slipping from your body and pooling somewhere on the sheets beneath you. A rush of cool air ghosted over your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat burning between your thighs.

Jensen's hands were everywhere—firm, claiming—gripping your waist, sliding down the curve of your back, fingers pressing into your hips like he was anchoring himself. His green eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze flickering from your lips to the bare expanse of your chest, down to where your bodies were about to connect.

“Fuck baby”, he muttered, his voice thick with something between admiration and desperation. “You’re gonna kill me”.

One hand slid between your bodies, guiding himself to where you were already dripping, already throbbing for him. The swollen head of his cock nudged against your entrance, teasing, pressing, the sensation enough to steal your breath.

Jensen sucked in a sharp inhale. "Fuck—you're still so sensitiv from last night", he groaned, his voice strained now, his fingers tightening their grip on your waist.

Your stomach clenched at his words, your thighs trembling around him. "Maybe if you hadn’t—". You gasped as he pushed in just a little, stretching you open with maddening slowness. "Hadn’t wrecked me so hard, I wouldn't be".

Jensen let out a low, breathy chuckle, but his control was thinning—you could see it in the way his jaw tensed, feel it in the way his fingers flexed against your hips. "Oh, sweetheart", he murmured, his other hand sliding up your side, palming your breast before his fingers curled around the back of your neck, tugging you down. "That was barely me wrecking you".

And with that—he pulled you down onto him, fully, completely, stretching you inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

A ragged gasp left your lips, your body clenching around him, adjusting to the sudden, overwhelming fullness.

"Ouw—", you choked out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Jensen groaned, his head falling back against the pillows for a moment, his fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, baby. Look at you”. His voice was wrecked, strained with restraint, with the effort it took for him to not move just yet.

Your breath shuddered, your body trembling at the way he filled you, at how perfectly he stretched you. Every inch of him throbbed inside you, heat coiling at the base of your spine, your thighs quivering where they straddled his hips.

"Jensen", you breathed, barely able to form words, your nails dragging down his chest.

That was all it took.

His fingers flexed against your waist, and then he moved.

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips that sent blinding pleasure spiraling through your core.

You whimpered, your hands flying to his chest for support, but he didn’t stop, didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. He lifted you just enough before pulling you back down, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again, harder, deeper, until the only thing spilling from your lips were broken, gasping moans.

"Fuck, that’s it", he gritted out, watching the way your body took him, the way your back arched, your mouth parted in pleasure. His grip on your waist tightened as his hips snapped up, meeting you with every downward roll, sending sharp jolts of electricity through your veins.

"You feel so good", he growled, his voice raw, his fingers possessive as they dug into your skin. "So fucking tight. Like you were made for me".

Your head tipped back, pleasure burning through you, your body already starting to tremble. The grinding, the pace, the deep, deep thrusts—it was too much, and not enough all at once.

"Jensen—". His name spilled from your lips like a plea.

He grinned, though it was more of a snarl, his control slipping. "That’s right, sweetheart. Say my name while I ruin you again".

And he did.

Jensen's grip tightened as he slammed up into you, pulling you down to meet each thrust, forcing you to take him deeper, harder, rougher. The stretch was overwhelming, the pleasure devastating, your body reduced to nothing but fire and sensation as he filled you over and over again.

Your fingers clawed at his chest, nails dragging against the firm ridges of muscle, desperate for something—anything—to ground you. But there was nothing to hold onto. Nothing but him.

"Jensen". His name left your lips in a gasping, broken moan, your head tipping back as your body clenched around him.

He groaned, the sound wrecked, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down onto his cock. "Fuck—just like that", he muttered, his breath coming ragged now, but his pace never slowed. If anything, he was getting rougher.

Pleasure shot up your spine, white-hot and blinding, your nerves on the edge of snapping. Every thrust hit deep, hitting that spot that had your toes curling, your stomach clenching, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight.

Jensen noticed. Of course, he did.

"Shit, you’re close already", he rasped, voice thick with pride, with something dangerously close to obsession as he watched you, completely undone on top of him.

You whimpered in response, your nails digging into his skin, your thighs starting to tremble.

