Frat!Ben (Soldier Boy) x Sorority!Reader | The Boys
Notes: clearly I’m engagement obsessed (call it manifesting). This is just a sweet little thing, I really like it and I hope y’all do too <3 warnings: proposal & sweetie pie ben
MASTERLIST
You were brushing your teeth when he said it.
No big buildup. No down-on-one-knee drama. Just Ben leaning in the bathroom doorway of your apartment, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression he got when his thoughts were too serious to say out loud without making a joke first.
“I ever tell you I knew I’d marry you the night you told me to go fuck myself?”
You blinked at him through the mirror, toothbrush hanging out of your mouth like a cartoon character.
He grinned slowly. “Im dead serious. You were so pissed at me and your face got all red and I just knew that you were my girl.”
You rinsed and spat, towel-dabbing at your face as you turned. “We weren’t even kind of dating then.”
“Sure we were. We just didn’t know it yet.”
Your breath caught when you saw the small black box in his hand. Nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic. Just real.
He shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the middle of your perfectly ordinary Thursday night. “I thought about making a whole thing out of it. Big speech. Restaurant. Rose petals. But that’s not very us, is it?”
You shook your head slowly, mouth dry.
“Nah,” he said, stepping forward, his voice dropping into that low, rough register that always melted you. “We started in a laundry room and my busted ass bed under a fucking light up beer sign. We were drunk, messy, angry. And I’ve loved you for every second of it.”
Your chest ached. “Ben—”
He held up a hand, eyes soft now. Softer than you’d ever seen.
“I know I didn’t say it then. I know I pretended it didn’t mean anything for way too long. But I remember every second of you. The way you used to look at me like I was your least favorite person on Earth. The way you bitched at me for never putting a towel down. The way you left your perfume on my pillows and ruined me for everyone else. And now…” The corner of his mouth quirked, “I get to know all your little quirks like how you have to have the mugs facing a certain way and how you organize my drawers when you’re pissed at me but you don’t want to fight. And I fucking love every goddamn second of it.”
Your fingers curled against your thigh. “You’re gonna make me cry, and I just washed my face.”
He smirked. “You’re about to be my fiancé, so, I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
You laughed wetly, covering your mouth, and he took your hand in both of his—thumb rough over your knuckles.
“You made me want forever,” he said simply. “And that wasn’t even something I thought I believed in.”
You choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He cracked a crooked smile. “Don’t get used to it.”
You didn’t need him on one knee. You didn’t need the ring box even open. You just nodded, stepping into his chest, burying your face against the lettered sweatshirt.
His arms wrapped around you, strong and unshakable. “Yeah?” he murmured into your hair.
“Yeah,” you whispered back. “Hell yes, Ben. I…. I moved to New York for you, did you think it’d be a no?” You laughed softly, lashes heavy and wet
His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his gaze never leaving yours, full of a mix of something tender and intense. “Well, I didn’t want to be too cocky about it,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “But hearing you say it… fuck, makes it feel real.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, a slow, deliberate kiss. “You’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Hargrove.”
Notes: a brief overview and look into what a relationship with frat boy Ben is like. I loved everything about writing these and I love this AU. Frat romances have my whole heart. Enjoy <
MASTERLIST
Frat!Ben doesn’t try to be in charge. He just is. The kind of guy who walks into a party and the energy shifts. Girls roll their eyes, guys either hate him or want to be him, and the pledges scatter the second they hear his boots thudding down the stairs. He doesn’t need to raise his voice—he’s the one everyone shuts up for when he lifts a brow.
He still wears his old ROTC hoodie even though he dropped the program sophomore year. “Too many rules. Couldn’t hit anyone.” It’s got burn holes and stains from tailgates past, and it smells like cologne, weed, and the faintest trace of you because he keeps throwing it to you when you’re cold. He pretends not to notice when you “accidentally” forget it at your house for weeks at a time (you only bring it back when it doesn’t smell like him anymore).
There’s a framed photo of him doing a keg stand in the frat’s formal living room. Dead center. Right under the chapter composite. His idea, obviously. The alumni board complains about it every semester and he just smirks and says, “Builds character. And it’s a good shot, let’s be honest.” And it is. His biceps look insane.
He called you “sweetheart” for the first time when he was drunk and didn't realize he even said it. You were smug and teasing about it, so, that same night he was sure to call some other girl that very same term of endearment when he was sure you’d hear it. But then he saw how your face fell, noticed how you pouted for the rest of the party and left without a word to anyone— especially him. He didn’t call anyone else that ever again.
