Can you imagine the reader trying to edge Ben? Every time they'd feel him tense ready to cum they'd slow down or stop until he finally pins them down, face smashed against the pillows or whatever surface he has them on, drool coming from their mouth. Ass probably high up in the air. 🥵
♱ ... soldier boy ... ♱
18+ MDNI
I think Ben would let this happen one (1) time and then give you actual hell for even trying. I imagine this happening while you're drunk, a giggly mess who's not really thinking things through, and you're trying to bounce on his cock a little. He was fucking your face earlier so he's already close, but after you insisting he cum in your pussy he couldn't really say no. He's spread out on the bed, enjoying the view he has of his little girl piss drunk and moaning on his cock, doing her absolute best to bounce to some kind of rhythm. You know he's close when his thighs start tensing, trying to hold himself back and enjoy the show instead of fucking up into you. Let me tell you he immediately regretted that. You stopped, sitting down with him fully sheathed inside, biting your lip like you had some kind of secret.
"So that's really how you want to play this."
You nodded, a smile creeping on your face despite your best efforts to stay stoic and in charce.
"You've got one more chance before I fuck the socks off ya. Don't let me catch you pullin' this shit again."
"Yes, sir," you said with a false salute, doing your best to start bouncing again despite the room feeling like it was about to start spinning.
He thrusted up into you once, fists clenching the sheets like he's about to lose control.
A very, very, bad idea bloomed in your head, and you were way too fucking drunk for your self-preservation instincts to kick in. On your next bounce up you came down real slow, feeling him fill you inch by inch.
"Oh fuck no."
Before you could blink ben had flipped you, hand on the back of your neck to press your face into the mattress.
"Can't even enjoy the view without you trying being a brat, huh? Can't even watch your drunk, whore pussy suck up my cock without you actin' up. Tryin' to tease me? Not gonna fucking work, bitch."
He pounded into you mercilessly, hips lewdly slapping against your skin. One hand kept you pinned down, nearly suffocating, while the other dug into the soft flesh of your skin to keep you exactly where he wants you. You felt the fabric beneath your face grow wet, from sweat or tears or drool you didn't know. You couldn't help him arch your back if he tried; apparently your rights to movement have been revoked.
"Lemme guess what you're gonna try to tell me when you want to cum. That you're sorry? You didn't mean to? I got you too drunk for your own good? Guess what: I don't fucking care. You're not as cute as you think you are."
You whined, the sound almost totally muffled but you know he hears you.
"Shut the fuck up. Don't fuckin' bitch and moan about something you did to your damn self. You're just lucky you're gonna get to feel me fill you up like the cumslut you are."
Summary: Rain, chaos and Dean Winchester being trouble. Just another loud and messy night at home.
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ Only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 4179
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The rain hadn’t stopped all day. You stood in the doorway of the living room, watching water bead on the glass and listening to the storm pick a fight with your roof. Behind you, the TV played a cartoon while your son, Jax, sat cross-legged on the floor, building what looked like a very unstable Lego fortress. His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out the side of his mouth, just like Dean when he worked on the Impala’s engine. Except Jax wasn’t trying to fix anything. He was trying to make something explode.
“Boom!”, he yelled, smashing the tower with one fist. Lego pieces flew into the air, bouncing across the hardwood.
You didn’t even flinch. "Jax", you said without turning, "what did we say about keeping the Legos on the mat?".
He grinned, not sorry in the slightest. “But the monster attacked the base, Mom. I had to blow it up”.
You heard tiny feet patter down the hallway before a flash of pink pajama fabric collided with your legs. Lila. She hugged your thigh like it was her favorite stuffed bunny.
“Daddy back yet?”, she asked, tilting her head back to look up at you. Her green eyes—Dean’s eyes—were wide, a little worried, the way they always got when he was out in weather like this.
“Not yet, sweetheart”, you murmured, brushing damp hair from her cheek. “He said he was stopping by Uncle Sam’s real quick. He’ll be home soon”.
Another crack of thunder rattled the windows and Lila squealed, burying her face in your leg. Jax looked up at the sound but didn’t flinch, just muttered something about "storm demons" and went back to rebuilding his fortress, now adding a “defense turret”.
Dean had been gone all of three hours. He’d driven next door to help Sam with some wiring issue in the basement, but Lila acted like he’d crossed state lines. She always did. From the moment she’d been born, she’d latched onto Dean like he was her entire universe. And in many ways, he was. Jax, on the other hand, was more of your shadow, always wanting your attention, your approval, your lap.
Sometimes you joked that you and Dean had each taken a mini version of the other. Sometimes it didn’t feel like a joke.
The lights flickered. Your hand instinctively went to the flashlight in the drawer. “You ready to save us if the power goes out?”, you asked Jax, who nodded solemnly and held up his Lego-made ‘weapon’. “I got this”, he said seriously. “I’ll protect Lila too”.
“I don’t need protecting”, Lila muttered, pulling back from your leg and crossing her arms with all the sass of a four-year-old who believed she could hunt demons with nothing but a glitter wand and spite.
You smiled. God, they were so Dean.
Just then you heard the low purr of the Impala pulling into the driveway. Lila was already sprinting toward the front door with reckless glee, feet pounding like a heartbeat against the hardwood. “Daddy!”. You followed her, grabbing a blanket on the way, just in case he came in soaked and swearing about it.
The car door slammed and a moment later, Dean was climbing the porch steps, drenched, hair dripping and boots thudding. He barely had a chance to close the door before Lila launched herself at him. He caught her mid-air with a soft grunt, spinning her once despite the rainwater soaking his flannel and the mud clinging to his boots.
“Hey, peanut”, he said, lips brushing the top of her head. “You keep the monsters out while I was gone?”.
“I tried”, she said seriously, clinging to him like a koala. “But Jax exploded the base again”.
Dean raised an eyebrow as you walked closer, arms folded, watching the little puddle he was already making on the floor. “That true?”, he asked, peering over Lila’s curls at Jax.
Jax stood in the hallway, Lego gun pointed heroically upward. “Storm demons. I had to”.
Dean chuckled, then finally looked at you. That grin spread slow and easy across his face, the kind of grin that had once meant trouble in a motel bed, and now usually meant trouble in the laundry room, or the kitchen, or once, memorably, the basement.
“You just gonna stand there and admire the view, sweetheart?”, he asked, shifting Lila onto one arm so he could unbutton his wet flannel with the other. “Or you gonna come help me out of these wet clothes?”.
You rolled your eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t dripping all over my clean floors, I’d be more motivated”.
“You sure?”. His eyes dropped blatantly to your shirt, clinging a little too well thanks to how warm the house was. “Because I’ve got a few… ideas that involve getting wetter”.
“Dean”, you hissed under your breath. “Children”.
He leaned in, voice low and wicked. “Come on, babe, I’ve been fixing wires all day with Sam whining in my ear about amperage. I could use a little—”, he let the word hang, just grinning—“stress relief”.
You tried to glare, but failed. He smelled like rain and engine oil, and God, you hated how good he still looked soaked to the bone. Drops of rain ran down his neck and into the open collar of his henley. Lila was totally unfazed, resting her head on his shoulder like she belonged there.
“Put her down and get a towel”, you said finally, biting back a smile. “Then maybe we’ll talk about that stress relief”.
He stepped closer instead, water dripping onto your bare feet. “You could help me dry off”, he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek, letting his free hand sneak under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel how warm your skin was. “Might go faster that way”.
You smacked his chest. It was like hitting a soaked brick wall. “Dean!”.
“What? You offered a towel. Just thought I’d use you instead”.
“You’re disgusting”.
He kissed your neck quick, teasing and damp. “You married disgusting”, he muttered. “Twice. Once in Vegas and once after a bottle of Jack and a near-death experience”.
You were about to fire back when Jax yelled from the hallway, “Dad! Can I show you my new monster trap?! It’s got, like, lava now!”.
Dean groaned theatrically and pulled back, shooting you a look that promised he wasn’t done. Not even close. “Rain check”, he said, still smirking as he set Lila down. “But you owe me”.
You rolled your eyes again, turning away with your heart thudding a little too fast for a rainy Tuesday. Dean always did that. Always had that effect. Even now. Even after all this time. Even in soaked boots.
-
Later that night, the storm hadn’t let up. Thunder still rolled low and lazy in the distance, occasionally flashing the sky with a dull blue light. The floor was finally clean, the couch blankets were back in place, and Dean was fresh out of the shower, wearing that stupidly thin old T-shirt that did nothing to hide what was underneath.
You were trying to get the kids settled. Really hard.
Jax had insisted he wasn’t tired, even though he’d started blinking slow during the last ten minutes of his monster documentary. Lila had climbed into your bed halfway through her bedtime story and declared that the “storm monsters” could only be defeated if Daddy stayed with her the whole night. Dean, for his part, wasn’t helping.
He’d sat beside you on the edge of the bed while you were tucking Lila in and had immediately let his hand settle too low on your back. Not sweet low. Intentional low. You’d swatted him once, and he’d just grinned, completely unbothered.
Now, in the hallway just outside Jax’s room, you tried again.
“Jax”, you said softly, kneeling by his bed as he curled up with his blanket. “Last monster trap of the night, okay? No sneaking into the hallway. No Nerf gun ambushes. Got it?”.
“But what if the rain’s hiding something?”, he asked, voice half-asleep. “Like a banshee or a frog ghost or—”.
“Then Daddy and I will deal with it”, you promised, brushing his hair back. “You just sleep”.
Dean stood behind you, one arm stretched above his head, hand resting against the doorframe, watching you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks. Like your oversized T-shirt and messy post-cleaning bun were the sexiest things he’d ever laid eyes on.
You stood, and his hand slid to your hip immediately. “Kids are down”, you whispered.
His voice was lower. Rougher. Hungrier. “Finally”.
You tried to turn toward the hallway, but he didn’t move. Instead, his hands circled your waist, pulling you back against him with a groan he barely bothered to muffle.
“You’re supposed to let me go”, you said, half-laughing, half-warned.
“Can’t”, he muttered, nose in your neck, lips brushing your skin. “It’s been four days. You remember that, sweetheart? Four days. You wore those yoga pants on Sunday and then Lila wouldn’t nap, and then Jax had that cough and then Sam needed help with the wiring, and now—”.
“Dean”.
His voice dropped to a whisper that made your knees weaken. “Now I’ve got you. And no excuses”.
You swallowed hard. The warmth of his chest at your back, the scent of his aftershave still lingering on his skin, the way his fingers dragged slowly under the hem of your shirt… it all made your brain stall. “But the kids—”.
“Are asleep. Doors are locked. Thunder’s loud”.
You turned to face him, just barely, and his hands stayed firm at your hips, guiding you gently until your back hit the hallway wall. His body pressed close and the look in his eyes was pure need. Not just want, need. That kind of hunger that only surfaced when he’d been waiting too long. When the storm outside matched the one he was holding inside.
Dean kissed you before you could say anything else. And it sure wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of kiss that stole air from your lungs, the kind that pressed every inch of him against you like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space left between. His hands gripped your hips, then slid under your thighs, and before you could catch your breath, he had you lifted, legs around him, back against the hallway wall, heart hammering.
“Dean”, you gasped into his mouth, both hands gripping his shoulders.
“God, I missed this”, he murmured against your jaw, lips moving down your neck. “Missed you”.
You felt that edge of desperation, of frustration, of patience worn thin from too many nights of bedtime stories and dishes and grown-up responsibilities that had kept him from you.
“Bedroom’s not an option”, you whispered, catching your breath between kisses. “Lila’s in there”.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something wild. His smile was slow. Dangerous. “I know a place”.
You didn’t even need to ask. Of course he meant the Impala.
Five minutes later, you found yourself in the garage. The rain was still hammering the roof above, thunder rolling like a drumbeat just for the two of you. The air was cooler here, smelling like oil and leather and him. The overhead light buzzed softly as Dean shut the door behind you and turned to face you again.
You leaned back against the Impala’s hood.
“You remember the last time we did this?”, he asked, voice low as he stepped between your legs.
“Barely”, you teased. “I was too busy trying not to fall off the hood”.
Dean grinned and leaned in, hands planting firm on either side of your hips. His lips found yours again, slower now, more focused.
He broke the kiss only to mumble, mouth brushing your skin, “Been too damn long since I’ve had you right here”.