He smirked—dark, satisfied, in control—as he sat up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other gripping your jaw. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he thrust up, sharp and precise, stealing the last bit of composure you had left.

"You gonna come for me, sweetheart?", he murmured against your mouth, his breath hot, teasing. His hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that had you shattering within seconds.

The orgasm slammed into you with a force that left you breathless, your body tensing, then shaking apart, pleasure pulsing through every nerve ending. A strangled cry tore from your throat as you clenched around him, waves of heat rolling through you as he kept fucking you through it, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it.

"That’s it", Jensen groaned, voice gritted, strained, his hands bruising as he held you still, as he thrust up one last time, burying himself deep. A guttural sound tore from his throat as he spilled inside you, his whole body tensing beneath you, pleasure rolling through him in hot, shuddering waves.

For a moment, the world spun, the only thing grounding you was him, his grip on you, his breath ragged against your skin.

Silence settled between you, thick and heavy, the aftermath still buzzing in the air. Jensen didn’t move, still buried inside you, his arms still wrapped around your body like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t either.

But the moment couldn’t last.

He sighed against your neck, pressing the faintest kiss to your damp skin before finally leaning back, his hands gentler now, smoothing over your sides. "If I wasn’t late before", he muttered, voice still rough with exhaustion and satisfaction, "I definitely am now".

A weak laugh escaped you, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. "That’s your fault", you murmured, your body still tingling from the aftershocks.

Jensen chuckled, but instead of answering, he slid his hands up your back, slow, lazy, his fingers tracing soft patterns against your skin.

And that? That was what scared you the most.

Not the sex. Not the sneaking around.

But this—the way he lingered, the way he touched you even when he didn’t have to. The way he stayed.

Because deep down, you knew…

You were breaking all your own rules.

The loud pounding at the door jolted you from the haze of aftershocks and warmth, panic surging through your system.

“Ackles!”, Jared’s voice boomed through the room, followed by another aggressive set of knocks. “We’re fucking late! Get your ass out here!”.

Your entire body stiffened, still perched on top of Jensen, still connected, your thighs sticky, your skin hot from the lingering heat of what had just happened.

Jensen groaned dramatically, his head falling back against the pillow, one lazy hand brushing over his face. “Fuck, Jared”, he muttered, completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion and left you a trembling mess.

Your eyes widened, panic gripping your chest. “Oh my God—”. You scrambled, instinct taking over, hands bracing against Jensen’s chest as you tried to get off him, but his grip tightened.

“Not so fast, sweetheart”. His voice was low, smug, his fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you shiver.

Your heart slammed in your chest. “Jensen—he’s right there!”, you hissed, eyes flicking frantically to the door as Jared knocked again, harder.

“Jensen! If you don’t open this damn door in ten seconds, I’m coming in! I will use my keycard, asshole!”.

Jensen just smirked, his other hand trailing down your thigh, so slow, so possessive, like he wasn’t at all worried about getting caught.

“Let him”, he muttered, his voice gravelly, his hips rolling up just a fraction, making you gasp, clench around him involuntarily.

Your stomach flipped, a sharp pulse of pleasure shooting through you even as your mind screamed in panic.

“You’re insane”, you whispered sharply, shoving at his bare chest, your pulse racing, the heat of him still inside you, still filling you so perfectly.

Jensen laughed, low and smug, but he finally released you, letting you scramble off him just as another aggressive knock rattled the door.

You stumbled, nearly falling, your legs still weak, your thighs still aching from the way he’d ruined you minutes ago. You barely managed to grab your discarded towel, wrapping it around yourself in record time as you bolted toward the bathroom doorway, trying to make yourself invisible.

Jensen, meanwhile?

Completely unbothered.

He stretched slowly, rolling out of bed with a lazy ease that made it clear he wasn’t in any kind of hurry.

Another pounding knock.

“Jensen!”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, dragging a hand down his face, clearly in no rush to deal with the six-foot-four nuisance on the other side of the door.

Little did you know, Jensen had already told Jared about you a couple of days ago. He’d expected this moment, knew it was only a matter of time before you got caught sneaking around.

But seeing you panic like this?

Adorable.

So, he let you squirm.