Ben talks so much shit about sororities. About “that whole scene.” Claims he can’t stand it. But the very second someone actually says something disrespectful about your chapter? He’s squared up. Ready to throw hands in the backyard over philanthropy event slander. “Say that shit again. I dare you.”
And if someone talks about you? He doesn’t warn them. Doesn’t posture. He once punched a guy straight in the face for calling you a “groupie.” Didn’t say a word. Just walked over and cracked him across the jaw. Later, when you asked if he really had to do that, he just shrugged. “Shouldn’t’ve said it. I’m not gonna apologize for having standards. We don’t talk about women like that in this house.”
No matter how late the night goes or how trashed he is, he always walks you home. Always. Even if he’s in the middle of queuing songs or he’s playing in the next round in beer pong. He’ll hand off the aux, wrap an arm around your waist, and start guiding you back to your house. You’ve never asked him to. He just does it. It non negotiable for him.
And you keep it casual, sure. That’s what you tell your friends. That’s what he says when the guys ask. But there’s a photo strip of you two from greek week tucked behind his AMEX in his wallet. You found it once and teased him, but he didn’t even blink. Just muttered, “you looked cute that night. Don’t let it go to your head.”
He’ll flirt with your friends just to get under your skin, then call you his girl when no one else is listening. He doesn’t say “I like you.” Doesn’t say “I care.” What he does say, when you’re both drunk or high or exhausted beyond sleeping and tangled in his sheets, is “c’mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of you. I know what you need.” And the kicker, when he’s pulling you back to him after you tried to leave in the morning—because now, all of the sudden, you’re sleeping over—“Just stay a little longer. No one’s going to know the difference.”
He’s all rough hands and filthy talk during sex—likes it messy, likes it loud, likes it when you talk back just so he can shut you up. But the moment he sees a real tear? Not bratty frustration, not pouting—real emotion? He’s quiet. Gentle. Voice soft, thumb on your cheek, leaning down like he’s not even aware of it. “Talk to me, baby. What’s all this about, huh?”
He’s not good at emotions, not really. But he’s good at you. Remembers your drink order. Fixes the strap of your dress when it slips. Keeps tampons/pads under his sink, “just in case.” He’s got make up wipes on his bathroom counter because he heard one of the boy’s girlfriends say something about how bad it is to sleep in your makeup. He doesn’t say a word when you show up crying at 2am because you had a bad day—just opens the door, pulls you into bed, and holds you there until you’re breathing steady again.
Ben acts like he doesn’t care about anything. But then he’s showing up to the date party you “begrudgingly” invited him to that he said he would “try to make” with a perfectly themed outfit. Bringing you your favorite drink from off campus just because. Threatening your ex with a smile and a “friendly” clap on the shoulder that makes your skin crawl in the best way.
Eventually, someone asked if you two were a thing—probably after formal. You were both half-drunk and flushed, still glowing from the way he’d whispered “just 20 more minutes then we’ll go.” Someone asked. And for once, he didn’t deflect. Just said, “yeah.” And you didn’t correct him.
Now he’s still loud, still cocky, still fights people who make snide remarks—but he also walks around with your sorority’s pin on his bookbag. Keeps one of your hair tie on his wrist “for emergencies.” Tells people to fuck off when they ask how he ended up whipped. And then turns to you, soft-eyed and smirking, and says, “They just don’t get it.”
You’re not dating– “never were and never will be,” as you told the girls in the bathroom at the last mixer who were clearly just dying to ask.
And then, senior year hit like a freight train. You both pretended nothing was changing, like time wasn’t ticking down. But you could feel it. In the way his kisses lingered a little longer. In how he’d invite you over and not even immediately initiate sex– “Christ, can’t a man enjoy a little conversation with a pretty lady every now and again.”
You hadn’t asked what he was doing. Not really. You’d heard him brush it off to his boys a dozen times—some “bullshit finance thing,” some friend-of-his-dad kind of job, big title and even bigger pay.
You hadn’t asked, because you figured it didn’t matter. You weren’t part of the plan. That wasn’t what this was. Not really. But……
“Got a place in the city,” he said one night, his voice low, lazy, but serious underneath it all. You were curled up in his bed wearing one of his old party shirts and nothing else, wrapped in his sheets, heart beating louder than you’d like.
You blinked. "What city?"