You could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body was holding itself back just barely. His breath was ragged against your neck as his hands slid up your thighs. “Last time…”, he murmured, voice low and rough, “…you were wearing that sundress I like. Think you bent over the hood without me even asking”.
“Dean”, you whispered.
“I swear”, he said, kissing you again between the words, “I haven’t stopped thinking about that since. Every time I see this damn car—”.
You didn’t let him finish. Your hands were in his shirt, his mouth back on yours, the Impala beneath you and the storm outside wrapping the garage in sound and heat and the kind of want that didn’t wait for the perfect moment. Just this moment.
Dean’s hands slid under your thighs again, lifting you effortlessly onto the Impala’s hood. The metal was warm beneath you, smooth and familiar, just like his grip. His lips were on your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your collarbone to your shoulder.
Then he paused, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and turned you gently.
“Turn around for me, sweetheart”.
You did, breath shallow, hands bracing against the slick black surface of the car. You felt his hands on your hips again, tugging down the soft pajama pants you’d thrown on hours ago. And then he froze.
There was a moment of complete silence between you, just the rain, the hum of the garage light, and his sharp breath behind you.
“No panties?”, he muttered, almost to himself. His palm settled firm against your hip, fingers flexing. “And here I was thinkin’ I was the one making plans tonight”.
You smiled, barely able to hold it in. “Maybe I had a plan too”.
He leaned in, chest pressing against your back, mouth brushing your ear as his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. “Should’ve known”, he murmured. “You’ve been lookin’ at me all day like you wanted to climb me”.
You laughed under your breath, but it quickly turned to a soft gasp as his hand dragged slow along your skin.
“You always this ready for me?”, he muttered, lips brushing your temple. “Or is this a special occasion?”.
“Thunder”, you whispered, arching slightly against his touch, “gets me going”.
He chuckled, low, rough and hungry. “Damn. Should’ve started a playlist of storm sounds weeks ago”.
Then his fingers found you properly, no teasing now, just that deep, deliberate pressure that made your hands curl tighter against the Impala’s hood. He moved with that same practiced ease he always had, like he knew every part of you by heart. Because he did.
“Still so tight for me”, he growled, voice full of pure need. “And I haven’t even—”.
“Dean”, you warned, breath catching.
“What?”, he said innocently, but his grin was anything but. “Just admiring your commitment. Pajama pants, no underwear, conveniently bent over baby…”. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, fingers still working you slow and steady, pulling breathy sounds from your lips you couldn’t have held back if you tried. “Starting to think you’re the dangerous one in this marriage”.
“You complaining?”.
He chuckled, lips trailing kisses across your spine now. “Sweetheart, I’m about two seconds away from losing every last bit of control I’ve got left”.
You looked back at him, barely over your shoulder, your voice soft but certain. “Then don’t hold back”.
That was it. His expression shifted, no more teasing, no more restraint. Just Dean. Protective and possessive. Still completely and utterly in love.
One hand curled into your hair. He tugged gently, tilting your head back just enough so your breath caught, your eyes fluttered. Then he pressed his body against yours and without another word, he slid into you in one, deep thrust.
The sound that left your lips was caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, swallowed by the rain hammering the garage roof above.
Dean cursed softly against your skin, holding still for just a second, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt around him. “Fuuck”, he muttered, voice frayed with need. “Been thinkin’ about this all damn day”.
You braced your hands on the Impala’s hood again.
He gave a slow roll of his hips and leaned in close, mouth right beside your ear now. “Don’t scratch her, baby”, he whispered, breath hot and teasing. “She’s been real patient with us”.
You laughed breathless and flushed and dragged your nails lightly down the edge of the hood just to make him groan. “She’ll forgive me”, you managed, voice shaking. “She always does”.
“Yeah”, he growled, thrusting again, deeper this time. “But me? I’m not so sure”.
You could feel his smirk against your skin, even as his rhythm picked up, as his hand slid from your hair to your waist, holding you right where he wanted you.
The sound of rain grew louder, as if the storm outside knew exactly what was happening inside and wanted to drown it all in thunder and shadow. But even that couldn’t cover the wet sounds of skin meeting skin, the ragged breath in your throat, or the quiet, desperate moans you tried (and failed) to muffle against your arm.
Dean wasn’t holding back anymore. Each thrust hit deep, like he was chasing something, like he needed to remind you exactly who you belonged to and how well he knew your body. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in just enough to leave their mark. "That's it", he muttered behind you, voice hoarse.
You could barely breathe, every movement sending sparks down your spine, every thrust landing just right, again and again. He knew what he was doing. He always knew.
You cried out softly, but it was swallowed by the thunder cracking above the roof.
Dean leaned over you, chest against your back now, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he grunted, “That the spot, sweetheart? Huh?”.
You nodded, barely able to get the word out. He slammed into you again, rougher now, rhythm steady but powerful. “Say it”, he whispered.
“Y-yeah”, you gasped, trembling. “Dean, that’s—right there”.
His breath hitched, like those words flipped something in him, and he groaned into your neck, kissing your shoulder hard. “I missed you like this. Bent over my car, moaning my name, takin’ me so damn well”.
“Dean—”, your voice broke on the word.
“I got you”, he whispered fiercely. “Always got you”.
You felt yourself getting close, too close. Dean must've felt it too. “Let go”, he murmured, almost like a command but layered with something softer underneath. “Come on, baby… right here, with me”.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve lighting up, every muscle coiling, your breath catching like it had nowhere to go. And then it hit. You came hard, gasping his name, trembling beneath the weight of it as the Impala’s hood creaked quietly under your grip.
Dean stilled for a heartbeat, his own breath ragged against your neck.
“Shit", he muttered, voice fraying at the edges. “That’s it. Just like that…”.
He slid out of you slowly, and before you could even catch your breath, he was palming himself behind you, his other hand pressing gently on the small of your back. “Stay like this”, he said quickly, half plea, half demand. “Don’t move. Just—fuck, just like that”.
You barely managed a nod, still dazed, still clinging to the last shocks of your own high as he took over, his hand stroking himself fast and tight behind you, rhythm stuttering with every ragged breath he let out. “Look at you”, he groaned. “Bent over baby, dripping for me…”.
You felt his hand tighten at your back as he let out a broken sound, a low, drawn-out moan. Then came the warmth on your skin as he spilled across your lower back, your ass, claiming you in the messiest, most Dean way possible.
He let out a deep exhale, palm still gently resting on the curve of your spine. “Damn…”, he muttered, voice lazy now, a little dazed. “That… that was worth every minute of waiting”.
You laughed, still catching your breath, and shifted slightly, only for him to still you with a gentle hand. “Uh uh”, he said. “Don’t move. You look too damn good like this”.
“Dean”, you groaned, half protesting, half melting at the heat in his tone. “We’re not twenty anymore”.
He chuckled against your back, warm lips pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. Eyes lazily dragging over your body as if he hadn’t just wrecked you over the hood of his most prized possession. “You still take me like you’re twenty”, he murmured, brushing his hand over your lower back, almost sweetly.
You laughed, still catching your breath. “You still talk like a frat boy”.
Dean leaned down again, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “And you still get me so worked up I forget we’ve got two kids upstairs and a mortgage”.
You reached for the towel again, but Dean stopped you, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist. “Don’t need that”, he said, voice low and gravel-rich.
You gave him a half-curious, half-warned look over your shoulder. “Dean…c´mon”.
But he was already moving, already sliding his fingers down your spine with deliberate care. He crouched slightly behind you, his palm spreading across the curve of your hip, steadying you.
And then you felt his fingers again. Sweeping through the slick heat he’d left behind, and instead of wiping it away, he pressed the pads of two fingers back inside you.
You gasped, hips twitching slightly against the cold surface of the car.
Dean groaned under his breath, like he hadn’t meant to, but couldn’t help it. “Still so damn warm”, he muttered.
You pressed your forehead against the cool metal, biting back a sound that threatened to rise from your throat. “This is not… cleaning”.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, in that rough, amused tone that always got under your skin, he muttered, “Don’t want to waste a damn drop”.
You let out a soft sound, half disbelief, half pleasure, and turned your head just enough to give him a lazy glare over your shoulder. “Are you serious right now?”.
Dean’s fingers eased deeper, then drew back slowly, pushing again with almost no pressure, just intent, reverent, even. “Dead serious”, he said low. “Feels like you need me to”.
You bit your lip, trying to quiet the whimper in your throat. “Need you to stop talking like that”.
He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Why? It’s true”.
“Dean—”.
He leaned forward again, breath brushing the back of your neck. “You know what kills me, sweetheart?”, he murmured, fingers still sliding in that slow, patient rhythm. “You walking around all day like the world’s normal. Like we’re just a couple of tired parents in a quiet house. Meanwhile, you’re already like this—wet, open for me, no panties. Like you wanted me to ruin you”.
Your breath hitched again, body pulsing against his hand with that raw ache still stirring low.
“Was I wrong?”, he added, softer now.
You shook your head. “No”, you whispered, the word shaky in your throat. “You weren’t”.
Dean let out a pleased groan, then kissed your spine softly, contrasting the filth of the moment with that strangely tender reverence he reserved only for you. “You’re mine”, he said into your skin. "Every damn part”.
You nodded, biting your lip as your knees nearly gave again.
He slowly pulled his fingers free, finally, his hands now gentle as he stood and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against him.
You melted into him, flushed, heartbeat still stuttering. “Remind me”, you said quietly, leaning your head back against his shoulder, “how the hell we’re supposed to go upstairs and parent after that”.
Dean chuckled into your hair. “By pretending none of this happened… and hoping Jax doesn’t ask why the garage smells like a good time”.
You snorted, hand covering your face. “We’re awful”.
“We’re married”, he corrected, spinning you slowly in his arms until you were facing him, eyes locked. “And we’re damn good at it”.
You smiled, soft and full.
“C’mon”, he said, nudging your nose with his. “Let’s check on the little monsters then maybe, maybe, you let me clean you up proper”.
What do you think Dean’s nastiest kinks are? We all know he can be subby (imo he's a switch).
Ooh this is a good question! Not all of these are kinks btw, some are more headcanons. And quickly addressing if he is a switch, I think he can be with a certain type of person. Not even if he’s with the ‘right person for him’ it just depends on if you pull it out of him or not. His dominance doesn't mean he's uncomfortable or doesn't feel safe, and the more submissive energy will come out when he’s asking for permission and showering you in compliments like he’s devoted.
He’d love anything where he gets to take care of you and show that he’s good at it. He loves fauxcest and breeding, craving intimacy that’s deeper than a relationship and thicker than blood. Also creampies… his subby nature comes out when he cleans you up with his tongue. He would ask if you want him to fuck a sibling in you, your eagerness being what pushes him over the edge.
He'd also be into semi-public sex. Except for the bunker he never really had his own space, so he would get so used to fucking in the most random places that it became kind of a challenge. He wants to see where your line is; where you let him slide your panties to the side fuck you up against a wall and where you put your foot down. He's most proud of fucking you over the hood of baby in a bar parking lot, clamping his hand around your mouth to muffle any whines.
He loves any little tokens of yours, like polaroids or a skimpy little pair of panties he can keep in his pocket. They're scattered everywhere. A little something in each of his jackets and every glove compartment in baby. Sam has stumbled on them a few times, just dropping them like they're red hot with an exasperated 'jesus, dean.'
Intoxicated sex... he'd love knowing that you trust him enough to make yourself weak and vulnerable for him, and it's his job to take care of you. He'd always ask before if you want to get drunk and fuck or if you only want him to help you through your shower and tuck you in. The way he asks you... in that low voice of his... sometimes you wonder if he only asks because he knows how to make you say yes. And when you say yes he lays the fucking charm on. His hand is squeezing at your hip, eyes are catching on your lips, and if he's had a few he's licking on your neck right at the bar. He keeps making you stay for one more, his motivations equally torn between wanting to get you worked up and needy and making you a drunk and horny mess for him.
Summary: You are Soldier Boy’s wife. Gentle where he is hard and steady where his world keeps pulling him away. But as Vought’s spotlight grows brighter, home starts to feel lonelier and you’re left wondering what love looks like when it’s tested by power.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 5442
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Even before the Compound V, even before the Vought men with their polished shoes and lacquered smiles, the house had always been too small for his footsteps. He had filled every room like a storm front. Broad shoulders in narrow doorways, heavy hands on the kitchen table. His voice carrying down the short hallway whether he meant it to or not.
