donutloverxo

[donutloverxo]

heres my roman empire

[donutloverxo]

RED EYE (2005) dir. Wes Craven

[donutloverxo]

let me do the work

Ben (Soldier Boy) x pillow princess!reader

NOTES: simply just Ben and his little pillow princess, who he adores. Thank you kindly to this request from prompting this. I had it done last night but fell asleep in the middle of formatting BUT now she’s here !!!! Enjoy <3

TW: smut, failed attempt at being on top, definitely a little bit of mean ben but don’t get it twisted he loves her a lot, pet names, maybe a little bit of him dumbing her down (maybe)

You meant it when you said it.

You were so fucking sweet about it, too—voice barely above a whisper, cheeks pink, thighs already trembling from how hard you’d come the first time. But you blinked up at him, wide-eyed and hopeful, and said it soft like a secret: “Can I be on top?”

Ben should’ve laughed. Should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded you that the last time you “rode” him, your legs gave out before he even finished stretching you open. But he just leaned back on his elbows, grinned like a bastard, and let it happen.

“Be my guest, baby,” he said, all smug indulgence. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

You climbed into his lap, already unsteady, that thin little nightshirt riding up your thighs. You lined him up with shaking fingers and sank down slow—gasping, whining—like you’d forgotten how thick he was.

Ben groaned deep in his chest, eyes locked on your face.

“There it is,” he rasped. “Fuckin’ heaven.”

You gave him a few slow, trembling bounces—barely any lift, more grinding than anything—but the effort made your whole body quake. You were biting your lip, so focused, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t exist.

Ben just watched, arms crossed behind his head like he wasn’t already bracing to take over the second you failed.

And then… you stalled.

Completely.

Head bowed, hands on his chest, legs done.

Ben smiled. “Yeah. There she is,” he muttered, sitting up and catching your hips in both hands. “Knew that shit wouldn’t last. Poor baby’s got nothin’ left in her.”

You whined softly, body limp in his lap.

“S’okay,” he crooned, dragging you down hard onto his cock. “I got’ya. You just sit there and let me do the work.”

You moaned—helpless and high, letting him move you, grind you, use you—your whole body nothing but a hot, wet mess around him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Ben growled, fucking up into you in slow, dragging strokes. “Can’t even handle me unless I’m doin’ all the fuckin’ work. But that’s alright, sweetheart. You’re so much prettier like this anyway.”

He leaned back just enough to watch your tits bounce softly with each movement—barely restrained under the thin cotton of your night shirt you insisted you couldn’t take off because it was too cold.

“Take that off.”

You blinked, dazed. “Huh?”

He grabbed your hips and bounced you once—hard. You cried out.

“Shirt,” he said, voice rough. “Off. Now.”

You scrambled to pull it over your head, twitching as the cool air hit your chest. Ben’s eyes went dark the second it hit the floor.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Look at these perfect tits.”

Your hands came up, instinctively covering yourself—and he clicked his tongue.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he said, lifting you into a deep grind that made your whole body tremble. “Don’t you fuckin’ hide from me. C’mon. Show me what they can do.”

You flushed hot, but you wanted to—you wanted to be good for him—so you cupped yourself with shaky hands and gave the softest little squeeze, moaning under your breath when your nipples tightened.

Ben lost it.

“Oh, fuck, there she goes,” he groaned. “Bouncin’ on my cock, tits in her hands—look at you. Fuckin’ made for this.”

He set a rhythm then, hands gripping your ass as he bounced you on his cock like a toy, and you did exactly what he told you—squeezing, tugging, moaning every time he praised you through his barely taxed breathing.

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching you like he was starved. “Look how good you are. Takin’ me so deep, lookin’ so goddamn sweet playin’ with those tits.”

Your head dropped back, mouth open, so far gone you could barely see straight.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he muttered, biting at your throat. “Not good for much, but this? You fuckin’ shine, baby.”

You whimpered, nodding, tears clinging to your lashes as he rocked you down harder.

“You like this, huh?” he snarled. “Gettin’ praised for sittin’ on my cock while I fuck you like a toy? That get you off, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasped, squeezing tighter, your body clenching around him.

He groaned again, voice ragged now. “Of fuckin’ course it does.”

You came like that—tits in your hands, body bouncing limp in his lap, clinging to his shoulders as he fucked you through it, groaning about how good you looked when you stopped trying.

And when it was over—when you collapsed against his chest, spent and shivering—he kissed your shoulder, grinned, hands already roaming over your skin again.

You were trembling against him, soft and boneless in his lap, head tucked under his chin, your hands slipping from your chest as your breathing slowed.

“M’tired,” you mumbled, barely audible.

Ben blinked. Then looked down at you, utterly unimpressed.

“…From what?” he scoffed, laughing under his breath. “You didn’t do a fuckin’ thing.”

You whined, nuzzling in closer like that would excuse you.

He sighed—dramatic, indulgent—and wrapped his arms around you anyway.

“Jesus Christ. Spoiled little brat. Get up here, sit on my dick for five minutes, and now you need a nap.”

You didn’t answer. You were already half-gone.

Ben shook his head, kissed your hair, and muttered against your temple: “Next time you wanna ‘ride’ me, I’m bringin’ a damn stopwatch.”

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @claireyoucandobeddor @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed 🤍 (pls specify if you don’t want to be on the everything tag list — ex. “just for this series,” or “for everything.” Otherwise you’re getting everything 🙃)

[donutloverxo]

Welcome home, Mrs. America

Soldier Boy (Ben) x PR wife!Reader | The Boys

NOTES: this is definitely going to be a multi part work :) I hope everyone enjoys!! happy Father’s Day to my favorite dilf. The idea behind this was for Vought to try and leash/placate/occupy Soldier Boy while simultaneously rehabilitating his image for their own gain. How do you do that? With a hot wife and kids, of course! Welcome family man soldier boy <3

TW: no smut (yet), stunt marriage but Ben is in it to win it, discussions of having a child (per contract stipulations), reader who is clearly out of her depth, sweet moments with Ben, Vought being Vought

The thick, leather-bound folder sat in front of you on the polished glass table like it weighed a hundred pounds. Gold trim along the spine. Vought branding etched into the leather. At the top of the first page — not in legal typeface but embossed like a wedding invitation — were the words: Public Placement Agreement

You blinked. Smiled like you understood.

You didn’t.

“Well?” said the woman to your right, the one with the pearl cufflinks and the chemically perfected teeth. “This is the big moment.”

You nodded, fingers twitching nervously against the hem of your skirt. You had worn pale blue because they said it photographed well. Soft. Feminine. Approachable.

They’d been saying that word a lot lately.

Another executive spoke up, some silver-haired man in a navy suit you’d only met twice before. “You’ll get final say over styling, of course. We want you to feel like yourself. That’s very important to us—this is a partnership.”

Partnership.

Like you’d both come to the table with equal leverage.

You swallowed. “And… just to make sure I’m understanding correctly—this is fake?”

The room paused.

The woman with the pearl cufflinks laughed. Just once. Sharp and smooth.

“Well,” she said, flipping a page for you. “The marriage is real. Legally. But the nature of the relationship? That’s entirely up to you.”

A pause.

You stared down at the line that said:

Parties entering this agreement acknowledge a public-facing union with Mr. Benjamin Hargrove, otherwise known as Soldier Boy, as of the effective date and commit to full availability for associated media, domestic, and narrative development obligations.

“…Domestic?” you repeated.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Pearl Cufflinks. “You’ll have a team managing your wardrobe, your schedule, your comms. You’ll even have a personal assistant to help with the, um—transition.”

You wanted to ask transition into what?

Instead, you nodded again. You were good at nodding. It was what had gotten you this far. Obedient. Polished. Background actress pretty.

They said he had preferences. Said he liked women who smiled with their teeth. Liked a little curve to the hips. Liked when they had to look up at him. And a whole laundry list of other things that you apparently ticked the boxes for.

You hadn’t known any of that when you sent in your headshots. You hadn’t even known what the role was. Just that it was high-profile, long-term, and required “mature discretion.”

Now there was a ring box beside the contract.

“Soldier Boy is very excited to meet you,” said one of the men.

You flinched slightly. You hadn’t realized he wasn’t already here.

And then—

You felt it. A shift in the air. The subtle crackle of attention. Your eyes lifted toward the doorway. There he was, strutting into the room without a single care in the world. Plopping down in the seat on the other side of the table. And now—

Across from you sat your future.

Soldier Boy in the flesh — sprawled in his chair like he owned the whole damn building. Trademarked uniform and all. He was bigger in person. Broader. Louder, even when he wasn’t speaking.

But he was speaking now.

To you.

“I asked ‘em for a blonde at first,” he said, tipping his chair back. “But they said you had better… chemistry scores.”

You blinked. “Chemistry?”

He grinned. “Fertility panel. Real strong numbers, sweetheart. Real breeder stats.”

The pen in your hand slipped slightly. No one at the table flinched.

“I—excuse me?” you asked, heart thudding.

Pearl Cufflinks—your supposed liaison—cleared her throat like this was completely normal. “Clause 12(b),” she said smoothly, flipping the contract binder toward you. “The child provision.”

Your eyes locked on the text:

In accordance with Image Rehabilitation Strategy Phase III, the couple will agree to attempt conception within the first fifteen months of legal union, with successful pregnancy preferred by Q4 of Year One

Ben gave a low whistle. “That’s corporate for I’m knockin’ you up, doll.”

You stared.

One of the men—some VP of Partnerships or something that sounded equally as made up—leaned forward. “This is a long-term narrative. America loves a family arc. Soldier Boy comes home. Soldier Boy finds love. Soldier Boy becomes a father.”

“Soldier Boy fills you full’a patriotic cum,” Ben added, unbothered. “Put that on a Hallmark card.”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“Of course,” Pearl continued, “we do understand that fertility journeys can be unpredictable. So in the event natural methods prove unsuccessful, Vought reserves the right to discuss alternatives: IVF, IUI, surrogacy, donor sequencing—”

Ben made a noise — sharp, low, amused. Then he stood.

“Yeah. No,” he said flatly. “We’re not doin’ any of that shit.”

“Soldier Boy,” one of the lawyers began cautiously, “these are standard fallback clauses—”

“I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ scripture,” Ben muttered, already moving around the table. “It’s. Not. Happening.”

He stopped behind you, broad hands resting on the back of your chair.

“You think I’m gonna let some stranger shove a needle into my wife? Pump her full of hormones? Knock her up with a fuckin’ turkey baster?” He laughed, dry. “C’mon now.”

His voice dropped.

“I don’t share. I don’t outsource. And I sure as hell don’t let someone else handle what’s mine.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on the page in front of you.

“No IVF. No clinics. No surrogate. No test tubes. If we’re makin’ a baby, we’re doin’ it the natural way, like God intended. In my bed, on her back”

You swallowed hard.

Pearl tried to keep control. “The clause is conditional, Soldier Boy. Simply there for liability protection.”

Ben grabbed the pen. “Great. Then we won’t need it.”

He dragged a thick, black line straight through the entire paragraph. Then he turned the page.

“While we’re at it…”

He started crossing things out.

“This one? Separate quarters. Like hell. She’s my wife, not a fuckin’ tenant.”

Scratch.

“Privacy provision? Nah. You want alone time, sweetheart?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes sharp. “You can have it when I’m dead.”

Scratch.

“Media stipulation: ‘maintain independent identity as a solo public figure’…” He scoffed. “She’s not a fuckin’ talk show host. She’s Mrs. Soldier Boy. That’s the brand.”

Scratch.

He flipped one more page. Slowed.

“This one says if I get ‘indefinitely incapacitated,’ you’re allowed to request a contract reassignment.” He raised an eyebrow. “That means if I die, they’ll let you remarry to some other asshole.”

He didn’t even bother with the pen. He ripped the page out.

You jumped slightly.

Ben handed you the pen, calm as anything. “There. Much better.”

Pearl blinked. “Soldier Boy—”

He didn’t even look at her. “I’m not negotiating how to be a husband.”

Then, quieter — for you:

“You marry me, you take my name, you have my kid. That’s the job. And I’m not lettin’ some boardroom water it down.”

You stared at the torn page. The dark slashes. The heat of his hand still on your chair.

He looked down at the contract again. His thumb dragged lightly across your upper arm.

“This part’s not for Vought,” he said. “It’s for me.”

Then, softer — but no less final:

“I want the real thing. The wife, the rugrats, the marriage. No labs. No third parties. No chemicals. Just you. Me. The good old-fashioned way.”

The room was holding its breath.

You stared at the signature line. And then—because you didn’t know what else to do, because no one was stopping him, because some twisted part of you wanted to—you signed your name.

Ben let out a low whistle, pleased beyond words. “Damn, sweetheart. I gotta admit, that was sexy as hell.”

The ink on the page was still drying when you looked up and asked, soft but clear:

“So… is that it?”

Pearl Cufflinks glanced up, caught mid-note. “Pardon?”

You gestured vaguely to the table. To the ring box. The silence. “I mean… there’s no ceremony or anything?”

That earned a pause. A little shuffle of papers. A couple of glances.

One of the men — the one with the overly whitened smile and the Vought lapel pin — cleared his throat.

“There’s a civil judge we work with,” he said smoothly. “He’s discreet. He’ll sign off retroactively—just a formality. And next week, we’ve got a full shoot scheduled: custom gown, natural lighting, branded media rollout—”

Ben snorted.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It cracked across the table like a gunshot.

He hadn’t said a word since you’d signed. Just stood with his arms folded, watching the suits talk about your future like it was a marketing pitch.

Now he straightened up.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he said, voice flat, “you walked this girl in here, made her sign her life and body away to you jackles, and didn’t even plan a fuckin’ ceremony?”

Pearl gave a stiff smile. “It’s all been arranged, of course—”

“No,” he cut in. “It hasn’t.”

He walked toward the table, slow and purposeful. “A photoshoot ain’t a wedding. A judge who’s never met her doesn’t mean shit. This—” He gestured to the folder. “—this is a contract. That’s not the same thing.”

Then he looked at her. “Can I have a minute with my wife?”

Pearl blinked. “We’d be happy to schedule a short—”

“That means get out.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It landed like a slammed door.

There was a beat—that quiet, tense little moment Vought people always had when dealing with unstable assets—and then they were moving. Scrambling politely. Gathering files and devices. Disappearing without another word.

The room emptied. The door clicked shut.

And just like that, the whole temperature changed. Ben exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw. Then he turned to the ring box.

He picked it up like it mattered. Opened it slow.

You watched as he reached for your hand.