He huffed a laugh. "New York. Manhattan. It’s stupid expensive. You’d like it."
You tensed.
Then he added, so casually it almost made your heart stop—“Figured you could come with.”
And that was it.
He took you with him after graduation.
Got that high-rise apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city. Still has the ROTC hoodie. Still has the keg stand photo—framed—in the living room, now right next to a Polaroid of you eating pizza in one of his button-downs on your first night in the place. He has a picture of you both from your last sorority party, smiling bright and happy, on his dresser. He likes to pretend he doesn’t look at it every morning when he’s putting his watch on and buttoning his cuffs.
He still pretends it’s no big deal . Still plays it cool. But he tucks you into his bed every night like it’s a ritual. Makes your coffee the way you like it without asking. Stares down any guy who dares look at you too long on the street. Tamps down on the smile he can’t help but have when he sees a piece of mail addressed to “the Hargroves” (as if he’s not the one that put that down in the first place)
And when he’s had a shit day at work, when he comes home with his tie loose and that edge in his voice, he throws his keys down, hauls you into his lap, and breathes against your skin like you’re the only thing in the world keeping him grounded.
He’ll mutter into your shoulder, rough and raw and real, “you’re the only good choice I ever made.”
he’s loud. he’s hot. he’s a total pain in the ass. ben parties like it’s a sport, fucks like he’s got something to prove, and somehow you always end up in his bed. you should know better—but when he says your name like that, god help you.
• This is the last time (it’ not) **
you "hate" one another, but someone you always end up in his bed come the weekend
• That’s usually how public works
pillow talk with Ben isn't exactly a new concept, but this kind of topic certainly is
• Making a scene **
formal goes about as well as one would expect (you get fucked in the bathroom)
• Frat!Ben Headcanons
(meeting thru graduation)
• "You made me want forever"
Ben never thought he’d be the type to settle down, but here he is
Frat!Ben (Soldier Boy) x Sorority!Reader | The Boys
Notes: this is crazy long babes, that’s my bad. I got real carried away. There’s a LOT going on here. TWs: smut, semi-public sex (event bathroom), it’s lowkey emotional ?? Sort of. Idk, frat Ben fried my brain. Enjoy it <3 lmk if I need to add any warnings
MASTERLIST
You had no idea how he pulled it off—but Ben actually looked good in a suit.
Not just good. Obscene.
Dark jacket fitted perfectly across those broad shoulders, a crisp shirt undone just enough at the collar to still look cocky. His tie was already loose, like he couldn’t be bothered to play by the rules for more than five minutes. His hair was styled just enough to look like he hadn’t tried. And the moment he showed up to pick you up—with a smirk and a stupid little, “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ four-course meal, sweetheart”—your brain short-circuited.
You told yourself this didn’t mean anything.
You told yourself it was just one night.
But now? Standing next to him under strings of golden lights in a too-fancy rented ballroom, nursing a half-warm drink and pretending not to notice the way his hand kept finding your waist?
You were in so much trouble.
“You nervous?” he asked, voice low against your ear, his breath brushing your skin.
You glanced up at him sharply, trying to glare. “Why would I be nervous?”
He grinned, squeezing your hip. “'Cause we’re out in the open. Everyone’s lookin’. Wonderin’ who the hell managed to drag me here.”
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip from your glass. “Please. Half these girls would sell their souls to have you on their arm tonight.”
He leaned in closer, his voice all gravel and heat. “Yeah, but you’re the one I’m fucking in the bathroom later.”
Your drink nearly went down the wrong pipe. You turned your face quickly, trying to hide the way your mouth twitched.
You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve made some kind of sharp comment, kept your distance. But the way he was looking at you—cocky and smug but with this weird glint of pride—sent a flutter through your chest that you absolutely hated.
God, you wanted him.
Not just in a locked room at the frat house. You wanted him now, with your heels on and your lipstick still perfect and everyone watching like this actually meant something.
You turned slightly toward him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He didn’t even bother denying it. “Hell yeah I am.”
You glanced around, watching the stares—the subtle whispers, the wide eyes. Ben didn’t do dates. He didn’t bring girls to events, and if he did it wasn’t like he stayed around to hang out. And now here you were, standing next to him, pulled into his side, like you belonged there.
“You realize they’re gonna start asking questions,” you said quietly.
Ben’s hand trailed down your back, resting low enough to draw stares. “Let ‘em.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And what exactly do you plan on telling them?”