But back then, the house had still felt lived in. Tight, a little shabby, but warm. His boots by the front door. His jacket slung over the back of a chair. The smell of coffee in the mornings, cigarette smoke curling out the kitchen window, his laugh—rare, but real—when you said something dry enough to catch him off guard.
Now it felt like a place arranged around an absence.
You sat on the sofa with your legs tucked under you, a mending basket open at your feet and his shirt spread across your lap. One of the seams at the cuff had split. It was the beige one he barely wore anymore, too plain now, too ordinary for the image Vought had started to build around him. If he wasn´t in his supe suit, they liked him in red, white and blue.
Outside, the street was quiet. You lived outside the city, where people still left porch lights on for one another.
Eleven forty-three.
You threaded the needle through the cuff and pulled it taut.
You used to wait up without realizing you were waiting. Two plates on the table, one growing cold. Coffee kept warm on the stove too long. It had changed slowly, then all at once. The first week after the injections, he’d still come home every night, wired and bright-eyed, walking too fast, talking too loud, unable to sit still. His skin had run hot under your hands. He’d paced the kitchen in a white undershirt, flexing his fingers like he could feel power underneath them, as if his own body had turned strange on him.
“D’you know what it felt like?”, he’d asked you then, grinning in that boyish way that made him look younger and meaner all at once. “Like lightning. Like somebody cracked me open and poured in pure energy”.
You had been standing barefoot at the stove, stirring tomato sauce that was already done. “Ben”, you’d said quietly, because your voice always got quieter when his got louder, “sit down before you wear a hole in the floor”.
He had laughed and crossed the room. He caught you around the waist and lifted you clean off the ground with one hand like you weighed nothing at all.
You had gasped, sauce spoon clattering against the pot, both hands flying to his wrist.
“Benjamin—put me down”.
He had. Right away. Too fast, almost, as if he’d forgotten for a second what ordinary strength felt like. His grin had faded when he saw your face.
“Hey”. He’d touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers, unexpectedly gentle. “Didn’t hurt you”.
“I know”.
“You looked scared”.
You had managed a small smile then, one that meant to smooth a moment over before it turned ugly. “You picked me up one-handed in the kitchen”.
“That’s the point, sweetheart”.
Months later, the point seemed to belong to everyone except you.
A pair of headlights swept across the living room wall.
You looked up fast, needle pausing midair.
The front gate clicked. Then his tread hit the porch, still unmistakable, still his, though heavier now somehow.
Your fingers curled around the shirt.
He stepped inside. For a second, he stood under the entry light, framed by it. Broad chest under a dark peacoat. Hair combed back too neatly, probably for some event, though loose strands had fallen over his forehead by now. There was lipstick on the corner of his collar—not yours, not your shade. The sight of it passed through you so quietly it barely made a ripple on the surface, but your hand tightened around the cloth in your lap until the needle pricked your thumb.
He closed the door with more force than necessary. The glass in the little front window rattled.
“You’re up”.
His voice was rough with fatigue and something harder underneath it.
You set the shirt aside before you stained it with blood. “It’s late”.
He glanced at the room, taking it in like a man visiting a place he used to know. His gaze landed on the mending basket. On the lamp you’d left on beside the sofa. On you.
He looked tired in ways the newspapers never caught. It couldn’t show the strain gathered around his eyes now, or the restless twitch in his jaw when he was trying to keep hold of his temper.
“Yeah”, he said. “I noticed”.
You rose from the sofa, smoothing your skirt automatically. “Do you want something to eat? I kept the roast warm as long as I could, but I can—”.
“No”.
You nodded. “All right”.
He tossed his gloves on the side table and missed. They slid to the floor and he didn’t pick them up.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then he gave a short, humorless laugh and dragged a hand over his face. “You gonna ask?”.
Your throat felt dry. “Ask what?”.
“How the gala went. Whether the mayor kissed my ass. Whether the Vought pricks rolled out another flag and called me the future of the nation”. He stepped farther into the room, shrugging out of his coat. “That’s what a wife asks, isn’t it?”.
You bent to pick up his gloves because leaving them there felt worse. “I didn’t want to start with work the second you walked in”.
“Work”, he repeated, like the word offended him. “That what you think this is?”.
You straightened carefully. “I think it keeps you away from home”.
His eyes snapped to yours.
There was that little movement, sudden and electric, the one he’d had since the V, like something inside him hated being contradicted. He crossed the room before you’d fully braced for it, looming close enough that you had to tip your face up to keep looking at him.
“Home”, he said, lower now. “This place? This little box on a dead street where the neighbors peek through their curtains every time a car pulls up?”.
“It was home before they put you on billboards”.
His mouth tightened.
For one awful second, you thought he might smash something just to have somewhere to put the anger. The lamp or maybe the side table. His hand flexed at his side. Tendons stood out in his wrist.
Then, instead, he laughed again. Meaner this time. At himself or at you, you couldn’t tell.
“You think I asked for half of this?”, he said. “You think I like being pulled in ten directions by men who smile with all their teeth and talk to me like I’m a racehorse?”.
“No”, you said softly. “I think you like the parts that shine”.
His stare sharpened.
You almost wished you hadn’t said it. Not because it wasn’t true. Because it was. Because you knew him well enough to put a finger right on the bruise.
His jaw worked. He looked past you toward the kitchen, toward the sink full of washed dishes drying in the rack, the hand towel folded over the oven door, the ordinary life waiting there with its small routines and quiet expectations. When he spoke again, his voice had gone flatter.
“You don’t know what it’s like now”.
The room felt very still.
“No”, you said after a moment. “You don’t let me”.
Something in his face shifted, unsettled, as if for a moment he had been forced to look directly at the distance he kept pretending was made by everyone else. He looked at you. At your cardigan buttoned wrong because you’d done it absentmindedly. At the tiny dot of blood on your thumb from the needle. At the shirt on the sofa, half-mended, waiting for hands that hardly came home to wear it.
His eyes dropped to your thumb. “You hurt yourself?”.
You tucked your hand behind your back automatically. “It’s nothing”.
He reached for your wrist.
You flinched.
Not dramatically. Barely anything, just the slightest pull backward, quick as breath.
But he saw it and his hand stopped in the air between you.
His expression changed in increments so small they were almost impossible to read. First disbelief. Then anger. Then something darker and more private, like humiliation curdling into resentment before it had the chance to become regret.
“Jesus Christ”, he said, very quietly.
You hated that your pulse had jumped. Hated that he’d noticed. Hated even more that part of you had started measuring the room the way you did lately without meaning to, the distance to the kitchen, the solidity of the table, whether the front door was unobstructed.
He let his hand drop.
“You think I’m gonna hit you now?”, he asked.
You swallowed. “I didn’t say that”.
“You moved”.
You looked at his face and chose your words with care. “You came at me fast”.
“I came at you fast”, he echoed, a bite under the words. “That what we’re calling it?”.
The first drops had started, tapping softly against the front window.
You could smell rain coming in through the cracks in the old frame.
“I’m tired, Ben”.
“So am I”.
The answer came back immediate, almost childish in its force. He turned away, raking both hands through his hair, pacing once to the fireplace and back like the room could not contain him. “Everybody wants a piece”, he muttered. “The company, the press, the goddamn country. And I come home and you look at me like—”. He stopped.
“Like what?”, you asked.
He faced you again. His eyes were bright, too bright.
“Like I’m already somebody you have to survive”.
You couldn’t answer right away. Not with the truth sitting between your teeth.
He looked as though he regretted saying it the moment it left him, but the regret didn’t make him gentler. It just made him harder, the way shame always did with him.
Finally, you said, “I still wait up for you”.
His face closed off. That had been the wrong thing too, or maybe there wasn’t a right one anymore.
“Don’t”.
Your fingers curled at your sides. “Don’t what?”.
“Sit here like some widow every damn night”. He went to the hallway, then paused without turning around. “Go to bed”.
The bedroom door shut a minute later, hard enough to shake the framed wedding photo on the mantle.
You stood where he’d left you, listening to the rain and the old house settling around it. You looked down at the shirt still draped across the sofa, the neat line of stitches you’d managed before he came home, and then at the hallway where the light under the bedroom door burned a thin gold line across the floorboards.
After a long while, you sat back down and picked up the needle again, though the thread shook a little in your hands.
-
Half an hour later, the light under the bedroom door had still been on when you reached the hallway. You stood outside it for a second with your hand on the knob, listening. No pacing now. No drawers opening and shutting. Just the low scrape of bedsprings when he shifted his weight, and the faint hiss of rain against the window over the radiator.
Then you opened the door and stepped inside.
The bedroom was small, same as the rest of the house. Too much furniture for the space. A narrow bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a warped bottom drawer. Your vanity by the window, its mirror clouded at the edges. The yellow lamplight made everything look softer than it was. It took the sharpness out of the room, but not out of him.
Ben was already in bed, propped against the headboard in nothing but his underwear, one arm hooked behind his head. The sheets were dragged low on his waist. He looked up as soon as you came in.
He didn’t say anything.
You shut the door quietly behind you.
Your nightgown was folded at the end of the bed where you had left it that morning, a spill of pale pink satin catching the light. Soft pink, almost too delicate a color to belong anywhere near him. All your nightgowns had come from him, bought on one of his early Vought trips into the city when the money had started coming easier and faster. He had arrived home with glossy department store boxes tucked under one arm and the self-satisfied look of a man pleased with his own generosity.
“Try ‘em on”, he’d said, dropping them on the bed.
You had touched the tissue paper, then looked up at him. “Ben, we didn’t need—”.
“I wanted to”.
That had been the end of that.
He liked choosing things for you. Dresses. Perfume. Stockings. Little ribbons for your hair back when you still wore it that way around the house. He liked to look at you and see his own taste staring back.
You crossed to the dresser and opened the top drawer for your hairbrush, though you didn’t need it yet. Mostly you needed something to do with your hands.
Behind you, the mattress creaked once.
“Thought I told you to go to bed”, he said.
You kept your eyes on the drawer. “That’s what I’m doing”.
His voice came back after a beat, flatter. “You know what I meant”.
You set the brush down again. “No. You meant stop waiting up. I did that”.
The room went still. In the mirror, you could see him watching you. Not lazily or idly. Fully. His gaze had weight to it. It moved over your shoulders, your hands, the line of your back beneath your cardigan, and stayed there. He always looked like a man who expected the world to hold still when he fixed his attention on it. Lately, the world usually did.
You unbuttoned your cardigan slowly. Not for him but because your fingers felt clumsy, and you refused to let them show it.
He made a small sound in his throat. Not quite a laugh.
“You’re sore at me”.
You set the cardigan over the chair by the vanity. “You noticed”.
“Don’t do that”.
You turned partway toward him. “Do what?”.
“That quiet little voice like you’re better than everybody in the room”.
For a second you just looked at him. Then you reached for the zipper at the back of your skirt. “I’m not better than you, Ben”.
“No?”. He shifted higher against the headboard. “You’ve been looking at me all night like I crawled out of the gutter”.
The zipper rasped down. “You came home looking for a fight”.
“And you made sure I found one”.
His tone sharpened on the last word.
You stepped out of your skirt and folded it over the chair. The blouse came next. You laid that down too, careful with the sleeves. The air in the room felt cool against your skin. Your slip brushed your knees as you moved.
In the mirror his eyes had not left you.
There was nothing tender in the watching, not at first. It was the old familiar thing: appraisal, possession, habit. The look of a man checking whether what was his was still where he had left it.
You reached for the pink gown. The satin slid through your fingers with a whisper. It was soft enough to make your skin look softer, the color flattering in the way he liked. The neckline was modest, but the fabric clung a little before falling loose. He had chosen it because it made you look gentle. It made you look like his wife should.
You slipped it on over your head.
The gown settled against you cool and smooth, then warmed by degrees where it touched your shoulders and ribs. You adjusted the straps, eyes lowered. The motion was ordinary, practiced. But under his stare, even ordinary things started to feel staged.
Ben watched every second of it.
When you reached for a fresh pair of panties, he spoke again.
“Leave em”.
You stilled. Then you set the panties down exactly where they were and turned to face him.