“I picked this myself. Took me two hours to get one of those Vought weasels to bring out something that didn’t look like a damn geology project.”

You didn’t speak. But Ben didn’t need you to.

“My ma wore somethin’ like this,” he said, not looking at your face. Just your hand in his. “She wore it ‘til the day she died. Didn’t matter if they fought. Didn’t matter what she gave up. That ring never came off.”

Your chest tightened a little.

He lifted his eyes and met yours. “I figured if I was gonna do this, I’d might as well do it right.”

His palm was warm, steady. Then, with surprising care, he slipped the ring onto your finger.

Not performative. Not rough.

Just final.

“There,” he murmured. “Now it counts.”

You stared at the ring, at the way his thumb brushed the base of your finger like he was sealing it in.

He didn’t let go.

“You scared?” he asked.

You nodded. Just barely.

He nodded too. “Good,” he said. “Means you have a brain.”

You looked up at him. “Are you?”

Something in his face shifted — not a smile, not exactly. But there was something there. Something real.

“This feels like the first good decision I’ve made in fifty fuckin’ years.” He squeezed your hand, not hard. “So don’t make me regret it.”

It didn’t feel like a vow.

It felt like a warning. And a promise.

And, somehow, that was the closest thing to love you’d heard all day.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

No hallway. No lobby. Just the soft hush of clean floors and city lights and the kind of silence that felt like it had been waiting for you.

Ben stepped in first, tossing his jacket somewhere over the arm of a wide leather chair without a second glance. “Go on,” he said, looking back at you. “You can come in. Place don’t bite.”

You crossed the threshold slowly.

The space wasn’t what you expected. Warm. Lived-in. Expensive, yeah—but not staged. There were boots by the door, a half-unpacked duffel near the couch. A record player in the corner, the needle resting mid-album.

It didn’t feel like a PR setup.

It felt like someone’s home.

“You live here?” you asked, voice catching just a little.

Ben gave a low hum, heading toward the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, pulling open the fridge. “We do.”

That hit low in your stomach.

You didn’t even notice him pour the drinks until he was walking back with two glasses in one hand — whiskey, no ice.

He handed you one. “To the blushin’ bride,” he drawled, clinking his glass against yours. “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream in that little blue dress. Bet half the legal team couldn’t stop starin’.”

You took a sip to hide your nerves.

He watched you over the rim of his glass. “You bring anything lacey? Or did the Vought PR fairies forget to prep you for the wedding night?”

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t know this was the wedding night.”

Ben grinned. “Sweetheart, you signed the paper. You got the ring. You walked into my home. If it ain’t tonight, it’s soon.”

You said nothing, sucking in a deep breath as your eyes took in the room.

He stepped closer, eyes on you — not pushy, but there.

“Still nervous?”

You nodded. Just barely.

His voice dropped lower. “Good.”

You looked up, startled.

“Means it’s real,” he said. “Y’always feel the nerves before things that matter.”

Then, after a beat — “C’mon.”

You followed him down the hallway, passing soft lighting, shelves of records, walls that felt quiet. Like they held things no one else got to see.

He stopped at a door, pushed it open.

“This is yours,” he said. “If you want it to be.”

The room was clean, simple. Comfortable. Neutral tones. A bed made up with fresh sheets. A lamp turned on low. A robe hanging on a hook. Pajamas folded at the foot of the bed — white and crisp.

You looked at him. “You set this up?”

He crossed his arms with a huffed laugh. “I didn’t pick the fuckin’ duvet or anything. Got someone to make it decent. Didn’t seem right, throwing you into my bed like a stray dog without giving you a choice.”

Your throat went tight at the idea of him thinking about his. Planning it, to some degree.

“I figured you might wanna take a breath,” he added. “Or sleep with the door locked. For a while.”

You glanced back at the bed. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled. “You don’t ever have to sleep in your own room if you don’t want to.”

Your heart jumped. “But if I do?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t cry about it.” Then he paused. Let the quiet stretch. “But I won’t exactly be thrilled either.”

You met his eyes — green, steady, utterly without apology.

Then, softer, just for you: “I want you close. That’s not a secret.”

He nodded toward the door behind him. “But you can take your time. I’ll be in the other room. Shirt off. Lookin’ devastating.”

He winked. “Welcome home, Mrs. America.”

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @claireyoucandobeddor @ilikw

let me know if you’d like to be added or removed 🤍

[donutloverxo]

steve rogers + white tank tops

[donutloverxo]

no saints in safehouses

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k

The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.

You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.

The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.

Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.

You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.

“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben—”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

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

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer @angrydragon90 <3

[donutloverxo]

♥️♥️

Hold onto me

Note - This was a request by a lovely nonnie. And my first entry to august challenge hosted by two lovely friends @navybrat81 and @stargazingfangirl18.I choose the prompt ‘I don’t deserve you’ and ‘let me love you, you sad smoll bean’. Cause that’s how I feel about Steeb🥺.

Summary - You just want to take care of your sad and overworked soldier.

Warnings - light smut, angst, sad steeb.

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - 2.3k

Masterlist is linked in the bio!

Steve remembers dragging you to watch the live action remake of Cinderella as soon as it hit the theatres. And how you sweetly giggled at his giddiness calling him 'adorkable’.

Normally he would be annoyed at someone laughing at his expense, as it reminded him of himself before the serum, but not with you.

He couldn’t help but be a ‘fanboy’, another modern slang you taught him, he grew up with those movies, they were reminded him of a simpler time. The remakes weren’t nearly as good but he loved sharing the experience with you.

He was in awe of just how beautiful Cinderella’s dress was. How they took some elements from the animated movie and made them better. He cried when Cinderella’s mother said the words ‘Always be kind and have courage’. It was exactly what his Ma taught him.

Weiterlesen

[donutloverxo]

'Babygirl'

Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader (platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader)

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You get possessive while watching Sharon flirt with Steve.

Warnings for being short, bit of teasing Steve, but nothing else. WC 638

He’s not into you. Move on.

Steve arrived at Bucky’s with a ‘friend’ tonight. She was sweet enough, at first, but now she’s really making you mad. ‘Sharon’ won’t stop flirting with Steve, who seems especially uncomfortable when her hand brushes down the length of his back.

Steve’s neck tenses slightly as she whispers something in his ear. His body stiffens each time she laughs and rests her head on his shoulder. He does not move his hand over hers once she lays hers on his thigh to lean forward in conversation.

She leaves it there.

Her hand, just sitting there, on Steve’s lap, and he’s clearly not into it.

You hop onto the coffee table and swat at Sharon’s hand before she suddenly moves to touch you.

“Awww, Steve, look. I think she’s jealous of us,” she coos.

Sharon flips to scratch at your cheek, which feels good, then she says exactly the wrong thing.

“Don’t worry, babygirl. He’ll still be around to pet you.”

No one—no one—calls you that but Steve.

Your fangs are out instantly, claws spread on both front feet as one raises into the air, and both Steve and Bucky pounce to stop you. Sharon, however, is the fastest to grab the scruff behind your neck and lift you to arm’s length.

“No, Alpine, we don’t attack friends,” Bucky soothes.

“Bad kitty,” Steve bites from behind bared teeth. “Stop that.”

You fall limp in Agent 13’s hold, eyes wide and questioning to the handsome blond man whose honor you were protecting, but after a moment of silence, Bucky cracks up, doubled over with near tears in his eyes.

Sharon breaks next, gently placing you in Steve’s lap as he settles back onto the couch, a dejected look on his face.

You don’t understand. You think they are laughing at you, so you growl in annoyance.

“Well, at least somebody bought it,” Sharon chides Steve. “Can’t say your performance will work on anybody else.”

“The point is for the mark to believe you two are a couple, punk. I barely believe you’re friends. You look so uncomfortable.” Bucky shakes his head, sweeping over your haunches before returning to his seat.

Sharon scratches your butt, and your head whips around to give her the stink eye from behind the tucked forearm of Steve. She smiles, almost proud of your fighting spirit.

“Don’t worry,” she loudly whispers to you. “We’ve kissed before, and let me tell you, there is nothing there.”

“Hey,” Steve grumps, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Bucky makes a face. “He…tried. Gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder to convince a new gang in Madripoor—“

“I know, but it’s not really me, is it?” Steve pulls you a little closer, holds you a little tighter in his defense.

“The photostatic veil cannot make you a believable boyfriend just like it cannot make you a good dancer,” Bucky points out.

“Woah, now,” Sharon chuckles, “baby steps. Literally. Rogers has two left feet.”

Steve looks down at you gazing up at his handsome face. “Alpine has faith in me,” he mutters.

“We’ll have faith in you after you practice. Put down your real girlfriend and come dance with your fake girlfriend so we don’t all die in two days!”

He just buries his fingers in your fur, talking about how soft you are in hushed tones. You don’t like how stressed Steve looks, and you wedge your face into the crook of his elbow in an effort to console him.

Bucky clears his throat.

“No, you may not take my cat into a sting operation—” he stretches his arms toward you to take over “—not until she’s had some training at least.”

“Absolutely,” Sharon bursts. “Train her up! Bring her everywhere—that’s safe—because I like her. She’s feisty.”

[Next Part: Outing]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @yenzys-lucky-charm @irishhappiness @fallenxjas

[donutloverxo]

The Strength Of His Touch

Pairing: Steve Rogers x female!reader

Summary: Steve hesitates to touch you after seeing bruises he unknowingly caused.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI , nsfw , slight alcohol consumption , sex/smut, p in v sex , unprotected sex , Sam being a good friend , Steve being a stubborn sweetheart , slight bruising from gripping a little too hard (he’s a Super Solider, he can’t help it)

Word count: 3.3k

A/N - Hello Lovelies! I seem to be on a Captain craze at the moment. Found myself wondering if either of the boys would worry about their strength… and this is what happens, especially since they can both be so stubborn.

The gif is sourced from Google

Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work

Sunlight danced beyond your eyelids as it both warmed you and teased you with the thought of waking properly. A cool breeze tickled your skin while also refreshing some very familiar scents. The masculine scene of cologne, clean sweat and the faint musk of sex. Blood rushed to your face at the latter. The intoxicating mixture was something that you could barely believe you’d help to make. At your sleepy hum of contentment the arms that were wrapped around you began to drift along your body and traced patterns on your sun warmed skin. Hearing the gentle lub dub of a heart you nuzzled into a solidly heated chest which produced a smooth rumble.

You cracked one eye open to see a familiar pair of blue eyes blinking at you sleepily. His face still held the traces of slumber while sporting a mussed bed head hairstyle. “Good morning, beautiful.” The husky tone sent delicious shivers rolling through your body which replied before you could with a very distinct yowl. There was silence for a moment before his stomach then chipped in which caused him to start chuckling quietly. “Guess that’s the cue for some breakfast huh?” His attempt to move was hindered by you wrapping tightly around him.

“No.” The soft pleading whines only made him chuckle louder. “Wanna cuddle.”

“We can cuddle after breakfast.”

With a grumpy huff you quickly rolled away from him and tugged the sheet over your head. “Don’t wanna.” Your sleepiness was fading much to your annoyance. Was it so wrong to want to stay in that wonderful place between sleep and waking?

The bed dipped as he shifted onto his side towards you. “As much as Tony or Sam might argue, I don’t think Dum-E or Redwing are able to bring us breakfast so for now the task falls to us.” When the sheet was tugged away you squeaked in annoyance. “Now, let's-” A choked gasp ended his sentence.

The lingering haze of slumber quickly dissipated when you heard the sound. Confused, you rolled over to face him and opened your eyes. Gone was the languorous ease and sleepy expression. Now his eyes burned with something you didn’t recognise and his jaw was taut while his brows dipped with little ridges between. His silent behaviour sent you bouncing between worry and fear.

“What’s wrong baby?” Somehow the whisper forced itself past the lump that had formed in your throat.

“Can’t you tell?” The words were steeped in disbelief.

It took everything in you not to flinch at Steve’s tone. One that your boyfriend had never aimed at you and that had not been directed at you by anyone else for some time. Before you could spiral into worry you forced yourself to think over the events of the previous night when you had sex for the first time as a couple. Over and over you replayed every moment but could think of nothing obvious that might cause this kind of reaction. Anxiety bloomed through your body as you worried your lip.

His thumb smoothed over the agitated flesh and directed your attention to his eyes which you now recognised were angry and scared. “Talk to me sweetheart.”

“I can’t-”

“I just want to help. I swear I’m not mad.” When you blinked at him but didn’t say anything he moaned in worry. “Please, tell me where it hurts.”

Now you were beyond confused. Under his panicked gaze you stretched carefully and rotated your neck and shoulders before each tensing muscle area. A delicious ache in your core had you squirming slightly but other than that you felt fine. Heck better than fine. Your last full recollection of last night was melting into a boneless heap under Steve as he held you close. To go from that boneless heap to a sleepy daze and then receive this odd behaviour from the man who caused it all… your head hurt from the confusion which irritated you.

“What are you talking about? I’m fi-”

“Fine? How can you be fine?! Look at yourself!” He gestured towards the tops of your shoulders which you hadn’t actually looked at while stretching.

Oh.

Faint purple marks were dusted along the flesh and trailed down your arms slightly. Your head tilted in confusion as you prodded at one. It barely throbbed. Honestly you’d had worse bruises that appeared and disappeared just as quickly without knowing what caused them.

As your boyfriend briefly lined up his fingers to each bruise in a decidedly exaggerated manner to demonstrate that his grip had been the cause your mind once again raced through the prior night. When you were both about to reach your peaks you had requested he hold you and he had eagerly obliged by encasing you in his arms. At no point could you remember any discomfort or pain.

“I’m sorry sweetheart. I am so, so sorry.” The whisper was anguished. Your boyfriend had moved to the edge of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees as he hid his face in his hands. Restlessness rippled through his taut body.

As you felt him pull away both emotionally and physically you struggled with how to resolve this. Now that he had shown you the reason for his panic it was a little bit easier to understand where his mind was. But could he not remember the bliss of how you’d woken up or the pleasure you’d shared last night? Your mind ground to a halt by a horrible realisation. Maybe it hadn’t been shared. There was every chance that it had not been as pleasurable for him but he had carried on anyway. If that was the case it would absolutely explain his thought processes.