He gave you a lazy smile, like he’d already thought about it. “Depends. You gonna keep pretending or admit you like me a little bit?”
Your stomach twisted.
That’s when the DJ switched tracks—something upbeat and pulsing. People were heading to the dance floor, heels clicking, ties loosened. Ben tugged your hand. “C’mon.”
You resisted. “You don’t dance.”
He raised a brow. “I showed up tonight and am wearing a tie, sweetheart. I’m full of surprises.”
And then—without waiting for permission—he pulled you into the crowd.
The beat dropped, bass thrumming through the floor, and Ben pulled you into him like he owned you.
One hand stayed low on your waist—too low to be polite, definitely low enough to make people whisper. His other hand skimmed up your back, fingers brushing exposed skin between your shoulder blades. Your dress clung tight to your body, and suddenly it felt like too much and not enough all at once.
“This is not dancing,” you muttered, your voice half-lost under the pulse of the music.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “It’s close enough. It’s not like you to complain about being pressed up against me.”
God, he was insufferable. And infuriating. And so hot it made your head spin.
You moved with him anyway, your body giving in before your brain could catch up. Your arms looped loosely around his neck, your hips brushing his just enough to make him shift.
“You’re making a scene,” you said, trying to keep your voice cool, detached.
“Good,” Ben said, not missing a beat. “Let ‘em look. I want every mother fucker in here’s eyes on you with me.”
His hand slid lower, cupping your ass through your dress, and you hissed out a quiet breath.
“Ben—”
“You wore this to tease me, didn’t you?” he growled against your ear, voice dropping dark and filthy. “That tight little dress—walkin’ around like you don’t know i fuckin’ love you in gold. Are you even wearing anything under this, babe. Christ on a cross, it's basically painted on.”
You shivered, your nails dragging lightly down his neck, and he hissed through his teeth.
“You’re the worst,” you whispered, your voice wrecked.
His grip tightened. “Say that again when I’ve got you crying on my cock in the men’s room.”
Your thighs clenched.
You glanced over his shoulder—people were dancing, grinding, laughing—but no one was paying close attention. And if they were? You weren’t sure you cared anymore.
“Ben,” you murmured, voice just shy of desperate.
He caught the edge of it—how close you were to unraveling. His eyes met yours, heat flaring them like a lit fuse.
“Let’s go.”
He took your hand and pulled you from the dance floor, through a crowd of tipsy young people, past a wide-eyed freshman who definitely recognized what was happening, and down a narrow hallway lined with locked supply closets.
It didn’t matter. He knew exactly where he was going.
The men’s room was dim, too clean for this crowd, and empty.
He locked the door with one hand in one second and had the small of your back pressed to the sink counter in the next.
“You look so fuckin’ pretty tonight,” he said, hiking your dress up your thighs.
You gasped as his fingers slid between your thighs, slick already pooling there, and he groaned at the feel of you.
“No panties,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ knew it.”
“You’re wasting time—”
“Oh, I’ve got time,” he said, smirking against your throat. “Whole fuckin’ night if I want, baby.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent the entire night acting like this was casual. Like he hadn’t just dragged you out of a room full of people, only to drop between your legs like he belonged there.
“Hold your dress up,” he muttered, voice rough and commanding. “Wanna see all of you.”
Your fingers scrambled to obey, clutching the bunched fabric at your waist, your breathing already uneven. Ben slid his hands up your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, possessive circles into your skin as he leaned in.
“Christ,” he murmured, like a prayer. “Look at this fuckin’ pussy. Already soaked.”
You whimpered as he dragged his tongue through your folds, slow and obscene, savoring every second. His stubble scraped gently at your skin, rough enough to make your knees buckle, and his arms locked around your thighs to keep you steady.
“You come here all sweet and dressed up, acting like goddamn Miss America,” he growled, lapping at you again, “but deep down? You love being used like this.”
“Ben—fuck—”
“You love it,” he said, licking into you deeper. “Love when I get you all messy, don’t you? When you’re drippin’ all over my face and I don’t stop ‘til you’re shakin’.”
Your head fell back, hitting the mirror behind you with a soft thud.
Every word was filth. Every movement had you whimpering, sounds catching the back of your throat, tears gathering on your lash line.
You were soaked, thighs trembling, barely able to keep quiet.
He groaned against you like it turned him on just as much. “Don’t care who hears you,” he muttered, breath hot. “Let ‘em know you’re mine tonight.”