He had one knee bent under the sheet now, one arm draped over it. His hair was mussed from his hand going through it. Without the uniform and the shield and the Vought smile, there were flashes of the old him if you knew where to look. The crooked scar by his shoulder from some dumb bar fight before any of this. The nick on his jaw from the time he tried to fix the gutter himself and slipped. The shape of the mouth you had once thought looked stubborn in a way you could laugh at.
Now it mostly just looked dangerous.
His eyes moved over the nightgown and back to your face.
“That one looks nice on you”.
You almost said thank you by reflex. The habit rose quick as breath, then died before it reached your mouth. “You picked it”, you said instead.
He held your gaze. “Yeah”.
The word sat between you for a moment. Then he pushed the sheet aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. You didn’t move. Neither did he, at first. He just sat there with his forearms braced on his thighs, looking up at you from under his lashes.
“Come here”, he said. His voice wasn’t soft. It rarely was. But it had dropped out of that earlier sharpness into something lower, rougher, more intimate in a way that still made your stomach tighten.
You went. You always had, with him. Not because he raised his voice. Not because he stood bigger than everyone else, bigger now than he had any right to be. Because this part had once felt simple. Him reaching. You yielding. His hand at the small of your back guiding you where he wanted you, and your body answering before your mind caught up.
There had always been something in you that liked being gathered up by his certainty. Liked not having to be hard in a world built for hard edges. Liked belonging, in the ways that were tender and chosen and warm.
It was only lately that warmth had started to come with a flinch.
You stopped between his knees.
Ben’s hands found your hips almost at once. They settled there like he was reminding himself of your shape. Through the satin, you could feel every spread finger, every ounce of pressure.
He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Up close, his face was all the things the billboards flattened out. The shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. The faint crease between his brows that deepened when he was trying not to snap. The tiredness under the bravado. The temper under the tiredness.
His thumbs moved once against the fabric at your waist. “You were mouthing off”, he said.
The corner of your mouth twitched before you could help it. “That wasn’t mouthing off”.
“Was for you”.
You looked down at him. “Maybe”.
One of his hands slid around to your back, pressing you a little closer. Not enough to hurt. Not yet. The satin shifted under his palm with a soft whisper.
“That little attitude”, he muttered. “You save it up for when I get home?”.
“Somebody has to say things to you”.
“I got plenty of people saying things to me”.
“That isn’t the same”.
His gaze sharpened on your face. For a second you thought he might bite back immediately, something mean and fast and cutting, the way he had lately when a nerve got touched. Instead he just looked at you, jaw moving once.
Then his eyes dropped. His hand had moved from your back to your side without you noticing. His fingers spread there, almost spanning half your waist. The pressure changed, minutely, as he touched the place above your hip.
The bruise there had already started turning the ugly yellow-brown of healing. Last week. The last time he’d been home long enough to touch you like he meant it. You had worn a higher-waisted skirt for two days after and pretended not to notice it in the mirror. His thumb pressed beside it, not on it.
“That still there?”, he asked.
You swallowed. The question should have sounded like concern. On someone else, maybe it would have. On him it came out hard, almost annoyed, like he resented the evidence of himself. “It’s fading”.
His fingers stayed where they were. You could still remember the exact moment it happened. His hand clamping down when you twisted under him, not from pain, just from the force of him, and his body not remembering yet that it wasn’t ordinary anymore. The breath leaving you in a short sound you hadn’t meant to make. His mouth going still against your throat when he realized.
Then that strange, ugly sequence that had become familiar these last weeks: guilt for one beat, anger the next, as if being sorry made him feel weak and weakness had become intolerable.
He looked at the bruise through the satin as though he could see it. “You should’ve told me”.
You let out a small breath through your nose. “You were already mad”.
His head jerked up. “At what?”.
“At yourself”. Your voice stayed quiet and careful. “Which usually turns into me if I’m standing there”.
Something flashed across his face. Not denial, worse. Recognition.
His hand tightened before he caught it. You felt the start of it in your skin, that instinctive clench of too much strength, and then the deliberate release that followed. He noticed too
You put your hands lightly on his shoulders, more to steady the moment than yourself. His skin was warm, warmer than it used to be, the heat of him seeming to sit closer to the surface now. Under your palms he was all hard muscle and contained motion, even sitting still. “I know you don’t mean to”, you said.
His mouth flattened. “Don’t make excuses for me”.
“I’m not”.
“You always do”.
“That’s not true”.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Sweetheart, that’s damn near all you do”.
The endearment should have softened it. It didn’t. You looked at the set of his mouth, at the arrogance worn so close to the skin now, at the strain pulling under it. Then you reached up and touched the line between his brows with two fingers. He went still.
“You didn’t used to look at me like you were waiting for me to disappoint you”, he said.
The words came out quieter than the rest. So quiet you almost missed them.
Your hand lingered against his forehead, then slid into his hair.
“You didn’t used to make me work this hard to remember you”, you said.
His eyes lifted to yours and held, while his hands shifted from your hips to the backs of your thighs, just under the hem of the gown. The satin bunched under his fingers. The touch sent a familiar shiver through you despite everything.
He knew it. You knew he knew it.
That had always been the trouble with him. He could make your body answer even when your mind was tired, hurt, wary.
Even now, with all the sharpness in him. Maybe especially now. There was a part of you built to soften under a hand at your waist, under a low command, under that look that said come here, stay still, let me. It wasn’t shameful to you. It was simply true.
What you had never wanted was this other thing that had come in on the heels of power. This impatience. This carelessness. This streak of meanness that seemed to flare up before he even knew he’d lit it.
His thumbs stroked once, absent and possessive, against the bare skin above your knees. “You like it”, he said.
You knew what he meant. The way he handled you. The way he directed. The way you came to him instead of making him drag you. His voice had gone rougher again, but less defensive now, more certain. More Ben.
You didn’t look away. “That doesn’t mean I like all of it”.
His hands stilled. “All of what?”.
You hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
“The way you get now”, you said. “How fast it turns”.
His jaw tightened.
“That V”, you went on, because if you stopped now you’d lose the nerve entirely, “it’s not just making you stronger, Benjamin. It’s making everything in you come up sharper… Meaner”.
“Meaner”, he repeated, like trying the word for weakness.
“Yes”.
He stared at you. The muscle in his cheek flexed. For one long second you thought he would erupt. You could see the instinct for it, the pride wounded and immediately baring its teeth. His fingers flexed once against your thighs. Then, unexpectedly, he looked away first. His gaze went to the vanity, to the warped drawer, to your brush lying across a folded handkerchief. Anywhere but you.
When he spoke again, his voice had gone flatter, stripped down.
“You think I don’t know something’s off?”.
You blinked.
He huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Jesus”. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then put it back on your leg as though he couldn’t bear to have both hands off you at once. “I can hear too much now. Smell too much. Half the time I’m trying not to put my fist through a wall because the goddamn fridge is humming from three rooms away”.
You stayed still, listening.
“The suits want me smiling. Reporters want me charming. Every asshole in the country wants a piece”. His mouth twisted. “And then I get home and I touch you too hard”.
Something inside you softened at the edges, not because the problem vanished, but because there he was for a moment. Not the mascot, not the looming figure on the stage, not the man puffing up his chest against every bruise to his ego. Just Ben, sitting on the edge of a cheap bed in his underwear, looking furious at the world because he could not control his own hands.
You brushed your thumb once along his temple. “I know”.
His eyes cut back to yours. “No”, he said. “You don’t”.
You let your hand slide down to his jaw. The stubble there rasped against your palm. “Then tell me”, you said.
He searched your face like he expected mockery and found none. Only you. Only your too-soft voice and your pink gown and your hand on him like he was still worth touching.
Something in him gave way a little at the center. His shoulders dropped, not much, but enough. He leaned into your hand. Only for a second. So slight you might have thought you imagined it if you hadn’t known him as well as you did.
Then he caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it.
The gesture should have been sweet. The grip almost ruined it. Not because it was cruel, but because even now he forgot.
Your breath snagged before you could hide it. He froze. His mouth stayed against your pulse for one beat too long. Then he pulled back and looked at the place where his fingers circled your wrist. His expression changed when he saw the faint blanch of your skin there.
Very carefully, he loosened his hand. The gentleness of that was worse than if he’d ignored it.
“You see?”, you whispered. His eyes lifted. “I do like when you tell me where to be”, you said.
The admission came easier than you expected, because it was true, and truth had a way of making the air cleaner even when it hurt.
“I like when you put your hands on me. I like being yours”. Your throat tightened around the next part, but you made yourself say it anyway. “I don’t like feeling like you’ll forget I can break”.
He stood up too fast. You took half a step back before you could stop yourself. His eyes caught the movement immediately. That same wounded, furious look flickered over his face again, but now something else sat under it too. Shame. Raw and hot.
“Christ”, he muttered, and turned away from you.
He went two steps toward the window, then braced one hand on the sill hard enough to make the old frame creak. Rain striped the glass beyond him. The muscles in his back were rigid under his skin.
You stayed where you were, fingers curled into the satin at your side. After a moment he said, without turning, “Come here”. This time it wasn’t an order. It sounded almost like defeat.
You crossed the room slowly. When you stopped behind him, he didn’t turn around right away, he reached back for you. You put your hand in his. He drew you around to stand in front of him, between him and the rain-dark window.
His fingers slid under your chin, lifting your face. “I’m not gonna let anybody else touch you”, he said.
You held his gaze. “That was never the part I was afraid of”.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, with visible effort, he moved his hand from your chin to your cheek instead. Gentler. Deliberate. The pad of his thumb brushed under your eye, then along your jaw.
You laid your hands flat against his bare ribs. You could feel the expansion of his breathing under your palms, still a little too fast. Feel the contained strength in him, the dangerous ease of it.
It scared you sometimes now. It also didn’t stop you from wanting him. Both truths lived together, neither canceling the other out.
“I miss you”, you said.
His eyes flickered. “I’m right here”.
“No”, you said softly. “Not like before”.
He closed his eyes. Just for a second. When he opened them again, some of the fight had gone out of him. Not all. Never all. There would always be something in Ben that came out with his fists half-raised against the world. That was true before the V. The V had just poured gasoline over it and called it heroism.
He bent his head and rested his forehead against yours. The contact was careful. That, more than anything, almost undid you. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you there with a pressure you liked, a pressure that steadied rather than threatened.
You let your eyes close. His breath moved against your mouth. “Tell me if I do it”, he said.
You blinked your eyes open. “Do what?”.
“Turn on you”. His mouth tightened around the words. “Before I know it”.
You searched his face. Ben didn’t ask for help. Not from anyone. The request sat between you like a lit match cupped in both hands, fragile only because he would hate that word. You touched his cheek. “I always do”, you said.
A sad smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Barely there. Gone almost before it formed. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “You do”.
He kissed you then. Not rough. Not the punishing kind of kiss he sometimes reached for now, like he was trying to silence himself with your mouth. This one was slower. Intentional. His lips warm, the hand at your neck steady, the other settling at your waist with obvious care.
You felt the effort in him, the restraint, and that made the tenderness feel more precious, not less. You kissed him back.
When he pulled away, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours. His thumb moved once against your side. “Get in bed”, he said. The old command was back in the words, but gentled. Familiar in the way that made your body loosen instead of brace. You obeyed.
How Supernatural Characters React During Sex 𓂃 EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, 18+ ONLY
listen. LISTEN. i've been in these fandoms for way too long and i'm taking you all down with me. this is canon-compliant in my heart
DEAN WINCHESTER .ᐟ
Cannot. Shut. Up. Like, his dirty talk is actually incredible when he's not making pop culture references mid-thrust. "You like that, sweetheart? Yeah, you're taking my cock so good—wait, is that a Led Zeppelin riff? Anyway, where was I—oh right, you're so fucking tight—" DEAN. FOCUS. But honestly? The man can fuck. Years of practice, natural confidence, and he's absolutely the type to pin your wrists above your head and just pound into you while whispering the filthiest things in your ear. Loves doggy style because he gets to watch your ass bounce and grip your hips. Also definitely spanks—not too hard, just enough to make you gasp. Gets weirdly competitive about making you come ("I can get you there again, I know I can") and won't stop until you're literally pushing him away from overstimulation. The emotional constipation means he'll say something vulnerable like "You're perfect, you know that?" and immediately follow with "JK you're mid—KIDDING babe don't leave—" while still literally inside you. Has a praise kink he refuses to acknowledge. Call him a good boy and watch him absolutely lose it.