Quietly, you climbed off the bed and sank to your knees in front of him but he did not shift or give any indication that he’d noticed your movements. “Baby?” It came out as a rasp so you cleared your throat. “Baby, please.” Still no response. Well you were still going to talk. “Look, I know that you’d never mean to hurt me. It was an accident. But it’s fine. I’m fine. I thought you might have guessed that from how we woke up… and how things ended last night.” You bit your lip. “Or not. I know how it was for me but-”

Blue eyes met yours so suddenly you almost reared back in shock. But what made you hold your position was the fact his lashes were slightly darker and his eyes glistened. “Please tell me you’re not seriously suggesting that I didn’t enjoy last night?” When you avoided his eyes and instead locked your fingers together nervously he sighed and took each of your hands in one of his. “Sweetheart, look at me.” After he gently stroked his thumb along the back of your hand you met his warm gaze. “Last night was amazing. You were amazing. But it doesn’t change this” he murmured as he gestured towards the marks. “How can you say you’re fine?”

“You know what? You’re right, I’m not fine.” He ducked his head in shame. “I’m pissed that you’re killing the glow. Why can’t you believe me when I say I tell you how I’m feeling? You ask me to believe you that I’m not delicate in battle situations, how is this any different? It feels like you’re asking me to believe you but you don’t believe me.”

“It’s different when I’m the one who’s hurting you!” Steve’s fingers tugged through his hair in frustration. “I can’t- I won’t hurt you.” He stood and stalked out of the room leaving you feeling annoyed and hurt.

—————————————-

For the next few days, things changed drastically. Affection was limited. Before Steve constantly but absentmindedly touched you in some way almost instinctively. But now he froze when he reached out before adjusting his grip or hand placement.

“Still no change huh?” Sam eyed you over the cocktail pitcher that you were sipping from. He’d invited you out for a few drinks to catch up from the events you’d told him about.

You sighed and stabbed at the ice in the drink with your straw. “Nothing. Believe me it’s not for lack of trying. But I’ve noticed if he thinks I’ll spend the night at his he tries to tire me out by sparring or something so I just fall asleep.” You looked up at him feeling your lip wobble slightly as tears threatened your eye line. “Sam… I’ve even tried wearing things to bed. Sleep shifts, lace and silk and all of that. And he does nothing but smile and just cuddle.” You sighed heavily. “Maybe he’s just trying to find a way to break this off.”

Sam’s hand clasped yours and his brown eyes were lit with concern. “Don’t believe that for a second. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’d do anything for you. But he worries and gets in his own head. Man’s more stubborn than a mule.”

Rolling your eyes, you nodded in agreement. “I’ve gotten worse bruises.” At that, Akons ‘Smack That’ started playing over the speakers. You and Sam locked gazes before cackling with laughter. “Case in point.”

“Yeah yeah. Just remember we agreed to never speak of that.” Sam glared at you with mock anger. “I don’t need your Super Soldier boyfriend chasing me down because you made me spank you every time Akon said ‘smack that’.”

Giggling, you shoved him playfully. “I was drunk! Besides you said that no one could ‘smack that’ like you!”

“I was also drunk!” Both of you then eyed the remaining drinks and decided not to order anymore. “How did you explain that you couldn’t sit the next day anyway?”

“Said I fell.”

Sam nodded. “Just make sure you stick to that. Let’s finish this pitcher and call it a night.”

—————————————-

Slightly buzzed and happy, you entered your apartment to find Steve laying on the couch watching a new movie from his list. He looked up at your entry and paused the movie. “Hi honey.”

“Hi Stevie.” You hesitated before walking over to him. He sat up as you approached and smiled as you stroked his golden locks. He carefully wrapped his arms around you and took a moment to press his head to your tummy before pulling back.

“Did you have a nice time with Sam?”

You made a noise of agreement before placing a soft kiss to his forehead and stepped out of his embrace. “I’m gonna get ready for bed.” When you turned you missed the soft frown on Steve’s face. After wiping off your makeup and a quick shower you decided against the suggestive sleepwear. There were really only so many times you could offer with each little rejection having chipped away at you. Plus you didn’t want to douse the warmth of the buzz that Sam helped create. Instead you slipped on one of Steve’s t-shirts and crawled into bed.

Steve walked in shortly after having finished his movie. His heart melted at the sight of you cuddled up to his pillow. Quickly he stripped down to his boxers and joined you, pride swelling when he saw you were wearing his shirt. He was a little surprised, a little relieved and a little disappointed that you weren’t in one of those cute but tempting sleep sets. Though there was something about you wearing his clothes that tugged at his heartstrings. As he gently curved around your body you grumbled quietly before relaxing into his hold.

“Let me help you”

“Feels so good”

“Give it to me baby”

The sudden darkness and change in situation was jarring when you opened your eyes. Mere moments ago you had been hurtling towards the highest high under his burning gaze.

An incoherent mumble came from behind you.

Just a dream. You had imagined it. At the realisation you sniffled in disappointment.

“S’wrong baby?” When you didn’t answer Steve rolled over and reached to turn on his lamp before turning back to you where you were hiding your face in a pillow. “What is it?”

Your heart trembled at the concern in his voice. “Just a dream Steve. It’s fine.”

Steve huffed while arching a brow. “A dream that’s left you upset? Honey, that's not fine.” His warm hand brushed along your cheek as he encouraged you to roll onto your back. “Let me help you.”

His touch mixed with the words from your dream only brought back the ache that was plaguing your core with a vengeance. Leaning up you caught his mouth in a desperate kiss and your hands wrapped around his neck to keep him close to you. Steve’s brain froze for a second but you felt his resistance and tried to hold on even as he gently extracted himself despite your efforts. “Baby… no.”

Everything inside you screamed to move, to run away from the burning pain that came from his denial. It had been bad enough that the outfits hadn’t interested him but this was total rejection. You tried to squirm away from him but he pulled you against him, cradling your face as his blue eyes shone with pleas.

“I don’t want to hurt you baby.”

You already are. Steve’s sharp inhale and flinch of pain made you realise the words must have been said aloud. But you weren’t going to apologise. “You don’t touch me anymore Steve and if you do you’re adjusting your grip or where you put your hands. Is this all there is? You being scared to touch me and me wanting more?” A dam within you broke and tears began to spill.

Steve’s handsome face was torn with anguish as he watched. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he shook his head slowly.

“Steve.”

It might have been the tears that steadily trailed down your face or that he had never heard you say his name with such pain and need. But whatever it was had his resolve crumbling. His thumbs tenderly traced the tracks and swiped under your eyes before ghosting his lips against yours. At first you could not respond properly in fear that he would suddenly change his mind and you could not bear the pain of further rejection. Soft sounds of apology poured from Steve’s mouth as he lightly pressed kisses along your jaw and down your neck before returning to your mouth. One hand left your face and trailed down your side to your thigh before he hitched your leg over his hip. When your mouth parted in surprise he took advantage and with careful tenderness teased you with his tongue. He sighed happily when your tongue tentatively met his as you shifted slightly towards him. So caught up with Steve’s kisses and touches you suddenly weren’t sure how or where to touch him but before you could decide Steve lifted his hand that had been stroking your thigh and guided one of your hands to his hip before returning his back to your thigh. For a few moments you just let your hand drift up and down his side before cautiously squeezing the flesh and froze when a groan passed from his mouth to yours. Steve rolled so you straddled him. You broke the kiss in a bid for oxygen but Steve sat up and renewed his attention to your jaw and neck with kisses and soft sucks. As he reached that one spot below your ear you wriggled against him and felt his cock twitching through his boxers which were slowly dampening with your combined arousal. Reaching between your bodies you eagerly palmed his hard flesh which caused Steve to thrust up with a harsh grunt.

Something inside you snapped. No more games. You needed Steve. NOW. As you tugged the shirt over your head Steve raised his hips to shift his underwear far enough down to kick them off before you gripped his cock firmly and positioned him at your entrance. Steve’s head tipped back with a loud groan but his ocean eyes never left your face as you easily sank onto him thanks to gravity and how slick you’d become. He had felt big that first night but this position stretched you as he bottomed out deep with a pleasant burn. As you rolled your hips your clit brushed against the trimmed hair at the base of his cock and you whined at that first spark that soon turned into more as your movements quickened.

“That’s it baby” he murmured against the skin of your chest as his hands captured your face so he could watch you fall apart from just riding him. With a final roll you shattered into a trembling mess against him. For a few moments Steve watched your eyes become clouded with peace before they focused back on him. Your hands found his chest and pushed him back onto the mattress with a soft thump. Bracing your arms on him you leaned forward slightly and began to rise off him before sliding back down. Steve groaned at the wet heat sucking him in and he couldn’t help reacting when your breasts were so close to his face. He eagerly brushed his thumb over one while lapping and suckling at the other. A whine escaped him when you clenched from his actions. His hips flexed in retaliation and the tip of his cock nudged your g-spot. Both of you moaned at the sensation and he began to move in tandem with you as his hands moved to hold the bedsheets. The coil from before built faster and higher as you moved but wouldn’t snap even as your thighs began to burn from exertion.

You glanced down to see Steve’s face and chest flushed with pleasure as the sheets twisted in his white knuckled grip. “Stevie… please. Touch me.” The final thread of his restraint snapped as his hands found your hips and guided you as his thrusts quickened. “Oh my- Don’t stop Steve!”

Steve grunted as your walls pulsed around his throbbing cock in his determination to reach your release first. “No way sweetheart, not till you cum for me.” He planted his feet on the mattress and bucked up forcefully as you moaned loudly. “C’mon baby, cum on this cock. Cum for me now.”

Your cry of pleasure burst past your lips as your core spasmed around Steve’s cock but he kept moving and prolonging the pleasure. As you started to descend from your high he brought you down against him and held you tightly with one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other continued to squeeze your hip. He thrusted twice more before letting out a soft groan. You hummed contentedly feeling your core heat with his cum though his cock barely softened.

Soft kisses were dotted all over your face as Steve held you within the cage of his embrace. His soft blue eyes burned with devotion for you. “I’m sorry honey. Those bruises scared the hell out of me. I forget how strong I am and I feel like I can’t forget with you.”

You caught his face between your hands. “Steve, you’d never hurt me out of spite or carelessness. I’d tell you if you were hurting me. But I’d like to see how rough you can get. I kinda like it.” You blushed lightly.

“So I’ve heard.” You glanced up at him to see a grin tugging at his lips. “Do you care to tell me why you couldn’t bear to sit down on the same day Sam couldn’t touch anything with his right hand?”

[donutloverxo]

HEADCANON: Doctor's Appointment

HC: How would Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw react when you try to take him to the doctor?

Pairings: Dean x Reader || Beau x Reader || Soldier Boy x Reader || Russell x Reader

AN: This one is a request from my lovely friend @spnbabe67 over on Patreon! 💜

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, literal man children, medical stuff, angst, mentions of PTSD, hints of spice, fluffff

Dean Winchester

"I'm fine."

Ah yes, the same two growly words you've heard for an hour already.

"You're not fine," you testily reply. "You're not even 'Winchester fine.' You wanna know how I know? I'm driving the damn car right now!"

Dean shoots you a warning look.

One, you can tell he wants to say watch it on how you talk about his Baby.

Two, he doesn't want to admit that you're right.

He shifts in his seat with his arms crossed, trying to cover up a wince. It's the only tell that he's uncomfortable, even in pain, other than the fact that you've managed to hijack his car and take him to this damn doctor's appointment.

Dean can count on one hand the number of times he's been in a doctor's office for a genuine ailment, and not just trying to fish for information while impersonating some form of law enforcement.

That's because he's more of a "pour some whiskey on it," patch it up, and forget about it kinda guy.

And if we're talking about hospital stays, then that's usually a "one step away from death's door" kind of visit.

But when you first noticed something was off with Dean (confirming with Sam on the side of your suspicions), you did your damnedest to convince the man that he should see a doctor.

You even make the appointment for him as convenient as possible, around midday, so he doesn't have the excuse of it being too early to disturb his morning, or too late to mess up his afternoon.

Dean is a grumbly grizzly bear who only rolls his eyes in the waiting room when you offer him the clipboard to fill out his medical history.

"This is stupid," he says. "It’s probably just gonna clear up in a week or so anyway."

"You don't know that," you say. And you heave a sigh. Sometimes this man requires every last ounce of your ever-thinning patience.

You reclaim the clipboard and do this part for him too, filling out his fake-ass insurance information with his fake-ass name.

You detail his history and current symptoms to the best of your ability, and you make sure to jot down certain visits to free clinics in his past that he'd probably gloss over.

When the nurse opens the door and calls him back to see the doctor, Dean still glances over at you, mostly annoyed. But underneath, you sense his hesitation.

You slip your hand into his and get up with him. You grace a kiss over his knuckles — a moment of solidarity — and you go with him to one of the back rooms.

You later have to bite your lip against the vindicated urge to say I told you so.

The doctor informs Dean that he likely has a kidney stone.

If possible, Dean is even more sour the whole car ride home. He's convinced all the vegetables you've been trying to get him to eat are the culprit.

"This is what I get for eating fucking rabbit food," he grumbles. He levies a finger at you. "See? I told you. Nothing good comes of it."

"Right," you snort. "Zucchini is what's got you're, uh, pipe all blocked up."

But seeing the disgruntled look on his face, you remember just how much pain he's been trying to cover up for the past week. How many times you've found him hunched in the bathroom, dreading a piss.

You reach over and try to soothe him, gently stroking his thigh.

"It's okay, baby. We'll get the official test results soon. In the meantime, just keep drinking lots of water and get some actual rest."

"Whatever," he mutters.

But underneath the embarrassment, the shit, I'm getting old bit cropping back up again, and the Dean Winchester quirk of not wanting to be fussed over, not wanting to be seen as weak or ridiculous — what finally surfaces past all that is you.

Specifically, how much you push him to take care of himself.

Besides Sam, you're the only one who manages to keep him in check, the only one who cares that much, that you'd literally try to steal his car.

Yeah, I love you tends to cut through pretty much all the other bullshit.

Dean might not always express it words, but he does it now, taking your hand off his lap and pressing a kiss to your wrist, right over your pulse point.

You briefly take your eyes off the road to glance over at him, smiling. He's going to be out of commission for a while until this little problem clears up, in more ways than one.

The great Dean Winchester.

Beats Death itself, too many times to count.

Felled by pebble in his...well...proverbial shoe.

You try to hide your amusement, if not your affection. You bite your lip hard.

"Shut up," he warns, even though his lips twitch upward.

Your snort of laughter escapes before you can reign it in.

Beau Arlen

Beau is resistant at first, but he's probably the easiest to wrangle into seeing the doctor, whether it's yearly checkups or a man flu gotten out of control.

("You know what, my throat still feels weird on the left side, especially when I swallow. Feels scratchy and, uh, kinda hurts. You think I should get it looked at? What if it's laryngitis, or pneumonia, or God forbid, throat cancer. I mean, throat cancer, honey! That's nothin' to laugh at.")