He smirked to himself as he tugged his shirt over his head, deliberately taking his time, knowing full well that you were still pressed against the bathroom door, heartbeat racing, eyes wide with the kind of panic he found way too entertaining.

Another pounding knock.

"Jensen! Open the damn door, or I’m—".

Finally, finally, Jensen swung it open, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the frame, giving Jared a bored look.

"Jesus, Padalecki", he muttered. "Ever heard of patience?".

Jared’s eyes narrowed, already looking pissed as hell, his gaze flicking over Jensen’s still-rumpled appearance—messy hair, swollen lips, trunks thrown on in a half-assed attempt to look presentable.

Jared’s brows lifted.

"Oh", he muttered, crossing his arms. "You definitely weren’t sleeping".

Jensen just grinned. "Didn’t say I was".

Jared squinted, eyes flicking past him into the room. Jensen angled his body slightly, blocking just enough of the view to keep you hidden, even though—let’s be real, the entire scene was screaming of exactly what had happened.

The unmade bed. The disheveled sheets. The fucking smell.

Jared let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Dude".

Jensen smirked, playing dumb. "What?".

Jared’s lips twitched, like he wanted to laugh but was too annoyed to let himself. "You serious right now?".

Jensen shrugged. "Look, man, if you’re mad I didn’t invite you, just say so".

Jared grimaced, shoving his shoulder. "Oh, fuck off".

Jensen chuckled, but before Jared could barrel past him into the room, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough.

"Don’t be a dick", he murmured. "You already know who’s in there".

Jared stilled.

His brows shot up, just slightly, before his expression shifted—less annoyed, more intrigued.

"Oh, so you finally told her I know?".

Jensen’s smirk deepened.

"…Not exactly".

Jared let out an exasperated groan, dragging his hands down his face. "You’re such an asshole".

Jensen grinned, clearly having way too much fun with this. "Yeah, but I’m your asshole".

"Unfortunately", Jared muttered, shaking his head. He peered past him again, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. "So, are you gonna let her out, or are we pretending she doesn’t exist?".

Jensen chuckled, finally turning his head toward the bathroom.

"Sweetheart?". His voice was sickeningly amused, way too pleased with himself. "You gonna come say hi, or you planning on hiding in there all day?".

You froze, heart pounding, throat suddenly dry as hell.

Jared knew?

Jared fucking knew?

And Jensen never told you?!

You were going to kill him.

Slowly.

You exhaled sharply, gathering yourself, before stepping out of the bathroom, towel still wrapped around you, your face heating instantly when Jared’s knowing gaze landed on you.

Jared blinked.

Then, with zero hesitation, he smirked.

"Oh". He nodded, fighting back a laugh. "Yeah. That definitely tracks".

Jensen’s grin widened, watching the way you glared daggers at him before crossing your arms, clearly one second away from launching something at his head.

"You knew", you said flatly, eyes locked onto Jared.

Jared snorted. "Oh, yeah. Jensen spilled days ago. Thought you knew".

Your eyes snapped back to Jensen, murder flashing behind them.

"You are so fucking dead".

Jensen grinned like a bastard, completely unbothered.

"Yeah, yeah", he murmured, stepping closer, hands slipping around your waist as he pressed a slow, teasing kiss to your temple, just to piss you off more. "Still worth it, though".

You swore you saw red.

And Jared?

Jared just laughed his ass off.

Eventually, Jared shifting his weight before casually holding out his hand toward you.

"Well", he said, smirking, "since we’re not pretending you don’t exist anymore, I guess I should properly introduce myself—".

But before you could take it, his expression shifted, realization hitting him like a freight train. His hand hovered in midair for a second before his face twisted in horror, and he yanked it back.

"Actually, you know what—never mind". He grimaced, shaking his head, his face scrunching up like he just walked into something disgusting. "I just remembered exactly what you two were doing before I knocked".

Your face flamed, heat rushing to your ears as the memory of exactly what had just happened surged through your mind.

Jensen, meanwhile?

Losing his damn mind.

He let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, gripping his stomach as he leaned against the doorframe, fully enjoying the absolute mess unfolding in front of him.