SAM WINCHESTER .ᐟ
This man CRIES his way through the entire experience and it's both heartbreaking and incredibly hot. Like, you're riding him and tears are just streaming down his face because he's so overwhelmed by the intimacy, the connection, the fact that someone wants him despite all his demon blood baggage. He'll thrust up into you, hitting that perfect spot, and choke out "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you feel so good, I have so much trauma—" while his massive hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. SAM. The crying doesn't stop him from absolutely railing you though—this man is BUILT and he uses every inch of that 6'4" frame. Loves missionary because he needs the eye contact and emotional connection, but also will fold you in half with your ankles by your ears because he's secretly a freak. Afterwards he wants to cuddle for minimum 45 minutes, still half-hard inside you, talking about his feelings while playing with your hair. Has definitely researched the female orgasm extensively and takes it as a personal challenge. Will eat you out for HOURS because "I just want to make you feel good" (he also might be crying while doing it).
CASTIEL .ᐟ
PRAYS when he's about to finish and it's the most unhinged thing you've ever experienced. Like, he's thrusting into you, angel blade intensity in his eyes, and right as he's about to come he starts reciting Enochian prayers: "Oh—Father—hallowed be—thrust—thy name—oh my FATHER—" and you're just there like CAS. YOUR DAD DOESN'T NEED TO BE IN THIS MOMENT. But also it's weirdly hot because he's so sincere about it? Maintains INTENSE unblinking eye contact the entire time because he read that "humans find eye contact intimate during copulation" and took it way too literally. His stamina is INSANE (angel perks) so he can go for literal hours without tiring. Loves when you're on top because he can watch your face and "observe your pleasure responses" (his words). Definitely asks "Am I performing this correctly?" with the most serious expression while his cock is literally inside you. After, he'll say something devastating like "I felt our souls merge. That was profound" and you have to be like yeah babe, same, that's called an orgasm. Occasionally uses a smidge of grace to hit spots that shouldn't be physically possible and it's TRANSCENDENT. We love one (1) confused angel trying his best.
ROWENA .ᐟ
This witch is having the time of her LIFE and she's taking you along for the ride. Centuries of experience, zero shame, absolutely here for pleasure. Uses magic in the most creative ways—floating you mid-air while she goes down on you, enchanting toys to hit impossible angles, maybe a spell or two to heighten sensitivity until you're coming from the barest touch. Very vocal about what she wants: "A bit to the left, dear—yes, RIGHT there, don't stop—" She'll ride you (or ride your face) with complete confidence, head thrown back, red hair everywhere, absolutely gorgeous. Talks very openly about it afterwards, will give you a full critique: "That was lovely, darling, but perhaps next time more attention to my breasts—they're magnificent, they deserve worship." ROWENA. She's also definitely had lovers across multiple centuries and will compare techniques. "There was a duke in 1645 who did this thing with his tongue—" It's intimidating but also she WILL teach you things you didn't know about your own body. Probably into some light bondage and definitely into being worshipped. We have no choice but to stan a confident woman who knows what she wants.
Notes: PART 1 HERE! made myself cry BUT it’s fine. This was fun to write. If anyone has any ideas for anything else I could do within this universe/relationship, PLEASE send them my way!! and ofc, let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist
TW: runaway bride, homewrecker!Ben, cheater!reader, leaving someone at the altar
Mascara streaked. Hands clenched in the layers of her wedding dress. Veil crooked and wrinkled. He doesn’t even get a word out before she’s shoving her way inside.
Ben barely has time to close the door before she rounds on him.
“This is all your fault!”
She’s yelling. Loud, panicked, furious. Her voice is cracking already. “I was fine, Ben. I was—I was gonna marry him. I had a life, and you just—you ruined it.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You knew what you were doing,” she sobs, shoving at his chest. “You knew that every time you touched me, I’d come back. That I couldn’t stay away. You knew.”
“Yeah,” he says calmly, voice low. “I did.”
That just makes her angrier. “God, you’re such a smug bastard—”
She hiccups on a sob, wiping her face with trembling hands. “I was supposed to get married, Ben. I was standing at the goddamn church doors and, I realized, I couldn’t do it. Because all I could think about was you. Your voice. Your fucking hands. The way you talk to me like I’m already yours—”
“You are mine,” he growls, stepping toward her.
“No,” she snaps, even as her eyes flood again. “No, I’m not—I didn’t want this. I didn’t ever want this.”
She slumps back against the wall, dragging her hands down her face as the sobs come faster—ugly, raw, gut-wrenching. The kind that feel like they hollow you out from the inside.
Ben watches for a second, jaw clenched, before stepping in. He gathers her against his chest despite her weak resistance, wrapping her in those massive arms like he can force the pain away.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”
“I hate you,” she sobs, face buried in his chest. “I hate you so much.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do,” she chokes. “I hate that you’re right. I hate that it was always gonna end like this. I hate that I didn’t stop it before it got this far.”
Ben’s grip tightens. “Should’ve left him the second I touched you.”
“I know,” she cries, broken. “But I didn’t. I was a coward, and now everyone’s gonna hate me. My family. My friends. I walked out on my wedding, Ben. Do you get that?”
He lifts her chin gently. “And you came here.”
Her lip trembles. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You are exactly where you need to be.”
She flinches like it hurts.
Because deep down—she knows it’s true.
And that might be the worst part.
He kisses her—gentler than he ever has before. No teeth. No hunger. Just warmth and promises he’ll never say out loud.
“I’ll take the heat,” he murmurs. “Let ‘em blame me. I’ll be the big bad wolf who seduced and brainwashed the pretty little bride. You just breathe.”
And she does.
Still sobbing. Still furious. But clinging to him like she’s afraid to let go.
••••••••
The sobs have quieted by the time he pulls her into the bedroom.
Her cheeks are still wet. Her eyes, glassy. But she’s not pushing him away anymore—not fighting the hands that skim her waist or the lips that graze her temple like a promise.
Ben hasn’t said a word in minutes. Not since she stopped yelling. Not since she collapsed into him, shaking like she hated herself for it. Now, he’s just watching her.
Like a man starving.
“You don’t get to be smug,” she whispers, voice raw and trembling. “You don’t.”
But he just hums, brushing the hair from her eyes. “Sure I do. You showed up in a wedding dress, baby. Might as well’ve gift wrapped yourself.”
Her breath hitches.
“You were always gonna be mine,” he says softly. “Told you that. Told you that months ago.”
“You said I’d never marry him.”
“Because you wouldn’t,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You were never gonna take his last name. Especially not when it was mine you wanted all along.”
She shudders when his fingers skim the delicate engagement ring still on her hand.
Ben’s expression darkens. Sharpens.
He takes her wrist gently, almost reverently, and plucks the ring from her finger—holds it up between them like it’s offensive.
“Ugly, cheap piece of shit,” he mutters. Then he tosses it.
She hears it hit the hardwood somewhere behind her, but she doesn’t look back.
Her heart’s in her throat.
And then he grabs her.
Not gentle this time. Not careful. He fists the soft fabric of her wedding dress and pulls her flush against him, lips dragging over her jaw, her neck, her collarbone.
“You really thought you were gonna marry him?” he says, voice low, dangerous. His thumb drags over the satin at her hip, slow and deliberate. “Walk down the aisle, say your vows, smile for the crowd—and what? Pretend you hadn’t been letting me fuck you six-ways-to-Sunday, in his bed, raw for months?”
She flinches. “Don’t—”
“You don’t get to act innocent now, sweetheart,” he says, hand dragging up her side, fingers brushing over lace and tulle. “You gave yourself to me. You know it. I sure as hell know it.”
Her eyes glass over.
“Did he ever even touch you the way I do?” he murmurs, cruel in how soft he says it. “Bet he never made you cry like I do. Not the right kind of cry, anyway.”
Her lip trembles, but she doesn’t answer.
He smirks, cocky and bitter and aching. “That’s what I thought.” He huffs a smug, cocky little laugh, “that limp dick little asshole couldn’t get you there. Not like I can. Not at all, if I remember correctly. This whole time sweetheart, you just needed a real man who knew how to take care of you and that pretty little cunt. And goddamn did you find the perfect guy for the job.”
Then he leans in and kisses her—slow and possessive, tongue dragging over hers like he’s reclaiming stolen property.
“You’re not his. You were never his.”
He lifts her onto the bed with one effortless motion, crowding her beneath him. Her dress hikes up her thighs, lace bunching in his fists.
“It’s a real pretty dress, baby… Keep it on,” he growls when she moves to unfasten it. “I wanna fuck you in it.”
Her lip trembles.
And she lets him.
He sinks into her like he was meant to, forehead to hers, breath hot, voice broken as he whispers, “should’ve been me from the start.”
He takes his time—slow but heavy, reverent but filthy. Possessive. Like he’s erasing the rest of the world. Like if he just marks her deep enough, no one else will ever touch her again.
And she takes it.
She clings to him like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Because maybe it is.
When he finishes, it’s with a groan against her throat, lips brushing her skin like a promise: never letting go.
And when he rolls them over, pulling her to his chest, she doesn’t say a word. Just curls into him—wedding dress wrinkled, mascara ruined, ring finger bare—and lets herself feel something that might be relief.
Notes: PART 2 HERE! coming back with a bang. I’ll make this look all pretty later, pinky swear. This is HEAVILY inspired by the song “Follow Me” by Uncle Kracker, I very much recommend you give it a listen before/while you read. Let me know if you catch a mistake— enjoy <3
TW: cheating (and they talk about it a lot), kitchen counter sex, oral sex (m receiving), Ben actively being a homewrecker
“I’m not worried ’bout the ring you wear…”
Ben’s shirt smelled like him.
Cigarettes. Aftershave. Leather. Arrogance.
The kind of scent that clung to your skin and hair long after he was gone—after you were supposed to be gone, too. Gone to a better life. A stable one. A safe one.
The diamond ring on your finger caught the morning light as you adjusted the oversized button up hanging off your shoulder. Not too flashy but expensive. Perfect. Picked out by someone who loved you deeply and wanted to give you the world.
Too bad he could never fuck you like Ben did.
Ben was barefoot in apartment kitchen your fiancé pays for, pouring himself a glass of orange juice like he owned the place. Relaxed. His dog tags resting against the undershirt stretched over chest, glinting like they belonged here more than the goddamn engagement photos and wedding invitation on the fridge.
“You’re so fucked up,” you muttered, legs dangling from the kitchen counter.
Ben glanced over his shoulder, completely unbothered, grinning like the devil himself. “Yeah? Look who’s talkin’, sweetheart.”
He crossed the room and stepped between your legs, hands sliding up your bare thighs—no panties, just the shirt and the ring you never bothered to take off. He lifted your left hand and turned it in his grip, studying the rock with that infuriating smirk.
“Pretty,” he said mockingly, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “Bet he saved up for it. Practiced the speech. Got down on one knee and everything, huh?”
You swallowed hard, heat flaring behind your cheeks. “Ben…”
He leaned in, lips grazing your throat. “Bet he thinks you’re a good girl. Gonna make the perfect little housewife.”
You whimpered.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmured, dragging your hand down to where he was already hard beneath the waistband of his sweats. “Tell me he gets you like I do.”
You didn’t.
Because he didn’t.
Ben tugged you to the edge of the counter, pushing your thighs open wide. Your ring glittered as your hand clutched his shoulder, nails digging in. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just shoved his sweats down enough to pull himself out and buried himself inside you with one rough, perfect thrust.
Your back hit the cabinets.
“Fuck—Ben—” you gasped, half a sob already.
He smiled against your neck. “That’s my girl.”
He fucked you slow—tauntingly slow—dragging every inch through you like he had all morning. Your ring tapped against the marble counter every time your hand slammed down for balance, the sound only making him go harder.
“Gonna wear my shirt to bed on your honeymoon?” Ben panted, watching your tits bounce under the button up—his. “Sleep next to him smelling like me. Let him play house while I remind you who you really belong to once he goes off to work?”
You came hard—body jerking, mouth open, his name gasping out of you like a confession you’d been dying to scream.
Ben didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down. Didn’t soften. He chased his own high like a man possessed.
“You wanna walk down the aisle like this?” he panted into your ear, one hand gripping the back of your neck. “With my cum leaking down your thighs?”
“Ben—please—”
“Fuckin’ pathetic,” he groaned, pulling out just long enough to yank you off the counter and shove you to your knees. “Open your mouth.”