The words hit you like lightning—mine—and your body reacted, grinding down against his mouth before you could stop yourself.
He fucking grinned. “That’s it, babygirl. Use me.”
Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard as he sucked your clit between his lips, and your vision went white. “Ohmygod, Ben—fuck—”
Your hips jerked, your whole body quaking as you came hard against his mouth, legs clamping around his head. He held you through it, tongue relentless, dragging every last wave out of you like he needed it. You were gasping, shaking, eyes glazed—and he looked proud of it.
He stood slowly, licking his lips, your slick still glistening on his chin. He kissed you hard before you could speak, groaning into your mouth like he wanted you to taste what he’d just done to you.
“You always come so fuckin’ easy for me,” he muttered, already undoing his belt. “Spoiled little brat.”
You whimpered as he lifted you off the counter, only to spin you around. You caught his eye from in the mirror as he shoved into you in one rough thrust.
“Fuck,” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat just to hold you steady. “You hear that? That wet little sound every time I fuck into you? That’s mine, sweetheart.”
You braced yourself on the edge of the sink, lips parted, eyes glassy in the mirror.
“You love this,” he whispered, voice dark, dangerous, intimate. “Love being my dirty little secret. Love pretending we fucking hate each other when I’ve had you a hundred different ways.”
You choked on a moan, tears pricking your lashes. “You’re such an asshole.”
“And yet, you’re still lettin’ me hit it raw.”
His hand slid down, rubbing tight, fast circles on your clit. “Come again. I want you messy when I fill you up.”
You, against all the will in you to not do anything just because he said to, came so hard you saw stars, biting down on your own arm to stay quiet as he fucked you through it, then let go and spilled inside you with a ragged groan.
Everyone would find out eventually- if they didn’t already know and, if you were honest with yourself, they more likely than not already did. You knew that.
You weren’t stupid and he surely wasn’t subtle.
But right now, he didn’t pull away. He stayed pressed to your back, panting, lips ghosting your shoulder.
Neither of you said a word for a long minute.
You let out a slow breath as he turned you around slowly, helping you fix your dress back into place. You melted a little when he cupped your face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over your under-eyes. “Can’t have you going back out there with your makeup runnin',” he huffed.
“Like you wouldn’t like it,” you said softly, your voice a little rough.
He smirked again, but there was a fond edge to it. “You’d never let me hear the end of it,” he shot back.
You shivered a little at the cold air of the room, chilling the light sheen of sweat on your skin. You couldn’t help the small smile taking over your face when he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
You clutched it tighter around you, your fingers fisting in the lapels like they might hold you together. Your body was still buzzing—wrecked, raw, and already sore—but it was the look on his face that really undid you.
He wasn’t smirking anymore.
Just watching you, quiet. Careful
His hands came up again, slow, steady, settling on your waist. “You good?” he asked, voice low and rough.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He didn’t believe you.
You felt it in the way his thumb stroked across your side, hesitant. In the way he dipped his head, nose brushing your cheek, voice going soft—the kind of soft no one else ever got.
“Just twenty more minutes,” he murmured. “We go back out there, let ‘em talk, let ‘em stare. Let ‘em see how pretty you are for me.”
You looked up at him, lashes still damp, throat tight.
“And then what?”
He paused for a beat, eyes searching yours. “Then I take you back to the hotel,” he said. “We lock the fuckin’ door. Order room service. Watch some shitty pay-per-view movie and let me play with your tits when it gets boring.”
Your heart clenched, stupid and aching.
You blinked fast. “Ben…”
He ducked his head like it embarrassed him, just a little. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I said somethin’ fuckin’ sweet,” he muttered. “You’ll ruin my rep.” He smiled—small, barely there—but real. Then leaned in and kissed your forehead.
“C’mon, baby. Let’s go play pretend.”
And somehow, for the first time in weeks, you weren’t dreading it.
Frat!Ben (Soldier Boy) x Sorority!Reader | The Boys
Notes: reliving my glory days as a sorority girl with this one <3 I’ve got multiple parts set up for it so lock in sexies.
MASTERLIST
You knew he’d find you the second you walked into the party. He always did. Like some fucked up internal radar, tuned in to your perfume and the way your bar shoes sounded against the sticky frat house floors.
And there he was—already leaned against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, solo cup in hand, smirk on his lips like he’d been waiting.
“Didn’t think you were going to show tonight,” he said, eyes dragging over you with a heat you pretended not to feel.