"Wow, Padalecki", he mused, mockingly wiping a fake tear from his eye. "And here I thought you were all about bonding".

Jared shot him a flat look, clearly unamused. "Yeah, I’m good, thanks. No need to get that close".

Jensen just grinned, slinging an arm lazily around your shoulders, pulling you closer as his fingers toyed with the edge of your towel—just to mess with you.

You immediately tensed, glaring up at him. "Jensen", you hissed through clenched teeth, shifting slightly, hyper-aware of just how little was covering you.

He winked, voice dropping.

"Relax, sweetheart", he murmured, lips brushing your ear, "not like Jared hasn’t already figured out how thoroughly I just fucked you".

Your entire face ignited, heat rushing through you so violently you had to physically shove him away.

"Jensen!", you sputtered, barely resisting the urge to smack him.

Jared groaned loudly, rubbing his temples. "For the love of God, can we go now?".

Jensen let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his shoulders like getting up and leaving was the biggest inconvenience in the world. "Yeah, yeah. Just lemme grab a shower real quick", he muttered, stretching. "Need to get her off my body first".

Your face somehow got even hotter, and Jared immediately threw up his hands.

"NOPE", he declared, turning around so fast it was almost cartoonish. "I refuse to hear another goddamn word. I will be downstairs, waiting, pretending none of this ever happened".

And just like that, he was gone, muttering something under his breath as he disappeared down the hall.

The second the door clicked shut, you spun on Jensen, smacking his arm hard enough to make him chuckle.

"You are such an asshole", you snapped, mortified beyond belief.

Jensen just laughed, stepping closer, hands gripping your waist again.

"Yeah", he murmured, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to your lips, "but you like me anyway".

Only ten minutes later, Jensen was moving around the room, hastily buckling his belt, his shirt slightly wrinkled, his hair damp from the world’s fastest shower.

You were still sitting on the bed, still half-naked, towel barely hanging onto you, watching him with a mix of amusement and exhaustion.

"Never seen you move this fast", you teased, tilting your head as he grabbed his SnapBack off the dresser and shoved it on backwards, clearly prioritizing speed over style.

Jensen shot you a look, smirking. "Yeah, well, someone made me late", he murmured, pointedly, as he reached for his watch—

Only to realize you had already picked it up.

You held it out lazily, wrist dangling over the edge of the bed, watching as he stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

That little touch—as brief as it was—made your stomach flip, and suddenly, you were too aware of the way he was looking at you.

Like he was thinking about throwing you back onto the bed all over again.

Like he was debating if being late was really that big of a deal.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "Better hurry, or Jared’s gonna come back up here and kick the door down".

Jensen exhaled sharply, reluctantly strapping the watch onto his wrist, still smirking like a bastard. "That man needs to take a breath. It’s not like they’re starting without me".

"You mean the convention where thousands of people are literally waiting for you?".

He shrugged, completely unbothered, but then his eyes flicked back to you—still sitting there, still wrapped in nothing but a towel, still looking too goddamn tempting for your own good.

His smirk turned dangerous.

"You’re really not making it easy to leave, sweetheart", he muttered, fingers trailing lightly along your bare thigh, like he was considering being just a little later.

Your breath hitched, body still sensitive from before, but you quickly swatted his hand away, sending him a warning glare.

"Nope". You shook your head. "You’re already late because of me. I am not responsible for you missing your flight next".

Jensen chuckled, hands up in mock surrender, but you could see it—the way he hesitated, the way he looked at you like he wanted to stay just a little longer.

And that?

That was dangerous.

Because you couldn’t let this become more than what it was.

So you forced a smirk, tilting your head as you leaned back against the pillows, stretching slightly.

"Besides", you murmured, voice laced with mock innocence, "I think you’ve had more than enough of me for one morning".

Jensen’s jaw ticked, his smirk faltering just for a second before his gaze darkened, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you again.

But instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a grin, before taking a deliberate step back.

"Yeah, we’ll see about that", he muttered, winking before turning toward the door.

And as he grabbed his keycard and slipped out, leaving you alone in that messy, wrecked hotel room—

You had a feeling he was right.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The silence in the room was deafening now that Jensen was gone.