You obeyed.
Like always.
And when he came—hot, messy, claiming—he watched you swallow every drop with your ring adorned hand around his cock.
You sat there on the floor. Friction burned knees. Ruined mascara. Ring still sparkling like none of it happened.
Ben zipped up. Looked down at you like a goddamn king.
“You think he’d still marry you,” he said slowly, “if he knew what you looked like right now?”
Silence.
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t have to.
He hummed, eyes raking over you one last time. “Better clean up, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna be late for brunch with your future in-laws.”
You pushed your hair behind your ears with shaky hands, your knees still pressed against the tile, your ring glinting like a punchline.
Ben stood in the doorway, watching you.
“Go ahead,” he said, voice rough but easy. “Marry him. Play house. Smile pretty for the pictures.”
He leaned back against the frame, grinning like the devil you were stupid enough to follow.
“But you’ll still think about me when he’s inside you. You’ll still wish it was my hands on you when he’s trying to fuck you right. He might get to have the wedding. The house. All that shit….”
Can we talk about Jensen Ackles for a moment? Like that man will always be my true love. Like Dean Winchester love him. Mark Meachum yessss. But then he had to go and make Soldier Boy. And that man fictional or reallll like .....
18+ below
Soldier Boy who doesn't know how to use a cellphone, who will literally throw the thing at the wall and let it smash in pieces when he hits the wrong button. Soldier boy who will visibly ignore Butchers phone call, even in an emergency. Soldier boy who will tell the group that carrying a cellphone around is for scared little pussies.
But then he found the camera app ... And all bets were off.
Ben would only pull his cellphone out when you were least expecting it. Trying on cute dresses. *Snap* Baking a sweet treat with flour on your cheeks. *Snap* Take a nice little nap on the couch, cuddled in his lap under a blanket. *Snap snap*
Then he found out he could make little videos. You blinded folded, hands tied behind your back tight enough that your perky little tits were pressed tightly together while he slid his thick cock between your lips, drool running down your chin while he thrusted slowly in and out, nothing heard but his grunts, your whines, and the buzz of the vibrator he put between your legs.
"You're such a sweet thing, you know that?" He would grunt as you choked on his cock before he would pull back. "Taking daddy's cock so well." You would whine and rock your hips against the conveniently placed vibrator begging and whining. He would move the camera down to get the perfect shot of your red puffy pussy lips before tossing the vibrator to the side, letting it buzz next to your head before pushing his cock inside you, getting the best angle of your tight wet hole stretching around his thick cock. Ben wasn't one to usually take his time but this time he did, making sure he had the perfect video to jerk off to when you were away.
Meanwhile, you wouldn't have a clue that Ben had even grabbed his phone and took his 'spank bank clips' until you picked up his discarded phone one day, annoyed that he was ignoring another call from Butcher and letting the device buzz away on the kitchen counter.
It was then you would see his screen saver, you laying on the bed, still bond and blind folded with his cum on your lips and chest.
"Benjamin!"
He would smirk when he saw you, phone in hand cheeks red, and an angry look on your face. But he would shrug.
Summary: Porn creates unrealistic expectations. Dean wants to show you how much he loves your body in a brand new way.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader
CW: 18+ MDNI, body image issues, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, soft!dom Dean, reader's first time receiving oral, established relationship, marking
WC: 1K
A/n: I randomly thought of this while I've been nesting, figured I'd leave you a parting gift before my maternity leave <3
“I promise you’ll love it, sweetheart, but if you don’t, I’ll stop.”
It was hard to deny the shirtless man kneeling between your thighs. Dean looked like the god of sex appeal—perfectly toned body, emerald green eyes that you wanted to drown in, and the loving gaze that you melted beneath. The way his warm, rough hands lightly dragged across your soft thighs felt electrifying.
You’d accidentally stumbled across some of his porn (seeing as he never closed his browser tabs) and you didn’t look anything like those women. Dean, on the other hand, had a body that was made to be admired. You knew that female porn stars got bleached and waxed, and that it created an unrealistic expectation for women.
Still, you were self-conscious of your body.
Dean had been begging you to let him eat you out. When he found out you’d never let anyone before, his eyes lit up. He wanted to be the one who showed you how good it feels to have all the attention on you. That, and Dean loved eating pussy.
He wanted to watch your back arch off the bed and feel your fingers in his hair, pulling gently. He imagined how sweet you would taste, even sweeter when you came.
You could feel his thick cock pressing against your leg through his boxers, making your mouth water. You closed your eyes and nodded, feeling your cheeks blush.
“You want me to?” He needed your consent, and he wanted to hear you say it.
“I want you to—um…” you stammered, feeling embarrassed to say it out loud.
“You want me to eat that sweet pussy, baby?”
You blushed and covered your face.
“Dean—“
He laughed softly before gently moving your hands and kissing you sweetly.
“It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart, trust me.”
You were already in your bra and panties as he started to trail his mouth down your body. He stopped at your breasts, grazing his teeth over your hardening peaks underneath the thin fabric. You whimpered and arched into his touch making him smile against your skin.
Dean sucked marks into the soft skin of your belly and dragged his tongue over the small bruises. By the time he got to your panty line, you were soaked with a small wet spot developing on the cotton fabric. When he hooked his fingers into your panties to pull them down, you pressed your thighs together and blushed, causing him to glance up at you.
“Just relax, sweetheart. Can you open up for me?”
You slowly relaxed your legs, but he didn’t pull your panties off yet. He lowered himself between your thighs and you felt his warm breath on your clothed core making you shudder.
The sweet aroma of your arousal made his cock twitch.
He placed a kiss on your clothed pussy to get you used to the contact. Then he licked a long strip from your entrance to your clit. His thumb started rubbing your clit, the extra sensation from the fabric made your hips buck slightly. He noticed every time your breath hitched, every time you twitched. He felt like you were ready.
“Can I take these off now?”
“Please,” you begged, gently nodding your head.
His heart swelled seeing you open up to him.
Finally pulling your underwear down, you were nervous again. When his eyes landed on your bare pussy, he stifled a groan in his chest.
“So fucking pretty, sweetheart.”
“No I’m not,” you said quietly, covering your face with your hands.
Dean frowned, looking up at you. “What are you talking about?”
“I dunno…I’ve seen what girls look like…in pornos…and I’m nothing like that…” you trailed off.
His face softened and he tilted his head slightly.
“That ain’t real life, baby. They might get all that work done, but I bet they don’t feel as perfect as you do.” His gaze fell to your core and his voice got low and gravely. “I love this pussy. So warm and tight, feels like you were made for me.”
His praise made you blush and smile nervously.
He placed another kiss to your clit, making you flinch from the sensitivity. Dean pushes forward and lightly drags his tongue against your glistening folds.
“And you taste so sweet,” he growls. “So perfect.”
Using his thumbs, he gently parted your folds and tongued your entrance causing you to clench. It still felt unnatural, but you laid your head back and relaxed into the new sensations.
He slid one finger inside you to give you a familiar feeling to focus on while he continues to work on you.
He hears a tiny moan making his hips rut against the mattress.
“Does that feel good?”
You hummed in response.
His mouth settles around your clit and he starts to suck rhythmically, and slides another finger inside you. He continues to thrust them, hooking his long fingers to rub against your g-spot.
The intensity of his ministrations leave you desperate for something to grab onto and ground yourself. Your hands settle on his head, gently gripping his hair and applying the perfect amount of pressure at his roots. He moans around your clit, causing you to clench hard around his fingers, triggering one of the most intense orgasms you’ve ever had.
“Fuck—Dean! Oh my god—“
He laps up your increasing wetness while he continues to gently thrust his fingers, feeling your walls flutter around him.
After a few moments you pull back— the sensitivity was overwhelming.
Your thighs were soaked and the stubble on his face was glistening with your wetness. He felt incredibly proud of himself.
Your gaze was still focused on the ceiling while your breathing slowed. Crawling up towards you, Dean scanned your face for signs of discomfort.
“You okay?”
You huffed out a tired laugh, a sweet smile spreading across your face.
“Uh…yeah. That was…amazing,” you said, still looking blissed out.
Dean just gazed down at you. Seeing you like this definitely fueled his ego, but he also loved making you happy.
His cock was aching in his boxers and he desperately wanted relief, but he wasn’t done with you yet.
“Good—you’re about to give me another one, sweetheart.”
Can we talk about Jensen Ackles for a moment? Like that man will always be my true love. Like Dean Winchester love him. Mark Meachum yessss. But then he had to go and make Soldier Boy. And that man fictional or reallll like .....
18+ below
Soldier Boy who doesn't know how to use a cellphone, who will literally throw the thing at the wall and let it smash in pieces when he hits the wrong button. Soldier boy who will visibly ignore Butchers phone call, even in an emergency. Soldier boy who will tell the group that carrying a cellphone around is for scared little pussies.
But then he found the camera app ... And all bets were off.
Ben would only pull his cellphone out when you were least expecting it. Trying on cute dresses. *Snap* Baking a sweet treat with flour on your cheeks. *Snap* Take a nice little nap on the couch, cuddled in his lap under a blanket. *Snap snap*
Then he found out he could make little videos. You blinded folded, hands tied behind your back tight enough that your perky little tits were pressed tightly together while he slid his thick cock between your lips, drool running down your chin while he thrusted slowly in and out, nothing heard but his grunts, your whines, and the buzz of the vibrator he put between your legs.
"You're such a sweet thing, you know that?" He would grunt as you choked on his cock before he would pull back. "Taking daddy's cock so well." You would whine and rock your hips against the conveniently placed vibrator begging and whining. He would move the camera down to get the perfect shot of your red puffy pussy lips before tossing the vibrator to the side, letting it buzz next to your head before pushing his cock inside you, getting the best angle of your tight wet hole stretching around his thick cock. Ben wasn't one to usually take his time but this time he did, making sure he had the perfect video to jerk off to when you were away.
Meanwhile, you wouldn't have a clue that Ben had even grabbed his phone and took his 'spank bank clips' until you picked up his discarded phone one day, annoyed that he was ignoring another call from Butcher and letting the device buzz away on the kitchen counter.
It was then you would see his screen saver, you laying on the bed, still bond and blind folded with his cum on your lips and chest.
"Benjamin!"
He would smirk when he saw you, phone in hand cheeks red, and an angry look on your face. But he would shrug.
๋࣭ . soldier boy defending you, his adorable little girlfriend, out in public when some snooty asshole makes a comment to his buddy about you being into dirty old men.
not that you noticed, of course. you’re too busy in your own little world, sipping your iced coffee with your lip gloss perfectly smudged and brain all soft and fuzzy. seriously, not a single thought in that pretty head except maybe wondering if you left your lipgloss in benny’s truck again..
but ben's fucking tired from the day, ready to put this guy into the fucking wall by the time you chime in.
“um, actually, sir? he's not that dirty, i promise. he showers, like, all the time...!” you hum helpfully— or at least you think so— lips glossy and eyes clueless as you twirl your straw with a bubbly smile.
your comment seems to confuse the guy even more, making him uncomfortably scoff. ben pauses, eyebrows raised for half a second before he huffs out a laugh, all teeth and fond exhaustion as he leans down.
“you're such a silly little thing, baby,” he murmurs, pulling you in and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while you beam, proud of your contribution.
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.
Summary: You and Ben have a relationship in the shadows, even if he doesn't agree with it. Will he be able to resist you in disguise at Christmas?
Word Count: 1,625
Tags/Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, cowgirl inverted, dirty talk, language
You and Ben had a complicated relationship. In fact, according to everyone else, you didn’t have any kind of relationship other than professional. You hid your relationship knowing that Vought wouldn’t approve. After all, he was with Crimson Countess for popularity reasons. But you didn’t have powers. You worked at Vought as the director’s secretary and interacted with superheroes, but what would the fans of the first hero think when they saw that he were dating someone inferior to him?
So the two of you had a discreet relationship, in the shadows. Whenever you could (and even when you couldn’t) you would sneak out to mess up your hair and clothes.
But it wasn’t enough for Ben. Ben wanted to show ownership over you, to place his hand on your ass so that others knew you belonged to him and kiss you whenever he wanted, without worrying about who was watching.
But that was how things had to be.
It was normal for Vought to have parties every month, each with a different theme. This time, for Christmas, Vought had decided to have them dress up as a bygone era, so you didn’t think twice.