You wish he'd have that "proactive" mentality with other areas of his health too, like not overworking himself at the precinct.

But when it comes to one exam in particular, he's your typical male of a certain age.

No matter how many times you remind him and write down the appointment on the calendar stuck to the fridge so he doesn't forget, he conjures some excuse for why he couldn't make it.

At first it's begrudgingly amusing, but by the third time, you're concerned, and even annoyed that he isn't taking his health more seriously.

"Look, I know it's not exactly pleasant, but this stuff is important. You gotta take care of yourself," you say.

You know you don't have to remind him that he has a daughter, but you will pull that card if you have to.

"Yeah, I know. It's just, uh..." Beau trails off, hands on his hips. He doesn't know what to tell you to make you understand how much he'd rather not go to this appointment.

"It's just a prostate exam, babe. I'll bet it's not half as invasive as a pap smear," you say wryly.

Beau shakes his head at you. "That very well may be, but believe you me, no man wants a latex finger up his..."

You raise your brows and tilt your head with a smile. "Well, you know. Some guys actually—"

Beau waves a hand at whatever you were going to say next.

"You know what, forget I said anything. I'd rather just live my life not knowing what's down there. Really, I'm good."

You utter a laugh, but you sidle up to him and grasp the open edges of his jacket. You turn your face up to him with a more sensuous smile.

"You don't mind when I do it," you tease.

Beau actually blushes. His cheeks and the tips of his ears tinge pink.

He clears his throat, his hands settling on the curve of your waist.

"Well, that's different," he says. His voice pitches lower, his green eyes taking on a slight mischievous gleam. "You're just teasin' the cave. You're not looking for coal."

Laughter bursts out of you like a gut punch. Your forehead falls against his chest as your entire body shakes with giggles.

Beau wraps you up in his arms. He tries and fails to temper his grin, even though his cheeks are still burning.

"All right, fine. I'll go," he says. "But I don't want to hear a damn peep out of you when I get back."

Soldier Boy (Ben)

(Oh, good fucking luck on this one.)

Ben rarely, if ever, gets sick. Of course, he's also nearly invulnerable.

However, you've been trying to get him to see a different kind of medical professional.

"Excuse me?" he growls. The first time you suggest it, he dismissed the idea with a roll of his eyes, thinking you were just trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn't appreciate you bringing it up again. "You better be fucking kidding."

"Ben..." You try to ply him with a gentle hand on his arm, but he shrugs you off, too irritated to curb the impulse.

"I'm fucking crazy, is that it? That what you're trying to say?" His voice raises, notch after notch. "I don't need a goddamn shrink!"

"I didn't say you were crazy!" you say. It's hard not to match his volume, but you manage to stand your ground while he huffs and puffs and eventually storms out.

You get discouraged and frustrated yourself, but you cling to every scrap of patience you can muster up for this man.

It's gonna take a few tries.

You start to suggest that maybe he should start easing up on the weed and the booze too.

Any time he snaps at you, you remind him that for as much shit as you've put up with him so far, this is the kind of shit that'll send you packing. Leaving his ass. For good.

He volleys back with empty words. "Fine, fucking leave."

You know they're empty, because every time you've called his bluff and packed a bag, he stops you.

"All right, enough. You've proved your fucking point."

After that, he tries to cut back on the booze, at least. He watches you pour out the Grey Goose and the Patrón.

Fucking fine by him. He's lost the taste for vodka, let alone that frilly French shit, and the cheap tequila.

But choking off the vein of one vice just makes another twice as strong.

Ultimately, it doesn't fix the problem either.

There's the time Ben blows a hole in the roof of your house (after a nightmare, he refuses to admit).

And there's a second time too. A third close call, and Ben pushes you clean off the bed so you won't get hurt.

If that didn't do it, he finally gets the picture after the second pink line appears on that white stick.

It now lies on your nightstand while you and Ben lay tangled together, bare skin against bare, flushed, sweaty skin.

A celebration, if you will.

His big hand lies splayed over your belly, protective, possessive, and deep down...grateful.

You glance up at the patched ceiling. Ben follows your gaze. His contentment fades into a frown, just like yours.

Both of you are thinking the same thing, if in different flavors of concern. Anxiety. (Guilt.)

"It's different now. You know that, right?" you say quietly. "If we're going to do this, you and me together, then I need you to protect us. Protect us from you."

At this point, you know he won't see a psychiatrist for his PTSD; not if it's to help himself (God forbid he admit that he needs it).

But if it's to protect you and your child, his own child...

Ben swallows a few acidic ounces of his pride.

Despite every cell in body that fights against it, he gets in his car the very next day and shows up for the appointment you made for him with Dr. David.

("What kind of quack fucking doctor goes by his first name, anyway? Christ.")

After the first couple of painfully awkward sessions, it's not so bad, Ben discovers.

He has a willing (heavily paid) audience for all of his stories from "the good old days."

Every gushy detail.

Russell Shaw

Russell is always quick to give reassurances, to downplay, to tell you that he's good.

But the day he comes home from a job with his bag hanging from his fingertips, almost dragging on the floor, his movements stiff as a rail — your heart sinks into your stomach.

"Hey, baby," he greets you tiredly, even tries to kiss you, but you're too busy running gentle hands over his arms and chest. Searching.

"Hmm, someone's missed me. Miss Handsy-yy-ahhh..." His playful quip dies the moment you find it.

Under his jacket lies the shoddy patch job on the bullet wound in his arm, located a few inches below the shoulder, just barely hidden by his sleeve.

"What the fuck is this?" you snap, half in anger, half in worry as tears spring hot in your eyes.

Russell immediately goes into damage control, soothing a hand down your arm and meeting your gaze.

"Hey, I'm okay. It's just a graze."

"Yeah fucking right. You're still bleeding!"

"Ehh, yeah, but no biggie. I've got some tools in the car—"

"No! We're going to the hospital."

"Sweetheart—"

"Right now! Let's go."

The man doesn't have the heart to argue with you too much after that. He knows he should've taken proper care of this before he got home. He really just wanted to, well, get home. To you.

But he regrets scaring you. He regrets making you worry.

He brushes the tears from your eyes and is grateful you don't ask what happened. He can't really tell you, even if he wanted to. His contract work with Horizon keeps his lips sealed for your safety, above all other reasons.

Only now does he begin to realize just how fucking unfair that is.

It really hits him when you sit with him for an hour and a half in the Emergency Department, waiting after the guy who fell off his moped, a kid with a little green army man stuck up his nose ("Hey, retro," Russell whispers to you), and a lady who can't seem to stop hiccuping.

Russell takes in a deep breath. He leans over to your ear.

"You know, we could just fix this up at home. A little needle and thread and some alcohol. Perfect First Aid kit," he says.

You narrow your gaze at him. "We're waiting to see a doctor. And don't think I'm done with you. When we get home, prepare to get punished."

A little smirk tugs at his lips. He brushes said lips across the back of your ear. "What am I, a little kid?"

You smile slightly as well.

"Well, if you're not going to tell me when you're hurt and try to cover it up like a little kid, that's how I'm gonna treat you."

Russell chuckles. His hand slips over your thigh.

"Gotta say, I'm kind of liking the sound of punishment. What'd you have in mind, sweetheart? Gonna spank me?"

And he's willing to give you more ideas.

You roll your eyes. Despite wanting to remain strong, his touch, the sensation of his lips brushing your ear sends a shiver curling down your spine.

"Oh, you just wait."

AN: lol I always have so much fun writing these. Let me know which one was your favorite this time! 💕

@waynes-multiverse You gave me another perfect little tidbit for Beau on Man Flu that made it into this one. 😂

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[donutloverxo]

───────── L E T G O [soldier boy]

cw: trauma dumping ben.ᐟ soft ben?.ᐟ comforting reader.ᐟ parental issues [being a failure / not good enough].ᐟ joint smoking.ᐟ angst

wc: 1200

۫ ꣑ৎ bee yaps: we all know benjamin has his faults. but underneath the tough act, he's just a little boy who was always looked at as never being good enough ˙◠˙

۫ ꣑ৎ thanks to @bruisedfig for pondering this idea with me <3

the tv was on, low and forgotten. some old movie flickering light across the walls while the rest of the room stayed quiet, soft and dim the way he liked it. ben sat with both feet propped up on the coffee table next to you. half-rolled joint balanced on his thigh, fingers moving with slow precision as he finished twisting it shut.

he hadn’t said much since he walked in, just grunted a “hey angel” and pressed a kiss to your forehead before sinking down onto the couch next to you. you didn’t ask questions, you never had to.

you quickly came to know when ben was having rough days. whether it was tough missions or just his temper, you never pushed him, or at-least you tried your best not to.

his hands worked the lighter, the soft flick breaking the silence. like clockwork a moment later, blue hazy smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. he let out a slow exhale through his nose, eyes half-lidded.

“you ever think about shit you wish you could forget?” he asked, voice rough.

you could feel the weight in his words, the crack in his armor. one that ben didn’t show often, barely ever. but it was there now, surfacing in the quiet of the room, cushioned only by your presence.

you tugged at his shoulder gently. “c’mere”

ben blinked, confused for half a second, until you guided him to lay back against you, between your legs. he didn’t fight it. he let you pull him down so the back of his head rested against your stomach, fingers brushing lightly through his soft strands of his hair.

he didn’t look up, just stared ahead with his jaw tight.

“s’not the blood or the bodies. that ain’t the part that sticks,” he muttered, lips curling around his joint again “it’s the shit people say. the stuff that gets in your head and fuckin’ sticks.”

he didn’t look at you. kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, hand resting on your leg, thumb moving in small, absent circles.

another drag and slow exhale.

“i could’ve torn down buildings with my bare fuckin’ hands and he still would’ve looked at me like I was nothin’” he let out a bitter laugh.

your heart pained for ben, you knew his upbringing was rocky, unstable home, abusive father. you wanted nothing more than to sooth all the suffering and damage he had carried with him since a young boy.

“he never hit me” he continued, like he was still trying to make sense of it all these years later. “not once”.

you didn’t speak, you knew he wasn’t done. letting him have his time to air everything out while you were his support.

“that’s the part that always fucks me up” he muttered. “i wasn’t even worth a slap. just looked at me like I was already a failure”.

he took yet another long drag, it shook a little.

“i thought becoming a supe, being the strongest, the best, maybe that’d change something. thought he’d finally see me. be proud— or just— fuck i dunno anything.”

your hand paused for half a second, heart breaking in your chest, then kept moving.

“when i told him” he continued, quieter now “he didn’t even flinch. just said i took the easy way out. called it cheating. said a real man wouldn’t have needed a shortcut” flicking the finished joint into the ash tray.

“pops said i’d never be worthy of carrying his name”. the words came like a confession, one he’d buried deep, sealed shut with arrogance and anger over the years. “said he’d rather have no son at all.”

his voice cracked then—just the tiniest break, barely audible, but you picked up on it.

your hand drifted from his hair, fingertips trailing down to scratch gently through his beard. his breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you—just leaned into it like you were the only thing keeping him calm.

you bent down, lips brushing the side of his temple in a feather light kiss there.

“i’m so sorry, baby” you whispered, voice barely a breath. “you didn’t deserve any of that”.

it wasn’t much, you weren’t trying to make it about you, or guilt him heavily. but it was all he needed.

he never say anything—just let the silence settle again, safe in your arms, the weight of it all a little easier to carry with you holding him through it.

“i was just never enough for him, y’know?” his words coming faster. “not even after everything. he made sure i knew it. i thought—i thought becoming soldier boy would make him proud, that i’d finally be good enough”. his chest rose and fell with a shaky breath, trying to keep himself steady.

you felt the weight of his words settle deep in your skin, a deep ache growing in your chest. tilting his head back more to look up into your eyes, his own glossy.

“am i a fucking disappointment?”

“no—no you’re not a disappointment” you said quietly, your fingers never stopping their gentle motion through his beard. “you never were. that man? he didn’t deserve you, he wasn’t fit to be a father”.

his brows furrowed and you could see how much it hurt, how much he was trying to keep it all together. “i didn’t know how to be any better” he whispered, almost to himself.

“you didn’t need to be better” you murmured. “you just needed someone to see you. to really see you”.

his breath hitched, jaw clenched like he didn’t know how to accept the softness. so you gave him something he could hold onto.

“i’m so proud of you, ben”

you felt the quiet tremor of it in his chest as he finally shifted, turning just enough to bury his face against your belly. his arms wrapped around your waist, clinging, holding on. not like a weapon this time, but like an anchor.

you curled around him, you were the protective one for once. tenderly scratching his upper back.

his eyes were glassy, rimmed and red, but the storm in them had quieted. he placed a few scratchy kisses to your stomach before looking up at you.

“hey” he said hoarsely, like it almost hurt “i love you”.

it was raw and real, he didn’t say those three words often, always claimed it was too ‘weak’ for a man to show emotion.

but right now, he said them, and meant every word.

you smiled tender and soft, brushing a stray hair back from his forehead.

leaning down, kissed him slow and sure, like you meant it. a reminder you weren’t going anywhere, that he wasn’t a fuck-up, or a disappointment, or anything other than your sweet benjamin.

when you pulled back, he exhaled a breath you didn’t know he’d been holding. his arms tightened just slightly around your waist, and his cheek nuzzled into the swell of your breasts.

“just rest baby, i got you” you cooed softly, holding him until he drifted off to sleep against you, feeling a wave of warmth he hadn’t known was ever possible again.

₊˚ପ⊹ all i wanna do is comfort him and tell him everything’s gonna be okay.

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel

if you want to be added/removed from the taglist please just let me know!!

[donutloverxo]

Welp, I think tumblr ate my earlier ask so happy Friday! You've survived the week! For your random question, because a lot of our fellas have had...displaced lives, what do you think the boys' ideal homes would be? Big, small, grand, cozy, city, country? 🤔

Oh yeah I didn't get an ask before now, but Happy Friday my beautiful friend! Yes thank God we survived lmao. You already know work has been doing my head in. 🙃

Ooooh what an interesting question! I'm thinking by "boys" you mean our favorite Jackles characters...

HEADCANON: What Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw's ideal homes would be.

Dean Winchester

Dean's not one for big cities. Too many people, too much for him, honestly.

So if he ever left the bunker, say with you by his side, I think he'd be happy with a cozy cabin somewhere. It would have to be big enough for Miracle - Dean could do little hikes with him in the woods. Oh, and one or two extra rooms. Just in case you really want to take advantage of breaking away from hunting, and in his words:

"Maybe...you know...start on Phase 2 of this whole retirement gig. Start a family."