You sat there for a moment, towel still wrapped around you, staring at the mess of sheets, the faint imprint of where he had just been. The room still smelled like him—his cologne, the heat of his skin, the lingering scent of sex and something more.

And yet, all you could think about was what had just happened.

Jensen told Jared about you.

Your stomach twisted at the realization, your fingers gripping the edge of the towel tighter.

Why?

The two of you weren’t even labeled. That had been his rule, not yours.

No commitments. No expectations. Just this. Stolen moments, hotel rooms, late-night calls that always ended the same way.

Jensen had made it clear from the start—he wasn’t looking to settle down again, not after everything with Danneel. You were his secret affair or whatever the hell this was.

So why the fuck did he tell Jared?

Jensen wasn’t the type to just share information for no reason. Jared was his best friend, sure, but that didn’t mean Jensen had to tell him everything.

Especially about you.

And yet—he had.

Days ago, apparently. And he hadn’t even mentioned it. Hadn’t even warned you.

Your heart did a weird, uneasy flip, frustration creeping up your spine.

What did it mean?

Was it just Jensen being careless?

Or was it something more?

You hated that the question lingered, that it stuck in your chest, leaving you restless in the empty bed. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was casual, simple, no strings attached—

Jensen had just tangled you up in something you weren’t prepared for.

And you weren’t sure what the hell to do about it.

Inside the car, the steady hum of the road filled the space as Cliff sat in the front seat, engaged in casual conversation with the driver. The ride to the convention center was smooth, quiet—until Jared turned to Jensen, his voice low, casual, but laced with curiosity.

"She’s pretty young, huh?".

Jensen’s jaw ticked, his fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he leaned back against the seat. He didn’t react right away, just let the words sit in the air for a second before exhaling through his nose.

He knew what Jared was doing.

"She’s twenty-five", Jensen muttered, glancing out the window like that was supposed to end the conversation.

Jared tilted his head, not buying it. "So… twenty-one-year age gap?". His brows lifted slightly, his tone neutral, but Jensen knew him too well.

"Jesus", Jensen grumbled, running a hand through his damp hair, still backwards in the damn SnapBack because he hadn’t even bothered fixing it properly. "Thanks for the math, professor".

Jared smirked but didn’t drop it. "I mean… it’s kinda a thing, dude", he said, shifting slightly to look at him. "Not saying it’s bad. Just… different for you".

Jensen didn’t respond immediately, but the muscle in his jaw twitched again.

Because yeah, Jared was right.

It was different.

Jensen wasn’t blind. He knew people would raise eyebrows if they knew. Twenty-one years. That was a big gap, no matter how he spun it. And yeah, you were young, but you weren´t a kid—you were smart, independent, and didn’t take his shit.

And yet, that wasn’t the part that bothered him.

It was the fact that Jared was bringing it up at all.

Which meant he noticed something.

Jensen sighed, shifting in his seat, still staring out the window. "She’s not some kid, man", he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "She knows what this is. I’m not leading her on".

Jared made a small humming sound, still watching him. "Right".

Jensen glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "What?".

Jared shrugged, tone even. "Nothing", A beat of silence, then— "Just saying, if it’s really nothing, you wouldn’t have told me about her".

Jensen’s stomach clenched, but he kept his face neutral.

"Thought you’d figure it out anyway", he muttered, shrugging. "You always do".

Jared huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. But you never tell me unless you want me to know".

And there it was.

Jensen’s fingers flexed against his knee, his teeth pressing together slightly, but he didn’t argue.

Because Jared was right.

Again.

And that?

That was the part that fucked with him the most.

Jared sensed the difference immediately.

It was subtle, something most people wouldn’t catch—but Jared knew Jensen too well.

During the double photo ops, Jensen was usually his usual self—smiling, laughing, making fans feel comfortable. But there was always something else, something second nature to him.

He looked.

Jensen always checked out the women who caught his interest, just a quick glance, a flick of his green eyes as if gauging if they were worth a second look.

He’d done it for years.

Hell, even when he was married to Danneel, he still had that instinct—never acting on it, never disrespectful, but the habit was there.

But this time?

Nothing.