You rolled your eyes as you passed him, brushing his shoulder with yours. “You wish.”
He followed. Of course he did.
And you didn’t stop him. Of course you didn’t.
The door to the president’s room clicked shut behind you. You’d been here before—different party, same playlist, a different flimsy excuse for why you were back here again tonight. He grabbed you before you could even turn around, hands already sliding up your thighs, lips dragging hot over your neck like this was routine.
Because it was.
“This is the last time, I mean it,” you whispered, even as your body arched into his.
“Yeah?” he murmured, nipping at your jaw. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart.”
His hands were practiced, cocky—pulling your skirt up like he knew exactly how to get you flustered, how to make you melt.
And maybe he did.
You hated it. Hated how well he knew your body. You wouldn’t have even spared a glance his way during the week, zero interest in the president of the top frat at your university, but the second there was alcohol and music, a little distance from reality—
You were his again.
“You’re so full of yourself,” you gasped, fingers already in his hair, tugging hard.
He groaned, eyes flicking up to meet yours—dark, hungry, possessive.
“You’re about to be full of me, baby,” he muttered, pushing your panties aside, pressing his fingers against your heat like it was his right. “Every fuckin’ time you say this is it. And then you keep coming back and you keep lettin’ me inside this little pussy.”
Your head fell back as he pressed in deeper, rough and slow, curling his fingers just the way you liked—because of course he remembered.
“God,” you breathed, clutching at his shirt, voice taking in a high, breathy pitch. “You’re such an asshole.”
He grinned, lips ghosting over yours. “Maybe so, but I make you come so fuckin’ good.”
You hated him.
You needed him.
And tomorrow, you’d both pretend it never happened—again.
Frat!Ben (Soldier Boy) x Sorority!Reader | The Boys
Notes: no smut here, just a little transitionary thing -- still very entertaining i promise! A little after sex chat. Enjoy <3
MASTERLIST
You were still catching your breath when he said it.
“So,” Ben muttered, voice gravel-rough but suddenly casual, “you wanna let me take you to formal?”
You blinked. “…What?”
He didn’t look at you right away—just smirked to himself like he hadn’t just made you cum so hard that your nails had drawn blood where they’d clawed at his back. His hand slid lazily down your thigh, fingers trailing over skin he’d already memorized.
“Formal,” he repeated, finally glancing up. “Y’know. You. Me. Nice venue. Hotel room. Real clothes. I clean up nice.”
Your brows knit together, your body still flushed and buzzing from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of you. “Wait, are you serious?”
He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. But there was something behind his eyes, something too steady, too sharp to be casual.
“You’ve said it yourself,” he drawled. “No one else fucks you like I do. Might as well let me show you off a little. Y'know, like a little trophy.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. And then repeated the action.
Because what the fuck was this?
“Okay, but… like—formal?” you said slowly, voice soft and unsure. “As in, in public? Where people can see us?”
Ben grinned, cocky as ever. “That’s usually how public works, sweetheart.”
You sat up slightly, your dress still bunched at your hips, panties long forgotten somewhere on the floor. Your legs were still wrapped around his waist. And this—this was the moment he chose to do this?
Your stomach flipped. Not in the hot, “he’s about to make me come again” kind of way—but in the “what the hell is happening right now” kind of way.
“I mean…” you faltered, eyes narrowing. “You and me- we’re not. We’re just….”
Ben didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just leaned forward, bracing his arm beside your head, his smirk melting into something a little more serious.
“We’re just whatever we want us to be.”
Your heart stuttered.
That wasn’t the answer you expected. Hell, it wasn’t an answer he would’ve given even two weeks ago. Fuck, two days ago. You stared at him, completely thrown, your mouth a little open, your mind racing faster than your pulse.
“Ben…” you started, but you didn’t even know what you were going to say.
“Look,” he cut in, voice low. “You’re not my girlfriend. I get that. You keep sayin’ this is just for fun. Cool. All for that, babe. But I still want you to come with me.”
You let out a disbelieving breath, still flushed and trying to catch up. “And if I say no?”
His smirk came back, but softer this time. A little lopsided. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you through the end of this party until you change your mind.”
You snorted—because it was so him, so cocky and filthy and infuriating—and also because you couldn’t hide the way your body reacted. That familiar, traitorous ache between your thighs was already stirring again.
You swallowed hard, eyes fluttering closed for a second as you felt his hand trail up your waist.