There would also be a nice fireplace and a comfy couch for you to hook him into some late night cuddling (and probably some slow, hot sex by the fire).

Beau Arlen

I see a lovely ranch-style house for Beau. 🥰 Moderately sized, but still spacious and open, with a nice big living room and a couple of guest rooms, plus Emily's room, of course. If you and Beau get surprised with more kids in the future, you guys are prepared to fill those rooms with more joy and chaos.

And if Friday movie night is going to continue, he needs a nice big TV in the living room (or an old school projector).

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, this guy. 😅

We all know he wants the biggest, gaudiest house he can afford. If just because that's what he's used to. He's been surrounded by opulence and the comforts wealth can provide since he was born, and that didn't stop when he got to Vought.

However, provided he went through some character growth through a meaningful relationship with you, he could be hooked into a nice brownstone apartment in NYC. But he would probably insist on having a vacation house somewhere -- like a colonial style house or a nice beach house to escape the city when it gets too much.

(He'd insist on "christening" every room.)

Russell Shaw

Hmm, this guy I could see not being fussed about the size of the place or the location, as long as it's comfortable and homey with you. Because the thing is, he hasn't really had a home since he left his family when he was a teenager.

He's spent decades in the service, and years more on the road, bouncing from motel to motel between contract jobs. He would probably say what the other guys inherently feel -- that you're his home. You're his peace.

AN: What do you think @luci-in-trenchcoats? Did you imagine any of these guys differently? 😘💜

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[donutloverxo]

please please please ; soldier boy

synopsis: you heard he was a bad guy and, unfortunately, he is proving you right.

cw: nsfw (18+) / fem!reader / p in v / slight coercion / daddy kink (use of the word dad) / kissing / not proofread wc: 777 love note: this request from @losers-clvb is part of my event short and sweet is super. ty for sending it in, zoe!

“I’m a good guy, sweetheart, never meant to hurt nobody,” Ben was clicking his tongue, shaking his head back and forth as he approached you. Still equipped with all of his supe gear, his saunter toward you was careful and decisive, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head as to how he was going to manipulate this situation.

“But,” you held the newspaper in between your hands, fingers shaking lightly as you loosened your grip and brought the headline closer to his line of sight. “Look at this headline. Soldier Boy Gone Rogue!”

“Doesn’t mean anything, baby, you know that. They’re always saying awful things about me. Bunch of cocksuckers, supe prejudice, and it’s all bullshit. Swear they have a requirement for journalists to hate supes before they hire ‘em. No other qualifications, you know? You believe in dad, don’t you?” Ben had pinned your back against the wall, his chest pressed against yours as he looked at you, the spandex of his mask still placed around his eyes.

His fingers glided up the base of your throat, and you knew there was no escaping this situation, but the real kicker is that you didn’t want to escape. He wasn’t that bad, right? He didn’t mean any harm, did he? It was what you told yourself to feel better, even if you knew it wasn’t true in the back of your mind. Your breath hitched as his finger moved up and down the sensitive skin of your throat. Stretching his hand up, he held your face in between his thumb and fingers, nestling the base of your chin in his hand.

It didn’t take long for him to dip his head down. Sweet lips crashed against yours, the taste of him was familiar and satiated the pent up desire. It didn’t take much convincing on his end, because Ben had mastered the art of sweet-talking you. Like putty in his hands, you were malleable and easily convinced by his words.

His hands dipped underneath you, gripping your ass and hiking your legs around his waist. His supe suit had never been a barrier for the two of you, and it didn’t take him much time to slip his shaft out of the suit and pull your underwear to the side. You should have known where this was heading from the beginning. When his words failed, his body always convinced you.

“What do you always say about these dresses you wear, baby?” Ben asked, using his strength to hold you against the wall and slipped himself inside of you. Maintaining eye contact with him was hard as you felt the slow push and stretch of your walls as he entered.

His pacing was slow at first, rocking your hips in and out at a teasing speed. He was being soft on you, getting you accustomed to the pull and stretch of his cock moving in and out. Nearly drunk from the feeling of him rocking in and out, your head tipped back as a soft moan slipped out. Bumping the drywall with the top of your head, the tip of his dick hitting your g-spot with such force you needed to grip his bicep for some stability. It was hard to answer his question, but you knew you needed to otherwise he would stop. “Dresses are easy for access.”

“That’s right,” Ben grunted, pushing his head into the crook of your neck. Connecting his lips with your skin and breathing in the sweet scent of your perfume, he continued to move his hips in staccato-like movements. As he pulled away with soft grunts filling the air around you, his eyes scanned your face, taking in the scrunch of your eyebrows and the way your lips fell open with each thrust.

It didn’t take long for your walls to tighten around him, your orgasm coming on quicker than you had anticipated. Something about Ben sweet-talking you, something about him manipulating the conversation to prove he’s the good guy he says he is, will always do it for you. And you’ll always fall for it, because you want to fall for it. You can’t be held responsible for his bad behavior, not when he treats you so well.

Ben was aware of the way your grip tightened on his arms, and the way your face twisted with pleasure. In just a few more thrusts, Ben had you finishing around him. With a smile stretched across his lips, and an almost I-told-you-so look etched on his face, he cleared his throat. “See, sweetheart? If I wasn’t a good guy, I wouldn’t make you feel this good, would I?”

[donutloverxo]

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

[donutloverxo]

Color me blue

Who in this flick: MM, Kimiko, Anne, Frenchie and Bonus

Request: ...reactions to receiving a bouquet and their s/o explaining the meanings behind all of the flowers/colors?

Link to : other part

Mother's Milk

Mother’s Milk wasn’t the kind of man to expect flowers. Hell, he wasn’t even the kind of man who really thought about them. But when you showed up at his door with a carefully arranged bouquet, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Uh… what’s all this?" he asked, eyeing the bouquet like it might explode.

You smiled, placing the flowers in his hands. "Just a little something for you. Every flower means something, you know."

He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head but not pulling away. "Yeah? So what’s all this mean then?"

You pointed to the deep red roses nestled among the other flowers. "Love and respect. Because, obviously."

His expression softened, but he stayed quiet, waiting for you to continue.

You ran a finger along the white lilies. "These mean purity and devotion. Because no matter what, you always do right by the people you care about."

He swallowed, looking down at the bouquet as if seeing it for the first time.

Then, you traced a bright yellow daisy. "Joy and positivity. Because even when things are rough, you find a way to keep everyone together."

Mother’s Milk exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a small smile. "Damn. Didn’t know flowers could say all that."

"They can," you said softly. "And so can I. You mean a lot to me."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he tugged you into his arms, bouquet squished between you both.

"You’re something else, you know that?" he murmured against your hair.

You only smiled, letting the flowers do the rest of the talking.

Kimiko

Kimiko wasn’t used to gifts. Not really. Not ones that weren’t some form of violence wrapped in a prettier name.

So when she opened the door to your shared apartment and saw you standing there with a bouquet, she froze. Her eyes darted over the arrangement—soft pinks, deep purples, splashes of white and yellow—and her first instinct was to search for the meaning behind the gesture. A warning? A farewell? But you just smiled, holding them out to her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“For you,” you said softly.

She took them hesitantly, fingers brushing the delicate petals as she examined the bouquet. She tilted her head, asking the question she couldn’t voice aloud.

You knew her well enough to answer without a thought. “I picked these out on purpose,” you explained, stepping closer. “Each flower means something.” Her brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded for you to continue.

You pointed to the soft pink blooms nestled in the center. “Pink roses—for admiration and gratitude. I wanted you to know how much I appreciate you.” Your voice was warm, and Kimiko felt her chest tighten at the sincerity in your tone.

Next, your fingers grazed the deep purple flowers woven throughout. “Lavender. It represents devotion.” Devotion. The word echoed in her mind, something rare and precious in her world. You were devoted to her. Not because of fear, not because of what she could do, but because you chose to be.

She swallowed hard, glancing down at the bouquet as you continued. “The white daisies are for hope. Because I want you to have that, even when the world feels like it’s too much.”

Hope. She hadn’t let herself think about that in a long time. But you always managed to remind her that it was still possible.

“And these?” she signed, brushing her fingers over the bold red petals scattered throughout. You smiled. “Red carnations. They mean deep love and admiration.”

Her breath hitched slightly. Love. Not just in words, not just in passing. Something deeper. Steady. Real. She stared down at the bouquet, overwhelmed but unable to look away. No one had ever done something like this for her. It wasn’t just the flowers—it was what they meant. What you meant.

Kimiko’s fingers tightened around the stems, holding them close to her chest. Slowly, she looked up at you, her dark eyes shining with something she wasn’t sure how to express.

But she didn’t have to.

She set the bouquet gently on the table before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around you, pulling you in tight. Her way of saying thank you. Her way of saying I love you.

And you understood. You always did.

Anne January

At first, Anne thought it was a joke

A setup. A trick.

People didn’t give her things without expecting something in return. Not real things, anyway. Not things that mattered. Yet, here you were, standing in front of her, holding out a bouquet like she was someone worth giving flowers to.

She put on a smile—her usual one, the perfect, polished kind—but it wavered slightly when she met your eyes. There was no expectation there, no angle. Just you.

“What’s this for?” she asked, voice light, careful. You smiled, stepping closer. “I picked these out for you.”

She hesitated before taking them, her grip light, almost unsure. The colors were soft but vibrant—deep reds, whites, soft purples—and they smelled fresh, real. Her fingers trailed over the petals as she swallowed down the unfamiliar tightness in her chest. She looked back up at you, the question in her eyes.

“Each flower means something,” you explained, your voice warm, steady. Anne forced a small laugh. “Oh? You gonna school me in flower language now?” She kept her tone teasing, but she held onto your words like a lifeline.

You played along, smirking slightly. “I am, actually.” You pointed to the bold red roses in the bouquet. “Red roses—for love and passion.” Love. Passion. Two things that had always felt like weapons in her world, used to control or manipulate. But you didn’t say it like that. You said it like it was a choice, not a demand.

She swallowed hard, nodding for you to continue. “The white lilies—they symbolize renewal, fresh beginnings.” Renewal. A fresh start. Anne wasn’t sure she deserved that. But hearing you say it—like you believed it—made something ache deep inside her.

“And these?” she asked, brushing her fingers over the soft purple flowers woven through.

“Violets,” you said gently. “They mean loyalty and truth.” Her breath caught for just a second. Loyalty. Truth. Two things that had always felt just out of reach. Two things she had learned not to expect from anyone.

But you? You weren’t like anyone else. She stared down at the bouquet, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. Not just flowers—meanings. Promises. Anne took a slow breath before looking back at you, the practiced, public smile slipping away. What was left was real. Raw. Carefully, almost cautiously, she set the bouquet down on the table and stepped closer, hands reaching out for yours. Her fingers squeezed yours, her touch lingering, uncertain but there.

FRENCHIE

Frenchie was no stranger to flowers. He’d given them before—wrapped around apologies, laced with affection, offered in quiet moments where words failed. He knew their meanings, the way different blooms could say things a mouth never could. But no one had ever given them to him.

So when he found himself staring at the bouquet in your hands, he was momentarily lost for words. His fingers twitched, reaching out instinctively, before he hesitated. “Mon cœur… what is this?”

You grinned. “A gift.” His lips curled into a slow smile as he finally took the bouquet from you, his touch careful, almost reverent. He let out a soft breath, drinking in the scent of fresh petals. “It is beautiful,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the delicate blooms. Then, with a playful tilt of his head, he asked, “But tell me, why?”

You stepped closer, your warmth brushing against his. “Because I love you,” you said simply. “And because each of these flowers has a meaning.” His dark eyes flickered with something soft, something unguarded. “Ah,” he hummed. “Then you must tell me, ma belle, what secrets do they hold?”

You pointed to the red tulips nestled in the center. “These mean deep love and passion.”

Frenchie chuckled, eyes gleaming. “Ah, bien sûr. Fitting, no?” His fingers trailed over the petals, voice lowering. “For you, my love, my passion runs deep as the sea.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm as you continued. “The white gardenias—they mean purity and trust.” His breath hitched just slightly. Trust. It was a fragile thing, something he had learned to treat carefully, something he didn’t give easily. But with you… it had never felt like a risk.

He swallowed hard. “Go on, mon amour,” he murmured. You pointed to the soft purple lilacs interwoven through the bouquet. “These symbolize memories. The ones we’ve made, and the ones we’ll keep making.” His throat tightened. He had spent so long running, trying to escape the ghosts of his past. But with you, the memories he made were his. Not stained in blood, not heavy with regret—just moments of light, of laughter, of love.

Frenchie exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to his fingers before brushing them over the petals. When he finally looked up at you, his gaze was dark with something unspoken, something heavy with devotion. He stepped closer, setting the bouquet gently on the table before cupping your face in his hands. His forehead pressed against yours, breath warm against your lips. “You always do this,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Remind me that there is still beauty in this world.” His thumb traced over your cheekbone, his voice a whisper. “That there is still softness for men like me.” You smiled, leaning into his touch. “There will always be softness for you, Frenchie.” His lips brushed against yours—light, lingering. A promise in itself.

BONUS: Soldier Boy

Soldier Boy wasn’t the kind of guy who got flowers. Guns? Sure. Cigars? Absolutely. Weed? You bettcha’. A stiff drink and a pat on the back? Standard. The list could probably go on for a long time..But flowers? Never.

So when you strolled in, all casual, and handed him a damn bouquet, he just stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “…The hell is this?” He took the bundle of blooms hesitantly, holding them like they might explode in his hands. The colors—deep reds, golds, and soft whites—looked almost wrong in his grip, all delicate and sweet against the roughness of his knuckles.

You just smirked. “It’s called a gift. People give them to the ones they care about.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, I know what flowers are, sweetheart. Just not sure why I’m gettin’ ‘em.”

Your expression softened. “Because I wanted to. And because these aren’t just any flowers.” You stepped closer, tilting your head toward the bouquet. “Each one has a meaning.”

Soldier Boy huffed, but he didn’t toss them aside. Instead, he shifted his grip, eyes flicking down to the petals. “…Alright. Lay it on me.”

You grinned and pointed to the deep red roses. “These? They mean love and respect.” He blinked. Love. Respect. Two things people had claimed to give him plenty of times, but it always came with strings attached. But when you said it, it didn’t feel like bullshit.

“Huh,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “What else?”

You pointed to the golden chrysanthemums woven through. “These stand for loyalty.” Loyalty. He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not sure I deserve that one.”

“You do,” you said firmly. No hesitation. Just certainty.His chest tightened, but he just nodded, jaw clenching as he looked at the bouquet again.

“And these?” he asked, running a rough thumb over the soft white petals near the edge.