You had dressed up as a cowgirl, a checkered shirt with ripped jean shorts and a belt that held a fake gun. You also wore a cowboy hat.
“Well, look who came as a sexy cowgirl.”
You recognized the voice and turned to look at him. Obviously the great Soldier Boy would come as he wanted without respecting the theme. He simply came in his hero uniform, helmet included.
“Soldier Boy-”
“You know you can call me Ben, gorgeous.” He smiled charmingly and walked over to you, looking you up and down openly.
You sighed and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.
“Ben, you know they can’t see us in public.”
“And you think I give a fuck about that?” He moved closer to you and pretended to look around as he whispered in your ear. “I could touch your entire body dressed in that tight outfit and I still wouldn’t fuckin’ care.”
You cleared your throat and turned to look at him.
“You need to control yourself, don’t make a scene.” You murmured.
“But you know I love to make them.”
He ran a finger down your arm, his body radiating heat and burning your skin.
“Ben…”
“Honey…”
You sighed and glanced around. It was a difficult task to resist Ben.
“Listen, later we’ll do whatever you want, but for now, let’s stay away from each other.”
He growled and placed his hand on your lower back possessively.
“I want you now.”
“Well you won’t have me.”
“Who fucking says?”
“Me.”
You pushed him away and started walking, knowing Ben was watching your every step.
An hour passed. Conversations surrounded you and the sound of Christmas carols was low. The whole place was well decorated, well, you had been a part of decorating. And Ben had often come to “help” you.
You had passed him a few times, but he didn’t even look at you. Maybe that was your punishment or maybe he had decided to listen to you for the first time (it was probably the first one).
You were chatting with some other people when he came in, drink in hand.
“Hey, folks.” He said as he patted your coworker on the shoulder, almost knocking his arm out of place.
“S-soldier Boy.”
It was very common for people to turn to look at him whenever he walked into a room. The attention was only on him and everyone wanted to get close to him if he was in a good mood. If he wasn’t, no one wanted to be around.
“Having a good time?” He asked with a smile.
“Very good, sir.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.”
The conversation continued, your coworkers clearly pleased to be talking to America’s great hero. But at one point, Ben stepped forward and tripped, the contents of his drink falling on your shirt. You gasped and looked at him in annoyance.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, doll.” He grabbed your own cup and quickly passed it to one of your companions before grabbing your arm, not giving you two seconds to think that he was already pulling you away. “Come, I’ll help you get all cleaned up.”
He led you to the bathrooms and immediately pinned you against the door as he took off his helmet and threw it across the room.
“Ben!”
“I can’t stand seeing you like this anymore, talking to other people like you don’t want me to fuck you right there.”
His movements were quick and unexpected (in part). He grabbed your breasts through your clothes and squeezed them, making you moan and arch your back.
But he didn’t even have time to look at you naked. He needed you right now.
He grabbed your arm again and dragged you to the bathroom sinks, sitting on the counter and placing you on his lap with your back to him.
“Since you’re dressed like a cowgirl whore, act like one.” He undid your belt and pulled down your shorts along with your panties and pressed his mouth against the side of your neck. “All this time, watching you like this, imagining you riding me until your thighs ached.”
He grabbed your legs and had your feet placed on top of his knees. He moved his hand to your pussy and began to caress your folds.
“God, Ben…”
He kept moving his fingers, teasing your hole before slipping one in.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, cowgirl. But it’s not time to take pleasure, it’s time to fucking give it.” He pulled off the bottom of his suit, his cock springing out, big and wet at the tip. “Now, ride me like it’s your fuckin’ job.”
He helped you up slightly, placing his hands on your ass, helping you down afterwards. Your eyes rolled as you felt his cock enter your pussy, your toes curling in pleasure.
“You like this big cock, cowgirl?” He murmured against your ear before nibbling on your earlobe. “C’mon, get started.” He growled, slapping your clit.
Your hips rocked and you felt more fluid between your legs. The position you were in only caused your insides to stretch further.
You began to move up and down, your hands resting on him to help you.
“Feel so good, Ben.” You let out a sigh.
“I know.” You rolled your eyes at his arrogance, but continued with your movements. “Are you a good cowgirl, babe? Can you ride a good, big horse like me?”
His gaze was locked on the globes of your ass, one hand squeezing your flesh. Your juices were running down his cock and you began to feel your orgasm approaching, leading you to move faster on him.
You heard a countdown in the distance.
“Fuck, it’s almost Christmas and I’ve got a cowgirl on me.” He slapped your ass and you gasped.
“Y-you’re so filthy… I’d rather you kept your mouth shut.”
“Oh, yeah?” He held your jaw, turning your face to look at him. “You love it when I talk dirty to you. And the fact that you’re moving like a sex addict fucking proves it.”
The countdown was at five and you kept your gaze on him. You didn’t even move your gaze or close your eyes when his fingers began to play with your clit roughly. Your legs threatened to close, but due to the position you were in that wasn’t possible. And it was there, the moment the countdown hit zero, that you came. Your insides tightened around him as a wave of pleasure flooded your body and your juices wet Ben’s cock even more. For his part, he brought his mouth to yours and kissed you fiercely as his cum shot out inside you.
“Merry fucking Christmas.” He snorted after a few seconds.
“Same here.” Your breathing was ragged and slowly returning to normal as you rested your head on his shoulder.
“You know what? If I knew this was my Christmas present, I would have wrapped you up and put a fucking bow over your pussy and a cowgirl hat on your head.”
“Oh, God…” You rolled your eyes and lifted your head. “Gross.”
“What? You know you’d love it if I tied you up in Christmas lights like a fucking Christmas tree and spread my cum all over your face.”
“Enough of this dirty talk.” You said as you stood up as best you could and climbed off of him, your legs shaking as soon as your feet hit the ground.
He snorted and stood up, putting his suit back in place as he gave you a look up and down.
“What?” You asked as you noticed his gaze.
“Oh, nothing, I just would love to see you even more in that costume, even with the stain.”
“Well, maybe I will do it for New Years. But only if you’re a good boy.” You pointed at him.
He frowned and slapped your hand, moving closer to you.
“I’ll be a bad man who will give a pretty cowgirl a good beating if she doesn’t do what he says.” He muttered close to your face.
You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head.
“Alright…”
He smirked and slapped your ass before bending down to pull your shorts back into place. You felt Ben’s cum spread across your shorts and you shifted uncomfortably. He stood up straight and patted your cheek.
“Good girl.”
He left a kiss on your cheek which he smacked before exiting the bathroom.
“This costume won’t last.” You muttered before rearranging your mind and clothes and exiting the bathroom as well.
Summary: Mark Meachum always fought for what he wanted. When he found his angel, he soon realized that he didn't need to be the fighter he always thought he had to be.
Pairing: Mark Meachum X Reader
Warnings: Language, PTSD, talks of kidnapping, Mark Meachum (A warning in itself) , drug use, overdose
Note: Hopefully everyone likes it. It's my first time doing a countdown fic. Please comment. They mean a lot.
If anyone would like to be tagged lmk!
Thank you all so much!
Mark wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up there was a weird kink in his neck, and dry drool on his cheek. With a silent grunt he lifted his head, his hand trying to brush away the sleep that was on his face.
He blinked as he looked around the room expecting for you to be asleep to the world. What he didn’t expect were your eyes to be on him, watching him with a drained expression that he had never seen before.
Relief flooded his chest, but the tightness was still there. With a shaking hand he reached for yours, but you didn’t so much as flinch, just stared with a confused yet exhausted expression.
“Hey angel.” Mark whispered, his voice not very steady.
You looked at him, but didn’t speak a word.
You knew better than to speak, knew better than to react.
“Angel?” Mark whispered softly, his hand reaching up to brush the hair from your face.
Your pulse quickened and immediately you flinched away from his touch. Your heart pounded heavily in your chest, your breaths coming out in pants.
Mark looked at his hand as if it was a weapon and immediately dropped it. He whispered your name, his eyes filling up with tears before he managed to swallow them down, a soft smile on his face, one that was clearly forced. “It’s okay. I won’t touch, alright?” He put both hands up, showing that you were safe.
You looked and slowly you relaxed against the pillow, your knees drawing themselves to your chest as you rested your chin on top of them. Your eyes were dull, glazed over like you were stuck in your own brain.
“I missed you angel.” Mark whispered after a moment. “I searched day and night for you.” He admitted, his hand aching to hold hers again. “There wasn’t a damn second I didn’t think about you.”
You were quiet, staring at the wall ahead of you like it had the most interesting picture.
Mark followed your gaze in hopes of seeing what she saw, but all he saw was the white wall in front of him.
“You don’t have to talk now.” He said. “You talk whenever you’re ready, okay?” He assured her, his hands turning to fists in his lap. “But Angel . . .” He trailed. “Can you just-Can you look at me?”
There was a long pause. Nothing between the two of them besides the air they shared.
And then slowly, ever so slowly, you turned and looked at him, your eyes holding his gaze for just a moment.
That look broke Mark’s heart. It was like you weren’t there anymore. That your soul had left your body, and all that was left was your shell.
Just as quickly as you looked at him, you turned back to look at the wall.
Mark swallowed down the lump in his throat as he nodded, he ran his hand down his jaw attempting to keep himself calm and steady, for your sake.
“That was good angel, that was- that was really good.”
He stood then, your eyes watching his movements as he paced a bit before his green eyes landed on a covered tray, the smell of breakfast wafting through his nose. “Ah.” He said, grabbing the tray and bringing it to her bedside. He hooked his foot around a small table with wheels and brought it close to her bed, putting the tray down on top of it. “You have to be staving.” He pulled the lid from the tray, his eyes looking over the plate. “We got uh . . . eggs, bacon, toast.” He smiled at you, trying to keep it light and warm. “You know I didn’t cook it.” He tried to joke, but your lips didn’t so much as twitch. “Here.” He grabbed the silverware and began to butter her toast. “You want jam?” He asked as if she would answer. “Yeah, of course you do. I remember when I burnt your toast the last time. You piled that thing with so much jam.” He chuckled to himself.
With a small slide, the breakfast was placed in front of you. Mark stood by your side, waiting for you to move, but you only looked down at the plate.
“Angel, come on.” Mark whispered after a moment of waiting. “Baby, you have to eat something.”
You didn’t move, your eyes flickering to the wall in front of you once more.
Slowly you lifted your weak hand, placing it on the table gently.
Hope grew in Mark’s belly when he saw your movement, but it quickly died when you pushed the table away.
With a heavy sigh, Mark nodded his head in an attempt to be patient. “Okay, not hungry. You always said hospital food sucked anyway, right?” He lifted the black lid. “How about this?” He began. “I cover this for now, keep it warm, and whenever you’re ready to eat it’ll be ready for you.”
You slowly lowered your legs and laid back against the pillow again while Mark pushed the food away, covering it as he promised.
Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, Mark took a seat, his hands folded on your mattress, not touching you, but close enough that if you needed him, he’d be right there.
“Baby, I don’t know what to do.” He whispered. “I don’t know what you want, what you need.” He shook his head, his green eyes filling with tears. “Fuck angel, I don’t even know what happened to you.” He pressed the palms of his hands in his eyes, taking a minute to suck in a breath and slowly let it out. He lowered his hands and looked at you once more. “I’m going to be here every step of the way, okay?” He whispered. “I’m not going to leave you, not for one fucking second.” He cracked a small smile. “And you know how fucking stubborn I can be.”
For a second he swore you gave him a look, The look, to be exact. The one that told him that he was an idiot, but she loved him anyway. The one that made him warm inside when he wanted to be cocky and confident.
He didn’t comment on it though, didn’t want her to pull back even further from him.
“I just need you to let me know what you need, angel.” He whispered. “Just tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it.”
You gave Mark one last empty look before rolling on your side, facing away from him. You brought the blanket up over your body, as if you were trying to shield yourself, and closed your eyes.
Mark watched as he curled on your side, watched as you shut him out along with the world around you.
With a heavy sigh, Mark slipped his jacket off and made himself comfortable in his chair. He wasn’t lying when he said he was going anywhere, so he might as well get used to the setting around him.
“I’m right here angel.” He whispered.
Mark Meachum could take care of many things with his gun, his badge, and his give them hell attitude, but watching you curled in a ball so empty-so broken.