Jensen’s gaze never lingered. Never even flickered to anything other than the camera, the fan he was greeting, or whatever dumbass joke Jared was cracking beside him.

Not once did he do the subtle once-over. Not once did he let his eyes wander, even briefly.

Jared took note.

He took a lot of notes.

Especially when, during a break between photo ops, Jensen pulled out his phone, his expression shifting just slightly—a look that Jared had never seen Jensen wear while texting someone.

Not some smug grin like he was setting up a fun night. Not some casual response like he didn’t care.

This was different. This was soft.

Jared leaned over slightly, trying to get a glimpse. "Who’s got you smiling like that?", he teased.

Jensen immediately locked the screen, tucking his phone away without so much as a word.

And that?

That spoke volumes.

Jared smirked to himself, shaking his head.

"Yeah", he muttered under his breath. "That’s what I thought".

The panel was going smoothly—plenty of laughs, plenty of inside jokes, the usual back-and-forth banter that fans ate up. Jensen and Jared had been doing this for so long it was second nature at this point.

But then, the question happened.

A fan stepped up to the mic. “What’s the biggest age gap crush you’ve ever had?”.

Jensen froze for a second, his brows knitting together as he tilted his head.

He was clearly trying to decipher the question, his brain gearing up for the wrong interpretation.

“I don’t know.. I don’t… I mean..I didn’t really have like.. uh.. crushes on celebrities when I was… I was too busy…“, he mumbled, still trying to piece it together.

Jared, standing beside him, instantly sensed the opportunity.

He grinned, just barely, leaning into his mic. “Doesn’t have to be a celebrity”.

The moment the words left his mouth, Jensen stiffened.

It was so fast, so subtle, but Jared caught it.

“Well”, Jensen started, but Jared interrupted him. “I‘m gonna answer for him“.

“Oh, great”, Jensen muttered, taking a long, slow sip of his coffee, like he was bracing himself for whatever the hell was about to come out of Jared’s mouth.

Jared, still grinning like a smug bastard, paused for dramatic effect, scanning the audience before leaning forward again.

“He has… he currently has.. a crush.. on somebody who is… ”, he drawled, dragging it out.

Jensen’s entire body tensed.

His eyes flicked with panic, just for a second—the kind of split-second panic that screamed oh, shit, I just got caught.

And that reaction?

Worth every damn second.

Jared barely bit back a laugh as he pivoted, fast as hell, finishing the sentence smoothly.

“34 years younger and 31 years younger”, He nodded dramatically. “And they’re his daughters”.

The audience roared with laughter and `aaaww´s´ completely missing the tiny moment that had just unfolded.

Jensen exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, before leaning into his mic with a deadpan look.

“What he said!”, Jensen quickly shot and earning more laughter from the fans.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 2

-

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 @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick

[lila-lou]

✨Masterlist RASD✨

Rise and Shine, Darling - Pt. 1

Rise and Shine, Darling - Pt. 2

Rise and Shine, Darling - Pt. 3

Rise and Shine, Darling - Pt. 4

Rise and Shine, Darling - Pt. 5 - The End

[lila-lou]

✨Masterlist - HTF✨

His true fate

His true fate Pt. 2

His true fate Pt. 3

His true fate Pt. 4

His true fate Pt. 5

His true fate Pt. 6

His true fate Pt. 7

His true fate Pt. 8

His true fate Pt. 9 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 10 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 11

His true fate Pt. 12 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 13 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 14 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 15 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 16 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 17

His true fate Pt. 18 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 19 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 20 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 21

His true fate Pt. 22 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 23

His true fate Pt. 24 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 25

His true fate Pt. 26 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 27

His true fate Pt. 28

His true fate Pt. 29

His true fate Pt. 30 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 31 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 32

His true fate Pt. 33 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 34

His true fate Pt. 35 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 36

His true fate Pt. 37

His true fate Pt. 38

His true fate Pt. 39 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 40 18+ only!

His true fate Pt. 41

His true fate Pt. 42 - The End

[deangirlsstuff67-recs]

Dean Winchester Masterlist

—————————————————————————

Sexual Encounters written by @supernotnatural2005