“White camellias,” you said, voice softer now. “They mean admiration. That someone thinks the world of you.” Soldier Boy inhaled sharply through his nose. He wasn’t used to hearing things like that without it being some PR stunt, some scripted nonsense to stroke his ego for the cameras. But this? This was you. And you didn’t do bullshit.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the bouquet. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he lifted it slightly, taking in the scent of the flowers. It was subtle, clean, real.

Slowly, he lowered them and glanced at you. “Y’know,” he said gruffly, “this is probably the weirdest damn thing anyone’s ever given me.”

You smirked. “And?”

A pause. Then, a quiet, almost reluctant chuckle. “…And I kinda like it.” It wasn’t a grand confession, but it was as close as he could get.

[donutloverxo]

(Not a fanfic request) Imagine spoiling Ben and/or kissing him stupid. Just getting through all the machismo stuff and becoming his safe space. Doing mundane tasks but they never feel mundane because you’re with your best friend. Imagine him growing as a person. Imagine him looking at you with nothing but adoration. Jensen Ackles has so much to atone for— How dare he be so talented. 😭💕

Ahhh you're giving me the warm fuzzies, anon! 🥰 I definitely think this would be the vibe between SB/Ben and the reader in my series Break Me Down, and I've tried to give that sense of them being each other's safe space in many of the sequel stories.

In that story-verse, Ben's the one who makes you feel safe, who gives you the support you need so you don't have to be so strong all the time. While you're the one who makes him feel like there's someone in the world who understands him, accepts him for who he is, but also takes him to task when he needs it.

More domestic headcanons with Ben:

(Whoops, my hand slipped. 😂💚)

You and Ben watch old movies together and argue about the plot, with your modern, feminist view vs. his "traditionalist" view. But he also gives you behind the scenes info whenever he actually knows the actors, directors, etc. -- like the best movie commentary ever.

Ben won't easily admit it, but one of his favorite things is just chilling on the couch with you, flipping through channels, drinking a glass of whiskey or snacking on junk. You using him as a body pillow, basically. Or him with his head in your lap while you scratch his back or run your fingers through his hair. You like playing with his hair, the soft strands.

You also like his hands, long fingers and wide palms. But he likes the gentleness of your hands.

Ben likes taking you out to dinner, but he also likes going grocery shopping with you because he likes picking out new things to try (even as he makes fun of all the "oatmilk this" and "quinoa that").

Late at night, if either of you can't sleep (or after a few rounds of keeping each other up), Ben starts to open up.

He tells you about his life before Compound V, about his mother, about his father, about the world he grew up in, and sometimes, very rarely, about that Russian lab.

Those are the times that you have to hide how much your heart breaks, because you don't want him to instinctively close back up, not wanting to be pitied or seen as less of a man for being honest about what he went through.

He also admits to things he did when he was the "leader" of Payback -- his "glory days." What he doesn't admit, but you can tell just by his tone and demeanor, is that he's less proud and yearning those days than he used to be.

Actually, he wouldn't go back to those days even if he could.

Because now, he has you. He has a real family. That's the main thing that's real to him now.

AN: Again, didn't mean for this to become a mini HC, but there ya go! loll 💚

Join Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Break Me Down Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

BMD Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@nancymcl @emily-winchester @sl33pylilbunny @chernayawidow @spnfamily-j2

@lacilou @mimaria420 @yvonneeeee @my-stories-vault @iprobablyshipit91

@jacklesbrainworms @adoringanakin @deanwanddamons @globetrotter28 @mrsjenniferwinchester

@deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70

@rizlowwritessortof @chevroletdean @spnwoman @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303

@123passwort @lyarr24 @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @sanscas @luci-in-trenchcoats

@jessjad @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2 @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67

@deansbbyx @midnightmadwoman @ladysparkles78 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @tmb510

@sarahgracej @foxyjwls007 @just-levyy @roseblue373 @charmed-asylum

[donutloverxo]

exhibitionism

part III

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: You agreed to his terms, but you don't really have any idea what that actually entails—not that it matters. Ben's going to show you exactly what it means to be his. Turns out the price of a drink might be a bit more than you'd originally thought.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, sexsomnia, dub-con), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 7,146

A/N: I can only apologise for how long it's taken me to post this one -.- I went to the dentist today and (tw: mentions of drugs and painkillers) I had anaesthetic, then after I took strong painkillers—I really shouldn't have—and I felt like I smoked about an ounce of weed to myself for hours, so it took me a lot longer to finish this part up, edit, and then proofread. And honestly, I've probably still not done a proper job of it. The opening of this? Serious dub-con, which obviously is a big no-no... but it's this version of AU-richboy-motherfucker-Ben flaunting his fucking control. Possession. And I told y'all that this was gonna be a different breed of fic for me. I'm actively trying to make myself uncomfy (amongst other things) with this story, because it feels like good stories always leave you with a little pit in your stomach after reading. I got SO freaking excited when I got to writing about the bookstore and subsequent fucking because... bookstores are literally heaven. <3 like Reader obviously wasn't thriving in the boutiques, it wasn't her comfort-zone, but bookstores? Now that's where she can soak in the atmosphere, indulgently. I hope that comes across in my writing. Anyways, ramble over, here's part three... you know the goddamn drill: if the warnings above aren't evident yet, they certainly will be. I really hope you like this one. I really like it. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

You woke up floating.

Heavy-limbed. Warm. A deep, languid pull of pleasure threading through your veins, thick and honey-slow, drawing you up from sleep in waves. Your breath hitched, body trembling, hips shifting against something solid, something warm, the sharp, hot pleasure between your thighs sending sparks through your bloodstream, shooting up your spine like a live wire.

Fingers.

His fingers.

Two of them, deep, slow, curling inside you with perfect precision, teasing that gummy spot that had your stomach twisting, had your thighs clenching, had you already so fucking close before you even realised you were awake. A slow, lazy drag of his thumb over your clit.

You whimpered, body arching, eyes fluttering, and then, a wet, heavy pressure at your lips.

Thick. Hot. Ben’s cock, dragging slick precome across your mouth, smearing it slow as he watched you stir, watched you come back to yourself, watched you realise.

“‘Bout fuckin' time you woke up,” he murmured, low and smug, his voice gravel-thick, still warm with sleep, but dripping in satisfaction.

Your lashes fluttered, breath stuttering, body trembling as his fingers kept working you open, kept teasing you, kept coaxing you closer.

“Wanna come, sweetheart?” He murmured, voice mocking, silky, cock dragging over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth.

You whimpered, legs shaking, already so fucking gone.

Ben grinned, teeth flashing, watching you fall apart beneath him.

“Y’know, you make some real pretty noises in your sleep,” he mused, so fucking smug, fingers thrusting deep, dragging over that perfect spot, thumb circling slow, tight, making you clench down around him. “Didn’t even have to wake you up for it, you just started takin' it.”

You shuddered, body tightening, pleasure winding sharp, so close, so on edge, so ready to snap.

Ben laughed, voice low, taunting, his free hand dragging through your hair, fingers tightening at the base of your skull.

“Told you I was gonna give you a rough wake-up call,” he murmured, voice mocking, teasing, deliberate. “This is actually real fuckin' nice for you, huh?”

You tried to answer. Tried to breathe, but then his fingers curled deep, his thumb pressed down hard, and the pleasure hit you all at once, ripping through you, your body seizing, a wrecked, wrecked sob breaking free—

And the second your mouth parted, Ben pushed inside.

Thick. Heavy. Filling your mouth all at once, dragging across your tongue, pressing deep, holding you open, groaning loud, sharp, head tipping back as your throat fluttered around him.

“Jesus fuck, doll—”

Your breath hitched, body still trembling, still tight with pleasure, your own orgasm still wracking through you as Ben fisted his hand in your hair, thrust slow, shallow, letting you adjust, letting you feel it, letting you take it.

“So fuckin' good,” he groaned, hips pressing forward, deeper, savouring, owning. “Best fuckin’ way to wake up.”

Ben groaned, deep and wrecked, hips pressing forward, cock sliding deeper, thicker, stretching your mouth wide, making your throat flutter around him.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ on a cross, fuck—”

His fist tightened in your hair, keeping you right there, keeping you open, taking everything he was giving you. Your head was still fuzzy, still floating, drunk on pleasure, drunk on him, still warm and heavy-limbed from sleep and your orgasm, body loose and pliant.

You hadn’t even had time to think—to process—that you’d only known this man for maybe twelve hours.

It didn’t matter.

Because all you could focus on was how good he felt, how perfect he tasted, how completely he was using you, how his noises, his groans, his heavy, wrecked breaths, made you feel so special, so wanted, so fucking good.

Ben laughed, low and smug, watching you blink up at him, eyes glazed, lips stretched tight around him.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he mocked, voice gravel-thick, dripping with indulgence, dragging his thumb over your cheek. “Still all fuzzy from coming, huh?”

His hips flexed, slow, testing, watching the way your throat fluttered, the way your body trembled beneath him.

You whimpered, barely aware, just accepting it.

Ben’s grin widened, something mean, something so fucking pleased.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good for me,” he muttered, hips snapping forward, a sharp thrust, shallow, controlled, but enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your breath stutter.

He groaned, deep, satisfied, tilting his head back. “Shit, sweetheart, your mouth—fuck.”

A slow, deep roll of his hips, a tightening of his grip in your hair.

“You just—fuck—you want it, don't you?” He murmured, voice thick, wrecked, smug. “Bet I could do whatever I fuckin' wanted to this pretty little throat, huh?”

A mocking hum, gravel-low, his free hand dragging down your cheek, thumb swiping at the spit collecting at the corner of your mouth. His hips jerked, breath catching, and suddenly, his grin dropped, his breath hitched. A sharp, wrecked curse, his grip in your hair tugging, fisting, tighter, rougher.

And then—

“Ah, fuck it. Your face is gettin’ painted.”

A sharp groan, his hips pulling back, his cock dragging from your mouth, hot and slick and aching, his grip tight as he stroked himself, the tip brushing over your lips, your cheeks, dragging over your tongue.

He jerked, groaned deep, wrecked, as his cum spilled hot across your lips, your cheekbones, your jaw, thick ropes of it painting your skin, dripping onto your tongue, dripping down your chin.

Ben hissed, smirking, breathing hard, watching you, taking in the mess, the sight of you, his, all fucked out and ruined.

Another groan, thick and low, as he pressed back inside, feeding you more, making sure you swallowed him down, making sure you took him completely.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he muttered, gravelly, smug, satisfied. “Goddamn. You were made for this.”

Ben sank down onto the bed, pulled you up into his lap, then hummed low in his chest, fingers dragging slow over your cheek, collecting the mess he’d left there, his gaze hot, heavy, watching you.

“Made a real fuckin’ mess of you, huh?” He muttered, smirking, voice thick, wrecked with satisfaction.

You whimpered, body still boneless, still floating, still ruined from him.

Ben just grinned, dragging his cum-slick fingers down to your chin, scooping the rest from the corner of your mouth, then pressing it back against your lips.

“Open,” he murmured, mocking, fond, pressing slow, deliberate, watching your lips part for him, watching your tongue flick out, tasting him, yourself, everything.

A slow inhale, his smirk deepening as you sucked around his fingers, licking them clean, taking it all in like a good girl.

“There’s my girl,” he muttered, voice dropping low, pleased, rubbing his thumb over your tongue, feeling the way you suckled, letting him own you a little more.

Then he sighed, shaking his head, smirking like he was already thinking about how much worse he could ruin you later.

“You’re gonna have to put that dress back on,” he muttered, swiping his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down slow, watching how your breath hitched at the touch. “But after we stop by your place, I wanna take you out.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, still floating, still coming back to yourself.

Ben grinned, amused, rubbing slow circles at your jawline.

“Wanna see what kinda shit you’d pick for yourself,” he murmured, “but I’m pickin’ some stuff too.” A pause. A knowing smirk. “Especially for when you’re here on weekends.”

You blinked up at him, then nodded, slow, hazy. But then, quietly, you murmured,  “I don’t really need you to buy me clothes, Ben.”

A tut. A slow, mocking shake of his head.

“You gonna fuckin’ accept it,” he murmured, low, smug, indulgent, rubbing his hand up your bare thigh, gripping it hard, “or I’ll just pick shit myself and not give you a damn option.”

Your lips parted, surprised, but you just nodded again, giving in.

Ben grinned. “Good girl.”

You stretched, arms raising above your head, back arching like a lazy cat, letting out a small, contented squeaky noise, your body still heavy, still warm and loose from sleep and pleasure.

Ben laughed, low and rich, his grip at your thigh tightening before he leaned in, teeth flashing.

“Get your pretty ass up,” he murmured, eyes dark, hot, voice thick with warning, “before I bury my fuckin’ face between your legs.”

Your breath caught, a shiver running down your spine, but you listened. You slid off his lap, pulling your dress back on, the fabric still crumpled, still reeking of him, the night before still lingering on your skin, your hair, your lips.

Ben watched you the entire time, smirking, shameless, before standing himself, stretching broad and tall, his body all golden skin and lean muscle, before reaching for his jeans.

The way he wore them was devastating. Thick belt, silver buckle glinting, the fabric fitting in all the right ways, low on his hips, taunting, like he knew what he was doing.

Then—

A button-up, dark, crisp, sharp, his thick watch sliding over his wrist, rings slipping back onto his fingers, the weight of them clicking together, his hands dragging through his hair, pushing it back, off his forehead.

You stared.

Ben smirked.

Then he reached for you, grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the bathroom, flipping the light on as he grabbed a toothbrush, pressing it into your palm. His own already between his teeth, moving slow, lazily, the domestic ease of it so stark against everything he had done to you this morning.

And yet—

It felt seamless. Like this was just what you did now. Like he was already making you part of his life.

You padded out into the living room, body still warm, still loose, still tingling with the aftershocks of everything he’d done to you. The air smelled thick with whiskey, smoke, and sex, last night still lingering in the space, still woven into the fabric of the night before.

Your dress shifted around your thighs as you bent down, reaching for your underwear where it had been left in front of the sofa—where he’d stripped you down, spread you open, and made you his.

A sharp tut broke the silence.

You stilled. Then, slowly, you turned your head, glancing over your shoulder at Ben, who was standing near the door, arms crossed, head tilted, watching you.

His expression was unreadable.

“No,” he said simply.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

Ben cocked a single, thick eyebrow, eyes dark, knowing, and challenging. “You’re not puttin’ ‘em on.”

Your stomach dropped, a pulse of heat snapping down your spine.

You scoffed, straightening up, underwear still in your hand. “I can’t go out in this tiny dress without underwear on.”