Just thinking of Mark Meachum and how mean he could be pleasure dom style. Been thinking of this all night save me.
wait you’re a genius mark is such a mean pleasure dom 100%
like so much “aww, you’re gonna cum? it feels that good, huh?” type of shit. like mocking you to your face. so smugly. and so much overstimulation too. just to hear you whine. “oh, you can take it, baby, c’mon. thought you were supposed to be a big girl, hm? all i’m seeing is a crybaby.”
Summary: Bath time turns chaotic as your daughter attacks, but it ends in love and small comforts.
Pairing: Mark x Reader
Warnings: Fluff
Word Count: 1586
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
It was bath time and Lily was on a mission.
The mission: cause chaos.
The target: Daddy.
You had warned Mark. Gently. Twice. Tehn once again for good measurement.
“Let me take this one, babe”, you had said, noticing the pinch in his brow, the way his hand had hovered a second too long near his temple.
He shook his head like always. “She’s five, not a linebacker”.
And like always, you didn’t push. Even when you saw the tremor in his hand, the tightness around his mouth that he was trying so hard to hide.
Now you stood just outside the bathroom, arms crossed, listening to the symphony of splashing water, giggles and Mark’s increasingly exasperated voice.
“Lily—no. No, gremlin, we talked about this. The soap stays out of Daddy’s eyes—”.
Splash. “Agh! That’s my last good eye, you little traitor!”.
You bit your lip to stifle the laugh. It wasn’t funny, not really. The headaches had been worse this week. The kind that stole hours from him, sometimes a whole day. He’d been sleeping more. Blinking slower. The scans still said “stable”, but tumors didn’t care about words like that. And Mark hated being benched, even for bath time. Especially for bath time.
Inside the bathroom, you heard the shuffle of movement. A plastic toy hit the floor. Then another splash. Then silence.
“Mark?”, you called gently.
Nothing.
You pushed the door open just enough to peek in.
Mark was sitting on the closed toilet lid, fully clothed, soaked down the front of his Henley. One hand was braced on his thigh, the other pressed to the side of his head, eyes squeezed shut.
In the tub, Lily had gone very still, knees tucked to her chest, her wild curls plastered wet to her forehead. She looked up at her dad with those same stubborn green eyes, so much like his, it almost hurt to look at her sometimes.
“Daddy?”, she whispered.
Mark blinked his eyes open in a slow, heavy movement. He dropped his hand and looked at her. Then he smiled, crooked and tired, but so soft. “Still alive, Gremlin. You’ll have to try harder”.
She smiled, relief blooming like sunshine. “Okay!”.
Then she picked up the sponge and launched it straight at him.
You stepped in, scooping her up before she could reload. “Alright, chaos baby. Let’s give Daddy a break, huh?”.
“But I didn’t shampoo him yet!”, she protested, squirming in your arms.
“Yeah”, Mark mumbled, rubbing his temple. “Real shame about that”.
You dried Lily off while she kept up a steady monologue about sea monsters and glitter soap. Mark leaned against the wall, watching but being too quiet now.
When you met his eyes, he gave you a look. Not apologetic, just…frustrated. At himself. At his limits.
You leaned in close, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “You don’t have to win bath time to be her hero, you know”.
He huffed a low laugh. “You try telling that to the Gremlin”.
Lily wiggled in your arms as you carried her to her room, still damp and wrapped in a towel with ducks on it. You sat her down on her little stool by the dresser, her tiny legs kicking as you began brushing through her tangled curls. She winced dramatically, even though you were careful.
“Are you making me pretty or trying to kill me?”, she asked, deadpan, parroting something Mark must’ve said once.
“Both”, you answered, deadpan right back. “It’s part of my mom contract”.
She grinned, but her eyes flicked toward the hallway. She could hear it too, the quiet creak of the floorboards, Mark’s footsteps slowing and unsteady. He hadn’t gone far, just to your room, but even Lily, at five, knew the difference between when Daddy was playing and when he was pushing through something.
“Is it his head again?”, she asked, suddenly soft.
Your hand paused mid-brush and you exhaled slowly. “Yeah, baby. I think it is”.
She was quiet for a second, turning that over in her mind the way only a child could, like the world was still shaped around whether Daddy could come play or not. Then she twisted, looking up at you. “But he said he was okay”.
“I know”. You tucked a curl behind her ear. “Sometimes people say they’re okay even when they’re not. He does that because he doesn’t want you to worry”.
“I don’t like his head being mean to him”, she whispered, looking down at her lap.
You wrapped your arms around her from behind, pressing your cheek to her shoulder. “Me either”.
She reached up with her tiny hand and patted your face like she was the one comforting you now. “I can give him Mr. Snugs. Maybe that’ll help”.
You smiled into her skin. “That might be the best idea you’ve had all week”.
A few minutes later, she was in her favorite pajamas, the purple ones with glow-in-the-dark moons, and clutching Mr. Snugs, her raggedy old stuffed giraffe, as she tiptoed into your bedroom. You followed behind, lingering by the door.
Mark was lying on his side, one arm draped over his eyes, the other sprawled across the mattress. He didn’t look up.
“Daddy?”, Lily whispered.
He moved his arm just enough to peek at her. “Hey, Gremlin”.
“I brought you Mr. Snugs. He’s really good at snuggling and making nightmares go away. And he doesn’t even mind if you drool on him”.
Mark smiled faintly and his hand reached out slowly. Lily climbed up beside him like she did it every day, which she did, and tucked Mr. Snugs under his arm, right next to his chest. Then she laid down, curling into his side.
“Are you gonna be okay tomorrow?”, she asked, her voice feather-soft.
Mark kissed the top of her head. “I’m gonna try, baby. That’s the deal, right? I try, and you try, and your mom saves us both”.
Lily giggled. “Yeah, Mommy’s like…supermom”.
You crossed the room quietly, kneeling by the bed and brushing your fingers through his hair, damp from bath time, a little wild, a little grayer at the temples than last year.
“You want me to get the meds?”, you asked gently.
He closed his eyes. “Yeah. Please”.
You kissed his forehead, then Lily’s, before slipping out.
You were still in the kitchen, sorting through the pill bottles with practiced ease, when you heard soft voices drifting down the hall.
“…but you gotta hold him like this, Daddy. Otherwise he gets a crick in his neck”.
Mark’s reply was groggy but amused. “You serious? A giraffe’s neck always looks like it has a crick”.
“Nooo”, Lily insisted, her voice muffled as she clearly repositioned Mr. Snugs. “He’s sensitive. You gotta respect him”.
You paused in the hallway, leaning on the doorframe just long enough to peek in again.
Mark was lying on his back now, Lily tucked into the crook of his arm with her head on his chest, her little fingers guiding his hand to rest just right around Mr. Snugs’ midsection, like the giraffe was part of some sacred bedtime ritual only she fully understood.
“You know”, Mark murmured, eyes half-lidded, “when I was in undercover, we didn’t have fancy giraffe security guards”.
“Maybe that’s why the bad guys were winning”, Lily replied, dead serious.
He snorted. “Yeah, maybe”.
She craned her neck to look up at him, her face inches from his. “Daddy?”.
“Hmm?”.
“When I grow up, I’m gonna be your doctor. Then I’ll tell your head to stop being a meanie”.
Mark smiled, something quiet and aching in it. He tapped her nose gently. “That sounds like a pretty good plan, Gremlin”.
“But you can’t be too grumpy”, she warned. “Doctors don’t like grumpy patients”.
“Oh, I’m the sunshine of the ICU”, he said dryly. “Just ask your mom”.
“Mom says you’re like a cactus in jeans”.
Mark let out a huff of laughter that turned into a wince. He pressed his palm to his temple again, and Lily noticed, even if he tried to hide it. She leaned in and kissed his cheek, a quick, messy little smooch that barely landed where she meant it to.
“There”, she said. “That’s my medicine”.
He closed his eyes, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “Best damn medicine I’ve had all day”.
You finally stepped in, the meds and water in hand, and Lily immediately pointed at you. “I already helped him, but he said he’d take your yucky pills too”.
“Brave of him”, you said, handing Mark the water as he sat up with effort. He took the pills without argument, then leaned back with a soft grunt, letting his head fall onto the pillow.
Lily was still watching him with wide eyes, like she could will him better with enough staring.
“You gonna sleep in here tonight, Gremlin?”, he asked.
She nodded solemnly. “I’ll protect you. Me and Mr. Snugs”.
“Well, I feel safer already”.
You climbed onto the bed next to them, tucking yourself into Mark’s other side, one hand resting on his chest above Lily’s tiny one. Mr. Snugs was now smushed somewhere between all of you, probably suffocating, but no one seemed to care.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: dean dreams about you and can't recover.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. mildly angsty yearning, wanting, needing. dean is helplessly in love and hurting because of it. use of pet names (sweetheart, pretty, baby). a short glimpse of more yearner!dean <3
masterlist ♡ requested
His palms are clammy, he swipes them down the loose thighs of his sweats. Flickering, fluorescent light makes the pinked line of his eye harsher when he glances up into the mirror, and thin rivulets of water drip off his chin. Back down into the sink with no sound at all. His fingers move to the ceramic edge.
He dreams about you too much.
Golden and fuzzy, your face highlighted by an omniscient sun. Smiling down upon him shiny, mouth creased at the corners. You let him run his thumb over your cheek and he gets to pretend for a while, that he can feel you. But it's selfish to be disappointed when you fade, and he blinks awake to a dark, stained ceiling.
You'd been in the bed opposite his, tonight. Futile to close his eyes again and try to succumb back to sleep. Bathroom, he'd decided. To breathe and forget and remind.
Not his. To hold or admire or love, though he loves you very much. It's a dagger to his heart, a pretty, embossed and painful thing that taunts him and smudges sticky crimson around his insides. Over his ribs, it drips to his stomach. He feels it everywhere, always and ever flowing.
The steady drip, drip, drip of the tap keeps him tuned. But it's soon paired with soft, tentative footfall and he turns his head towards the sound. It stops and then shuffles, his hands feel wet all over again.
"Dean," you call, muffled. His forehead drops to the door, he curses. "Are you alright?"
He swallows down a thick ache. "Yeah," he answers. "M'fine, sweetheart."
Silence stretches for one moment, and the next. Until your soft sigh pierces through the veil and he hears a gentle thud where you've just sunk your head against the door, with his. He wonders if they'd be touching if there wasn't something in the way.
"Did you have a nightmare? I told you to wake me up for those, De. It's okay."
It's worse that you're caring and kind. Worse that you do smile at him and look at him and pay attention, worse that you know the turns of his tangled, tarnished mind and love so loudly despite it. The doorknob turns under his grip and he isn't sure when he'd reached for it at all, it's a mistake.
You're pretty like this, subtly-lit and mostly shrouded by the dark. Hair mussed and eyes glinting, drooped with heavy sleep that he desperately hopes he hadn't woken you from. The majority of him yearns to thrust forward and wipe the shadows from your soft under eyes and kiss at your nose, tuck you back into bed with him and hold you until the sun rises.
"I'm alright," he assures, voice quiet. "You should go back to sleep, pretty."
Your head shakes. "It's too quiet without your snoring. I need the noise."
A small smile spreads then, he ignores the pang of his chest and crosses his arms to stifle it.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Are you gonna make fun?"
The dagger stabs at him, then. He bends down to meet your eyes in full and lets his gaze flutter about the shine in them. "No," he breathes. "'Course, not. Not about that. Okay?"
You nod and he lets a low sigh bleed out from his lips. It's without thinking that his fingers find your bicep, they give an upwards sweep. His jaw works when you lean and press against the touch. He does it again, down your sleeve and up to bunch the fabric, soothing and repetitive, he'd wishes this was regular and every day.
"Baby. You're fallin' asleep, go on," he whispers. "I'll be out in a sec."
It's a very massive slip, baby. He'd want to crawl into the Earth and wilt amidst it's soil if he had said it aloud during the day. But with how sleepy you are, he's sure you haven't noticed. Even surer when you smile crooked and turn to make way back to bed, and the first bout of relief he's felt in a long time blooms big.
One day he'll call you by it without being nervous, he dreams again, awake. You'll flush and bubble out that flowery laugh that he loves and call him something just as honey-sweet and coveted right back. It'll be known and yours and real, love.
Real love.
He closes the door and faces the mirror once more, and hopes he has another one when he falls back asleep tonight.
❤︎
forgot i was posting this on valentines oops </3 maybe i will whip up something sweet to compensate!!!