Ben’s smirk was dangerous, his gaze taunting, smug, entirely too satisfied with himself. He tilted his head, that single brow lifting higher.

“You fuckin’ can,” he murmured, voice low, indulgent, a slow drag of his tongue over his bottom lip. “And you are.”

Your breath caught, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Ben grinned, catching it, seeing everything, knowing exactly what was happening in your head.

Then, sharp, commanding—

“Get over here.”

You swallowed, exhaling through your nose, and as you went to step forward. Your fingers instinctively twitched, your underwear still gripped in your fist.

Another sharp click of his tongue.

“Leave ‘em.”

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed. You dropped them back to the floor, the fabric crumpling, and walked straight to him, heart pounding in your ribs, stomach tightening.

Ben’s smirk deepened, pleased, his hand brushing over your hip, his grip warm and firm as he squeezed once, slow, deliberate.

“Good girl.”

A shiver snapped down your spine, and Ben just chuckled, pulling you toward the door, leading you out.

The morning air was crisp against your bare skin, the fabric of your dress barely covering anything, the cool breeze skating up your thighs.

Ben unlocked the car, a different one from the night before—sleek, low, expensive, a deep red, all money and power, loud and attention-grabbing. You swallowed as he slid in, the engine purring beneath his hands.

“Address,” he said, voice smooth as smoke and whiskey.

You gave it to him, and the moment he punched it into the GPS, his expression shifted—

Disgust. Absolute, unabashed disgust.

You bit your lip, fighting back laughter, because of course he’d be fucking horrified. His eyes flicked up to you, then back to the directions on the screen, then out the window as he turned onto the main road, lips pulling into a scowl.

You saw the exact moment he took in your neighbourhood, his hands tightening on the wheel, jaw tensing.

And you lost it. A loud, bright laugh escaped your lips, body shaking with it.

Ben just scowled deeper, one broad hand lifting to rub at his temple. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You wheezed, barely able to contain yourself as he made a slow turn onto your street, eyes flicking around, pure judgment written all over his face.

Ben sighed, exasperated, glancing toward the run-down building as he pulled up to the curb.

“If some dumb pussy touches my car, I’m killin' 'em.”

You cackled, throwing the door open and stepping out, gesturing dramatically for him to follow. Ben groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but ultimately stepped out after you, grumbling under his breath, already looking like he regretted every decision that led him here.

The building was old, not terrible, but definitely not nice. You led him inside, checking your post box, then heading toward the stairs. Ben sighed again, glancing around before following, dragging a heavy hand through his hair.

“No elevator?” He muttered, already annoyed.

You just grinned over your shoulder.

“Welcome to the real world, rich boy.”

Ben’s footsteps were fast, heavy, intentional, and before you could even react, he was right behind you, a sharp swat landing against your ass, making you yelp.

You twisted your head, wide-eyed, breath catching in your throat. Ben just smirked, pawing at you, hands gripping, squeezing, claiming, voice low and mocking.

“I live in the real world, sweetheart.”

You laughed, stepping higher, looking over your shoulder, eyes shining with amusement.

“This is my version of the real world.”

Ben huffed, shaking his head, grinning. “Yeah?”

His hands slid lower, fingers skimming the hem of your dress, pushing underneath, brushing over bare skin, and your stomach flipped.

“Not anymore,” he murmured, voice thick, certain, irrevocable. “My world’s yours now.”

You shook your head, lips parting to argue—

But then you heard it. A low chuckle. The rustle of fabric. And before you could react, cool air hit the backs of your thighs. Your dress was up, pulled high, your bare ass completely exposed, and your breath caught in your throat.

You gasped, yanking it back down, twisting on the stairs, glaring at him. “Ben!”

His brows furrowed, like you were being ridiculous, like this was a non-issue, like you hadn’t just been completely exposed in the middle of your apartment stairwell.

Then he grabbed your dress again, and pulled it back up.

Your breath hitched, mortified, eyes wide, hands fisting in the fabric, trying to pull it back down again, but Ben’s grip was firm, unyielding.

“Wanna see my pretty girl’s ass while she’s walkin’ up the stairs,” he murmured, eyes dragging over you, taking his time, savouring the view.

Your stomach twisted, heat rushing up your neck, panic spiking.

“Ben, it’s a public fucking stairwell!” You hissed, scandalised, horrified, twisting around, gripping the banister for support, shoving at his hand.

Ben just bit his lip, dark eyes dragging over your naked skin, taking his time, memorising it, owning it. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted, locking onto yours.

“If anyone looks,” he murmured, calm, deadly, quiet and certain, “I’ll break their fuckin’ neck.”

Your heart stuttered, stomach dropping, throat tightening.

Ben held your gaze, firm, unflinching, before patting your ass, voice mocking, teasing, but completely serious beneath it all.

“Better hurry up, sweetheart. Unless you want some poor fuck’s blood on your hands.”

Your face burned beet-red, humiliated, embarrassed, but soaked in arousal, body buzzing, pulse roaring in your ears.

You didn’t say another word. You spun forward, dragging him up the last flight, leading him to your hallway, heart pounding, the feel of his eyes on you the entire time making you shake with nerves and heat.

When you reached your door, you yanked your clutch open, fumbling for your keys, fingers slipping against the metal as you unlocked it, heart racing, feeling Ben’s presence at your back like a physical weight.

The door clicked open, and you dragged him inside before anyone could see.

Ben stepped inside, taking exactly one second to sweep his eyes over your space before exhaling slow, one hand dragging through his hair, the other planting on his hip.

His expression was unreadable.

But his silence spoke volumes.

Your apartment was small, modest, but yours. It had been built with limited space and even more limited funds, but that hadn’t stopped you from making it your own.

A cream loveseat sat opposite a vintage-looking armchair, both covered in pastel cushions, a soft throw draped over the back. A small wooden coffee table sat between them, lightwood, matching the side table nearby. More than anything, though—there were bookshelves.

Everywhere.

Overflowing, spilling over, double-stacked, books piled onto side tables, onto the nightstand, onto the floor, and Ben’s eyes dragged over them, taking in the titles, the bindings, the absolute literary graveyard you lived in.

Your space was gentle, artsy, laced with soft nostalgia and the kind of quiet beauty that made sense for you. Tiny artsy trinkets lined the shelves, a tiny wooden table with two mismatched chairs sat near the kitchen, a vase of wilted, dying wildflowers placed in the centre.

Ben exhaled again, slowly, hands planted on his hips, his head tilting as he took it all in.

You cleared your throat, moving toward the kitchen, voice casual. “Want a drink?”

No answer.

You glanced back, watching as he took slow steps, looking around, soaking it in, lips parted slightly, like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know how to process.

Then—

His eyes landed on the window. He moved toward it, pressing a broad palm against the frame, gaze flicking outside, the sound of traffic drifting up from below.

A quiet laugh, deep in his chest.

You furrowed your brows, stepping forward. “What?”

He turned, expression half-amused, half-something else, chin tilting toward the fire escape outside your window.

“That where you sit to read?” He asked.

Your brows furrowed further, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yes,” you answered, hesitant. “That’s where I like to read.”

Ben’s lips tugged down, an almost thoughtful frown, like he was considering something. A shift. A glance back at you.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

You scoffed, shaking your head, motioning for him to follow. “Come on.”

You led him toward the small hall, into a bedroom that was more of the same—small, but soft, delicate, lived-in. A double bed, lightwood frame, bedding pastel, frilly, a tiny dresser and matching single wardrobe standing against the wall.

Books were everywhere—stacked beside the window, stacked on the nightstand, tucked into the smallest corners, just waiting to be picked up and lived in.

Ben exhaled slow, stepping inside, eyes dragging over every detail, every piece of you, before something on the bed caught his attention.

A stuffed bear.

You saw it exactly when he did—

But he was faster. He reached down, fingers closing around the bear’s plush arm, lifting it up, inspecting it.

Your eyes widened, a horrified gasp catching in your throat, and in an instant, you lunged, snatching him back.

“That’s Eugene,” you blurted, clutching the bear to your chest, heart hammering, heat flashing up your face. “I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

Silence.

Then a deep, gravel-thick chuckle, low and amused, so fucking smug.

“Eugene?”

Your stomach dropped.

Ben smirked, arms crossing, head tilting. “That’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”

Your jaw dropped. “It’s not a stupid name!”

His grin widened, delighted, eyes dragging over you, still clutching the bear like your life depended on it.

“You’re adorable,” he muttered, shaking his head, grinning like the smug bastard he was.

You huffed, pressing Eugene tighter against your chest, scowling. But Ben just laughed, deep, rich, indulgent, before turning back to your tiny dresser, hands dragging across the wood, eyes sweeping your wardrobe, taking in the limited space, the minimal amount of clothing.

He nodded to himself, once, thoughtful, like he’d already decided something, and then turned back to you, grinning.

“You really are just a cute little thing, huh?”

You exhaled, shaking your head as you placed Eugene neatly atop the dresser, turning back to your drawers to pick something out for the day.

"Are you done judging my apartment yet?" You asked, voice dry, throwing a glance over your shoulder at him.

Ben nodded, too easily, like he’d made his decision already.

Then he said it.

"You’re not livin' here anymore."

You froze. Slowly, slowly, you turned to face him, blinking, lips parting. "Excuse me?"

Ben stood there, completely set, his expression final, unchallenged, like it was a decision already made. Like his word was law.

"I’ll find you somewhere nicer," he said, flat, casual, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Not havin’ you livin’ in this shitty little space. In this—" He scowled, lips curling in absolute disgust. "—this fuckin' neighbourhood."

You laughed, loud, incredulous, because surely he was joking.

Ben’s brow lifted, his expression turning harder, sharper, annoyed.

"The fuck’s so funny?"

You shook your head, grinning, motioning vaguely around you. "I can’t just leave."

Ben’s grin dropped. His jaw ticked.

"You absolutely can."

Your stomach flipped, something tightening, something warning—

"You’re stayin’ at mine 'til tomorrow night anyway," he continued, voice even, matter-of-fact, like this was just how things were now. "Gives Butcher enough time to look into some places closer to my building."

Your breath hitched, your heart skipping a beat, panic flickering in your chest. "Ben—"

He wasn’t listening.

"I’ll make sure you got a little outside space, so you can read when it rains."

Your lips parted, words catching, sticking. This was too much. This was ridiculous.

"Ben, no," you breathed, shaking your head. "Ben, this is—"

Too much. Too fast. Too real.

You barely had time to process before he moved, gripping your ass, yanking you flush against him, his presence commanding, unrelenting, his hands rough, his voice dropping to something low, dangerous, final.

"Not fuckin’ up to you anymore."

Your breath left you in a rush, a shockwave rolling through your body, heart hammering, pulse roaring.

The gall of this fucking man.

Your stomach twisted, your mind spinning, thoughts racing.

You couldn’t just up and leave. What if this arrangement didn’t work out? Where the fuck were you supposed to go?

Then—

His mouth crashed onto yours. All tongue, all bite, all fucking force, like he wanted to brand you, consume you, remind you exactly who you belonged to now. You moaned into him, helpless, his hands kneading your ass rough, possessive, fingers digging in, owning you, staking his claim. He licked into your mouth, deep and hot, smothering, like he wanted to choke you with it, take you under completely.

You whimpered, weak, knees wobbling, head swimming, body giving in. You forced yourself to pull away, gasping, breaking the kiss reluctantly, shaken, breathless, every nerve buzzing, every limb weak.

Ben just grinned, cocky, satisfied, lips red, slick. Wrecked.

You exhaled, swallowing hard, turning back to your dresser. You pulled out two different outfits, laying them out neatly on the bed, before stepping back, arms outstretched, chin tilted up.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the bed, then back to you, his smirk deepening. A slow, pleased nod.

"Good girl."

Ben’s eyes were heavy on you as you slid into the sundress he’d picked, a soft cardigan draped over your shoulders, your fingers slipping into your chucks, tying the laces with quick, practiced motions.

He was silent, but you could feel him watching, like a predator tracking its prey, eyes dark, intent, cataloging every movement, every shift, every breath.

You ran a brush through your hair, smoothing the tangles from the night before, the tension of the morning still settling in your bones, still buzzing in your chest.

Ben slapped his hands together, breaking the silence, voice gruff, expectant. “Come on.”

He grabbed your wrist and dragged you back down to the car.

The drive was quick, the city flashing by in streaks of morning sun and steel, your neighbourhood disappearing into something sleeker, something richer.

You knew where this was going before he even parked.

Boutiques.

Your stomach twisted as he led you inside the first one, racks of silk and lace and delicate materials stretching out before you, the air filled with the scent of leather and perfume. The lights were too bright, blinding, like a spotlight shining straight at you—making it evident that you had no business standing around such extravagant and lavish fabric. Ben was already moving, hands skimming through hangers, eyes narrowed in focus, decisive, ruthless, sure.

He plucked a dress from the rack, holding it up. “This?”

You bit your lip. “Ben, it’s so expensive.”

He rolled his eyes, exasperated, before grabbing another. “What about this then? Fuck, sweetheart, come on.”

You hesitated, fingers twitching, eyes dragging over the price tags, heart pounding.

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t pick.

Ben sighed sharply, grabbing you by the waist, pulling you against him in the middle of the store, uncaring, unbothered, completely indifferent to who was watching. Big, warm hands splaying wide against your back and waist, holding you there, possessing you.

Then—

A bite to your jaw, sharp and teasing, followed by a slow, lingering nip to your bottom lip. His voice, low and smug, a whisper just for you.

“If you’re a good girl and you pick some clothes and things you like…” A pause. A beat. “I’ll take you to a bookstore after.”

Your breath hitched, eyes widening, something bright sparking behind your ribs, something sharp and eager, something so painfully obvious that the second Ben saw it. His grin stretched slow, sinful, victorious. He had you.

You exhaled sharply, defeated, muttering, “Fine.”

Ben’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest, his hand squeezing at your waist before he released you. “Atta girl.”

So you picked.

Hesitant at first, but then more assured, more certain, fingers brushing fabrics, grabbing soft knits, casual blouses, comfortable dresses, things that felt like you.

And Ben did the same. Only, his choices were…

Less you. More him.

Thin straps. Short hems. Deep plunging necklines. Tight and revealing and scanty. But you didn’t argue, because in the next store, it only got worse.

Shoes. Strappy little heels, sleek and minimal, elegant and dangerous.

“These,” Ben murmured, holding up a pair of barely-there stilettos, eyeing them like a fucking prize. “I want you naked in these.”

Your laugh bubbled out before you could stop it, heat flashing up your spine, face burning.

Ben just grinned, pleased, slipping the shoes into the growing pile.

Then lingerie. Tiny, lacy, barely-there sets.

Ben was relentless. Piece after piece, holding them up, grinning as your face burned hotter, making mocking little hums when he found ones he particularly liked. By the time he was satisfied, your arms were full, your head spinning, the sheer amount of money spent on you making your stomach twist.

You chewed your lip, glancing at the packed bags, overwhelmed.

Ben watched you, saw it, and before you could spiral, a sharp clap of his hands, voice gruff, certain.

“Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Where?”

Ben’s smirk turned lethal.

“The fuckin' bookstore, sweetheart.”

Your heart jumped, something soft, warm, excited spreading through you, and before you could even process it, he had you in the car, heading across the city, taking you exactly where you wanted to go.

The scent of old paper and ink swelled around you, the quiet, reverent hush of the bookstore wrapping around your bones like a second skin. Dim amber light pooled in soft halos overhead, illuminating rows upon rows of shelves that loomed like cathedral pillars, stacked high with the kind of stories that felt like home.

This was sanctuary. A temple. A place that smelled like history and longing, the weight of every story pressing down on you in the most delicious way.

And then there was him.

Ben was flush against your back, broad and burning, radiating heat like a furnace. He was impatient, hands constantly on you, gripping your waist, your hips, fingers squeezing like he wanted to leave marks even through your brand-new clothes. Clothes he had insisted on buying you. Clothes he had piled onto counters, thrown into bags, spent more money on than you’d ever let yourself consider.

And yet, here? The bookstore? Here was where you would accept indulgence without argument.

You trailed your fingertips over the spines of classics, whispering titles under your breath. Poe. Wilde. Shelley. Darker works next, running over Dostoevsky’s bleak philosophies, Dante’s infernal descent, each one pulling at you with their heavy, inescapable gravity. Then, onto the poetic, the romantic—words spun like gold thread, woven into something aching and eternal.

This was everything.

Ben made a low sound behind you, something between a sigh and a growl, burying his face against the crook of your neck. His beard scratched deliciously at your skin as he nipped at the spot just beneath your ear, exhaling against you, his voice thick with something molten.

“Fuck’s sake, doll,” he muttered, hands slipping lower, gripping your hips, pulling you back into the hard line of his body.

“I’m standin’ here about to bust in my fuckin’ jeans and you’re—” he gestured at the shelves in front of you with a short, impatient movement, “—gettin’ all dreamy over a buncha fuckin’ books.”

You bit your lip, fingers closing around a particularly battered copy of Paradise Lost, trying and failing to ignore the way his grip tightened on you, fingers digging in, desperate to ground himself. His mouth trailed down, teeth scraping along your jaw, another groan pressed into your skin.

“Y’know what I wanna do?” He rasped, low and dangerous, his voice meant for violence, his words meant for you alone. “Wanna get you back to mine, spread you out, pump you full ‘til you’re drippin'. Make you sit on my fuckin’ face ‘til I can’t breathe, get you cryin’ all over me ‘cause you can’t take anymore—”

You exhaled sharply, knees going weak, thighs squeezing together instinctively as heat coiled low in your belly. You gripped the book tighter, trying to focus, trying to remember where you were, but Ben—Ben was relentless. His hands slid up beneath your brand-new shirt, rough palms skating across your stomach, fingers spanning wide against your ribs, holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted.

“Ben—” you tried, your voice coming out breathy, barely above a whisper.

“Fuck it,” he cut you off, tone edged with that gruff finality, like he’d already made up his mind. “Get ‘em all.”

Your brow furrowed, your dazed mind struggling to catch up. “What?”

“The books,” he said, like it was obvious, voice dripping with exasperation. “Fuckin’ get every single one of ‘em.”

You blinked, stunned, lips parting to protest, but he was already moving, reaching past you and plucking stacks from the shelves, shoving them into your arms like it was nothing. A dangerous glint sparked in his eyes, jaw ticking with impatience.

“Ben, I don’t need—”

“Don’t give a fuck what you need,” he gritted out, snatching the Paradise Lost copy from your hands and tossing it onto the growing pile. “You’ll take ‘em. Every last one.”

Before you could argue, before you could do anything other than gape at him, he grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you to the register, dumping the books onto the counter with an utterly dismissive wave of his hand. The poor cashier barely blinked, used to customers with too much money and too little patience, scanning them through as Ben shifted behind you, his hands back on you, his mouth back against your ear.

“Fuckin’ piece of work,” he muttered, voice bordering on a growl, like he couldn’t believe you. “Whole new fuckin’ wardrobe, and you get all soft-eyed over books instead.”

That broke you. You laughed—properly laughed, the sound bubbling up out of you before you could help it, head tilting back against his shoulder. And the thing was, he wasn’t even trying to be funny, wasn’t trying to make you laugh, but his delivery—the sheer frustrated disbelief in his tone—was hilarious.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, scowling, but there was something softer behind the glare, something almost fond.

“You’re laughin’ at me,” he accused, his hold tightening, but you only laughed harder, trying to suppress the grin overtaking your face.

“A little bit,” you admitted.

Ben grumbled, but he couldn’t keep up the charade. His lips twitched like he was fighting his own smirk, like he couldn’t quite resist the way your laughter curled around him, soaked into his bones.

Still, he rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he reached into his pocket and shoved a ridiculous amount of cash into the cashier’s hands without waiting for the total.

“C’mon,” he said, voice rough as he slung an arm around you, dragging you toward the door, his grip firm and possessive. “Gotta get you back before I fuckin’ lose my mind.”

You followed, books in hand, warmth in your chest, laughter still lingering on your lips. He was impossible. A wrecking ball of impatience and rough affection, of greed and need and unrelenting, all-consuming hunger.

And you didn't think you'd have him any other way.

The ride back to his building was a blur of neon streaks and city lights, the low rumble of the muscle car vibrating through your bones as Ben floored it through intersections, breaking speed limits like they were a personal affront.

One hand gripped the wheel in a vice, the other flexed restlessly against your thigh, fingers twitching like he was barely holding himself back. You could feel the tension radiating off him, like a storm wound tight, ready to break.

He barely even put the car in park before he was out, throwing the door shut behind him. The books, the bags—he didn’t give a single fuck about them. Someone else would handle it. He jerked his chin at one of the building’s staff.

“Get that shit upstairs.”

Didn’t even wait for a response.

You had barely unbuckled your seatbelt before he was yanking open your door, grabbing your wrist, hauling you out onto unsteady legs. The air outside was thick and humid, but it was nothing compared to the heat coming off him in waves. He didn’t even slow his stride as he dragged you toward the building, toward the private elevator that led to his penthouse. No interruptions.

The second the doors slid shut, he was on you.

A snarl ripped from his throat as he shoved you back against the mirrored wall, mouth claiming yours in a brutal, consuming kiss, all tongue and teeth and hot, growling need. His hands were everywhere—knotting in your hair, yanking your head back so he could suck bruises into your jaw, your throat. His other hand was palming your ass, gripping hard, fingers digging deep like he wanted to leave bruises, like he wanted to brand you beneath his touch.

“Gonna ride me soon as we get in,” he growled against your lips, voice raw and wrecked with hunger. “Gonna fold you in half and fuck you ‘til you don’t know your own fuckin’ name.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at the thick muscles of his back, but it only spurred him on. He wedged a thigh between yours, pressed you down against the hard muscle, grinding you against him like he needed you to feel how desperate he was.

“I could fuck you right here,” he muttered, voice thick and dark with filth. “Right against this fuckin’ wall. Spread those pretty legs and fill you up. Bet you’d love it.”

Your nails dug into his biceps, thighs clenching around his leg, and he felt it—felt the way your body responded to every word. His grin was wicked, breathless.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His teeth scraped against your throat, tongue following the path of his bite. “Like me talkin’ about how I’m gonna wreck this tight little fuckin’ cunt. How I’m gonna stuff you so full of my cum, you won’t be able to fuckin’ walk.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

Before you could take a breath, he grabbed you, hauled you up, threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

You yelped, fists slamming against his back, but he just swatted your ass once—hard. Then again. And the third time? That one had you gasping, a sharp, stinging heat blooming across your skin. Instinctively, your hands scrambled down his back, gripping the thick muscle of his ass in retaliation.

He let out a rough bark of laughter, squeezing your thigh as he carried you through the front door to the penthouse.

“Grabby little thing,” he taunted, voice dripping with amusement. “You’re lucky I like it.”

You sank your teeth into the hard plane of his back, and he groaned, fingers digging into your thigh, pinching the tender flesh there.

Then he was moving. Fast. Determined. Possessed.

He stormed into the kitchen, sending a chair skidding across the tile in his path. He didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Just reached out, knocked half the shit off the counter, and threw you down on it.

Air punched out of your lungs from the impact. 

Your new pants? Gone. Ripped down with a single motion, tossed aside like they were nothing more than an obstacle. He shoved your legs apart, pushed your knees up to your chest, spreading you wide open for him.

His pupils were blown, his chest heaving, a primal hunger carved into the sharp angles of his face.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, voice hoarse with reverence. “Look at you.”

Then he was on you.

His mouth latched onto you like a man starved, groaning so deep it vibrated through your core. His hands—massive, greedy—held you open, kept you exactly where he wanted. His tongue worked you over, hot. Wet. Obscene. Licking into you like he wanted to consume every part of you.

He growled against you, the sound muffled, vibrating straight through your cunt. He licked deep, long strokes, sucked at your clit, shaking his head slightly like he was drunk on it.

“All fuckin’ mine,” he muttered, voice wrecked, spit-slick and desperate. “This fuckin’ pussy—mine.”

His eyes rolled back, fingers flexing against your thighs. He looked like a man unhinged, lost in it, absolutely devouring you like he needed it more than air.

“Fuck, doll—fuck—tastes so good—” He groaned, the sound pure filth, his hips grinding against the counter like he couldn’t not.

“Could fuckin’ die with my face buried in this pussy.”

And then he doubled down.

Sucked harder, licked faster, fucked his tongue into you with a desperation that sent you arching, gasping, hands scrabbling at the countertop. He growled, low and threatening, holding you down, keeping you there, keeping you open, making sure you took it.

“Takin’ it so fuckin’ good, baby—shit, you were made for this.”

Your vision blurred, your legs trembling in his hold. He was relentless, obscene, groaning into you like this was all he ever wanted, like this was the only thing that mattered.

And God help you, you loved it.

The second you shattered under his tongue, Ben pulled back with a sharp breath, his beard slick, his mouth bruised and swollen, pupils blown wide as he grinned down at you.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling through his nose, and then his gaze dropped to you—twitching, breathless, sprawled out like a wreck over his pristine marble counters.

“That was fuckin’ pathetic.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he was flipping you onto your stomach, dragging you back so your hips hung off the counter’s edge. His strength was effortless, his grip bruising as he yanked you where he wanted you. He didn’t waste time, didn’t ease you into it. One second you were catching your breath, the next—

Slap.

His palm cracked against your ass, hard enough to have you gasping, gripping at the counter.

“Fall apart the second I put my mouth on you,” he sneered, fingers digging into the fresh sting of your skin, kneading before delivering another hard slap. “Get so fuckin’ needy, huh?”

You moaned, toes curling against the tile, your hips pressing back instinctively. His rough chuckle scraped down your spine, dark and mean, and then you heard the metallic clink of his belt being undone. The sound sent a violent shudder through you, anticipation tightening every muscle in your body.

Ben grunted as he freed himself, his cock heavy and aching in his fist as he lined up, dragging himself through your slick folds before slamming inside, all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You screamed, arching, nails scraping against the counter, and he just groaned, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard as he held himself deep.

“Fuck yeah,” he exhaled against your skin, thick fingers curling around your throat from behind, dragging you up, bending you back at an angle that made every thrust hit just right.

“So fuckin’ tight. Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

You gasped, his arm unrelenting around your throat, holding you up like it was nothing, like you weighed nothing. He was using you, owning you, claiming you with every brutal snap of his hips.

The cold marble bit into your hipbones, a delicious counterpoint to the blistering heat of him. His free hand slid down, gripping at your ass, squeezing, groping, pulling you open wider so he could watch himself split you apart.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he muttered, breath ragged, voice mean. “Bend you over every fuckin’ counter in this place—”

Slap.

“—Keep you stuffed so full of my cum you look knocked up.”

You whimpered, your body trembling under his relentless pace, every punishing thrust pushing you closer and closer to that breaking point again.

“You fuckin’ love it.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, fingers tightening around your throat, controlling the very air you breathed. “Love lettin’ me use you, huh?”

You moaned a broken yes, and he growled, the sound primal, vicious, something feral. His grip on your ass tightened, nails digging in before another sharp slap made you jolt in his hold.

“Yeah, you do.” He huffed a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it—just raw, unhinged possession. “Let me wreck this perfect little fuckin’ body. Let me have it—all of it.”

Your walls fluttered around him, that tight pull dragging a guttural groan from his chest. You were so fucking close—

Ben groaned, forehead pressing against your temple, his thrusts turning rougher. Sharper. Deeper.

“You don’t wanna take pretty clothes from me,” he gritted out, punctuating each word with another snap of his hips, “but you go all fuckin’ doe-eyed over some bullshit books.”

A sob of pleasure tore from your throat, your whole body tightening around him, and he felt it—felt the way you clenched, the way your legs shook.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he groaned, fingers squeezing around your throat as his pace turned brutal, fucking into you like he wanted to break you.

“Fuckin’ come. Come for me—now.”

Your whole body seized, pleasure consuming you like wildfire, dragging a ragged cry from your lips. You convulsed in his hold, clenching down on him so fucking tight that he snarled, hips stuttering, burying himself deep as he followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a vicious, guttural sound.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound in the penthouse was your ragged breathing, the distant hum of city lights through the massive windows.

Ben exhaled hard, pressing a bruising kiss against the side of your face before muttering, voice still thick and wrecked with lust, “You ain’t goin’ back to that shithole.”

You barely had the energy to lift your head, still shivering, still trying to catch your breath. “Seriously?”

“You heard me.” He grunted, still buried deep inside you, his grip possessive, immovable. “You’re stayin’ here. Gettin’ you a real fuckin’ place. No more of that run-down, rat-infested shit.”

You huffed, a weak little laugh, but there was no arguing with him.

Not when he was still inside you. Not when his fingers were still bruising your hips, keeping you in place like he wasn’t done with you yet. Not when his teeth were grazing your shoulder again, voice dipping into something lower, darker.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, breath ghosting against your damp skin. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @kayleighwinchester @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver <3