grilledcheeseandtomato

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

amazing, incredible, delectable.

show-time

request: i cannot stop thinking about asking steve if he ever got himself off to you before you got together. he’d be so blushy and sheepish about it but man it’d be fun to watch him squirm 🤤

2.1k words, established relationship, masturbation (steve), gn!reader, MDNI this entire blog is 18+

It’s a universally awkward experience to have a sex-scene come on in a movie. Unless one’s watching it alone, of course.

You are not. Cuddled in behind you, cushioning you against his chest, Steve lounges, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Sure, in terms of awkwardness-rankings, watching this with your boyfriend who you also have sex with isn’t as bad as, like, watching with parents.

But still. You kinda can’t tell if you should be watching or averting your eyes — and you don’t want to peek over your shoulder to figure out what Steve’s doing.

The man in the film grunts, his hand in his pants jerking furiously, his eyes fixed on a polaroid of the film’s love interest.

You squint—surely this is stretching the truth a bit?

Yeah, yeah, guys jerk off, you know that - this isn’t your first day on earth.

You just didn’t think it would be like, romantic style. People in movies kiss in the rain and run through airports, so they’re hardly known for being grounded in reality.

The man in the film groans lewdly and you feel Steve shift slightly behind you, his fingers looped around your middle twitching.

Did he-? When you-? You suppose you’ve never really thought about it.

You’re asking before you can second guess yourself.

“Did you do this?”

Steve’s attention switches idly from the screen to you as you crane your neck to look back at him. His brows pinch together.

“Did I do what?” He asks, doting brown eyes searching your face.

You fluster a bit. This is certainly moving you up through the awkwardness rankings. But now it’s in your head —now you’ve said it — you can’t turn back.

The thought of it blazes hotly through your mind.

Steve, all those months ago, still just crushing on you, but never quite making a move. He’d told you, whispered his secret, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask him to be your boyfriend officially, that he’d been sweet on you far longer than you knew.

But the image of it is what has you interested. You imagine Steve, his fist stuffed into his tight jeans, working himself over and biting his fist to hide his moans, at the mere thought of you.

You’d had plenty of long, late night conversations on the phone before officially getting together.

The thought of if he’d ever touched himself while you talked, none the wiser on the other end, wanders into your mind — and your stomach clenches hotly at the thought.

Clearing your throat, you tip your head towards the screen.

“Like, before we got together?”

It takes Steve another glance at the screen to realise what you’re asking. A simmering, pink colour crawls up his neck and in a moment, you go from feeling awkward to feeling downright devious.

Steve clears his throat, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth from the screen to your face. “Uh, I- I mean, why do you ask?”

A coy smile curls at your mouth. “I wanna know how accurate it is.”

Steve stares down at you, the pink now creeping up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. God, he looks delectable like this.

Is this how he looked when he did it too? Blushy and embarrassed to commit such a filthy act thinking of someone that wasn’t his? A hot buzz drizzles through your core, fringed with endearment.

Steve licks his lips nervously. His hands on your stomach stiffen and then relax. The film plays on in the background. His expression shifts towards something sheepish.

“It’s — I, uh, well, yes.” He stammers. “It’s accurate, yes.”

“How many times?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, but his face gets redder. “What is this, an interrogation now?”

You giggle, drinking in his evidently embarrassed state. The confirmation of him doing it solidifies the perfect image of him in your mind, your own film-scene imagining Steve in the same position as the character on screen. In real life, Steve moves his hand to tug at the collar of his shirt.

“I’m just… enjoying the idea of it.” You muse.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, tongue jammed into the side of his cheek. “Not just—” He fumbles for his words. “Just enjoying seeing me, I don’t know, like—”

His words trail off and his head tips back with a groan, exposing the delicious expanse of his throat. It begs you for kisses and love bites. He moves both hands up to cover his face.

You wait til he pulls them away to nod. “Absolutely, baby. Watching you squirm is far more interesting than this film.”

In the background, the man on screen gives a pornographic shout as he finishes in his pants. Steve manages to turn redder, even if he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

“But I’m just,” You huff and pout. “Put out, I guess. You did all that for me and I didn’t even get to see it.”

At the exact same time, you watch as Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing out in obvious lust, and something pressed against your back thickens up.

Steve, to his credit, only makes one strained noise which he immediately smothers with a cough. You feel his hips twitch beneath you and make a quick decision, confidence built on the sweltering heat of Steve’s face.

You push forward and up, then quickly turn, slotting your knees across either side of Steve’s thighs, perching atop them nicely.

You’re not outright in his lap—there’s room between the two of you for what you hope will happen.

It takes Steve another long moment to catch your drift.

“Wait, you want-?” He inhales sharply. You can see the twitch of his cock through his loose sweatpants. “To see?”

“To watch,” You clarify, smiling almost mischievously. “Yeah.”

Then just to check, “Is that okay?”

Steve’s breath shudders out of him but he’s nodding before the question is completely out of your mouth.

“H-Here?” He checks. You nod, resting your hands atop your thighs to show you don’t plan on using them. Steve’s hungry eyes scan you up and down, the tent in his pants pitching up in arousal.

“Just show me how you did it,” You murmur, words on the side of sultry. Your own excitement, that faint thrum of pleasure, has already started to pool low in your gut.

“Yeah, but I normally don’t have an audience for it,” Steve mumbles, his left-hand reaching for the drawstrings of his sweats.

They come undone with a simple tug. Steve stretches the elastic out a bit and then slips his hand in.

You know the moment his large hand settles around his cock from the flutter of his lashes, the soft groan that curls out his throat, rough and sweet all at once.

This… This is new. You usually don’t get such a focused look at Steve’s pleasure, at the little shifts in his expression, too wrapped up in your own pleasure to pay proper attention. Getting this much detail sends a delicious throb between your thighs. You hardly want to blink.

Steve’s hand moves slow to begin with, slow, gentle strokes to get himself properly warmed up.

After a moment, he draws his hand back and some part of you worries he’s too weirded out now. But he only brings it up, to his mouth, and you realise what he’s doing.

Quickly stealing his hand, Steve’s eyes widen as you let spit drop from your lips and pool in his palm. Another soft, jagged noise drags from his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” He murmurs, more to himself. “This is not what it’s like when it’s just me, this is, like, ten fucking times hotter.”

His hand sneaks back into his sweatpants but this time when he grips his cock, the reaction this time is immediate.

Steve moans, louder this time, his eyes crushing closed and his hand starts moving faster. With the help of your spit, it doesn’t take long before you can hear it, the slick sounds of him fucking his cock desperately.

His head tips back against the couch and a piece of hair flops over, into his eyes.

You reach out and brush it to the side and Steve’s eyes crease open at the same time a whine threads through his moans.

“Fuck,” He grunts. He sinks in teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes desperately roaming your face. “Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty.”

“That what you thought bout?”

You’re impressed with yourself for the cool, calm demeanour you’re portraying. Steve nods, the motion a little wild, his hand still making those lewd, wet noises.

“Uh huh,” His voice shakes a little. “Just, fuck, dunno, like, your face and-uh-what y-you’d sound like.”

Your eyes glitter with interest, ego raring at the devotion your boyfriend is spilling out.

“What I’d sound like?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve stammers, his breathing heavy. “Like, doing this.”

Now that’s a picture; Steve jerking off to the thought of you, hot and bothered with your hand between your thighs. You give a breathy gasp without meaning to.

Steve hears it, groaning louder as he quickens his pace. You sort of want to reach forward and ruck up his shirt, so you can see the glorious clench of his stomach as he rolls his hips up into his warm hand.

“Can I see more?” You ask tentatively. “Please?”

This time, it’s more like a whimper that creeps out of Steve’s throat.

“Oh my god,” Steve mumbles through a stilted moan. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, yeah, of course.”

He swallows heavily, his free hand reaching down to push at his waistband. You help, lifting up to help tug the fabric out of the way.

Obstructions removed, your mouth salivates. Steve’s cock is pretty — and it looks that much more enticing when it’s worked up, pink and the tip of it leaking all over his hand.

Steve’s a fucking vision. His head still lolled back, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His throat, dotted with moles, crawling with pinkness. His big, veiny hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it steadily.

You think about how much you’d like the lick the trail of hair on his tummy, down, down, down.

“You seem close,” You say and it earns you a reedy whimper in response. “Is it- does it normally happen this fast?”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve whispers back. His eyes are closed and after a moment, you realise he’s trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly, even as his hand doesn’t slow. “I—ngh— n-normally don’t have such good, ah, material. My imagination is— is not this good.”

You’re equal parts flattered and flustered, heat twinging in your gut.

“Can— can I?” Steve whimpers out suddenly.

The question nearly throws you. You almost say Can you what? when the meaning of it douses you in fire.

He’s asking permission.

Oh, that does something to you.

“Yeah, Stevie,” You say, voice lilting closer to a coo. “I wanna see it, please.”

Something shifts in his motions, changing gear as Steve’s hand suddenly starts moving in smaller, tighter strokes, just over the head of his cock. His head tucks forward, his eyes scrunched closed, and he’s whimpers out, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

It only takes a few seconds, the whine in Steve’s voice pitching higher and higher, until something gives.

His hips take over, something desperate and primal shoving them up, his thrusts rapid and frantic. His hand doesn’t stop moving, not even as his cock starts to leak out ropes of cum, shooting out enough to cover the back of his knuckles. It joins your spit to rub slick against his cock.

He keens pitifully. For one long minute, you listen to Steve’s breathy whines get softer and softer, watch his desperate thrusts abate til an overstimulated shiver wracks through his body. Then, and only then, does he collapse back, sinking into the couch.

He’s a bit ruined, truthfully.

And you’ve soaked through your panties.

“You’re welcome,” You croak, throat dry. His hair is back in his eyes and lean forward, tenderly brushing it out of the way. You leave your hand there, cupping the side of his face, and Steve leans into it, still panting.

“What?” He asks.

“You were thanking me,” You point out cheekily.

Steve’s face plunges back to that scarlet colour you’re beginning to adore most ardently. He turns his face further to hide away in the palm of your hands.

“Shut up,” He mumbles.

“So you don’t wanna do that again?” You tease.

Steve pulls back and eyes you. “Now, hang on, I didn’t say that…”

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

need this NEOW.

໑ৎ — thinking about SOLDIER BOY and his little spit–obsessed bunny girlfriend…

warnings: no plot smut, dry humping, daddy kink, use of ‘dad’ once, spit kink, teasing/mocking, lowkey pathetic reader (daddy!soldier boy x bunny!reader) 18+

࿐ ˚ 　· 　　 .

ben’s gone his whole life thinking he’s a sexual deviant, enjoying marking up his partners and taming them all into submission, loving the way he can get just about any woman to call him daddy.

but when he started seeing you, he found himself in new territory—unfamiliar territory.

ben didn’t realise how much he’d been missing out on until he met you. you’re filthy and just so unashamedly needy, unlike any woman he’s ever been with, and he just can’t get enough of it. the way you’re always begging for his fingers in your mouth with wide doe eyes or begging him to fill your mouth with his smokey, whiskey flavoured spit drives him wild. you’re insatiable, and it's like you’re his own personal slice of heaven, letting him use you in any way he pleases.

he loves the way you so shamelessly sit perched upon his lap, bouncing around in front of him, so needy and wanton, with your pretty pleading eyes, round and glimmering with anticipation, like a little puppy in need of attention.

you eagerly grind down onto his lap in just your t-shirt and panties, rubbing your swollen tumescent cunt against his hardened length. your puffy folds spread apart over the thick bulge, desperately searching for friction against his sweatpants. he watches you with a mixture of amusement and need, your filthy fucking antics setting his body on fire.

ben meets your eyes, seeing the way they’re already droopy. “bunny, don’t look at me like that,” he chuckles, the rough sound reverberating in his chest. his hips buck up to meet your movements, and you feel him rubbing the hard line of his cock against your slit. his large hands find your hips, grabbing ahold of them, his fingers digging into the plush skin, helping guide your movements.

your lips purse at his words, and ben rolls his eyes, his face gleaming in amusement at your little pout. he watches you open your mouth and stare right back at him with a childish petulant look on your face—waiting, watching expectantly.

ben’s face morphs into a cruel expression, a smirk that tugs up at his lips, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. a thick wad of his saliva lands on your tongue, filling your mouth with his taste. “swallow. now,” he says, his eyes boring into you. you do as you’re told and swallow, opening your mouth again to show him you’d done what he’d asked. your eyes search his with an eagerness that says, ‘i did it, look at me! tell me i did good!’

ben revels in the needy look you're giving him, so pathetic and desperate; it’s almost laughable, and as much as he wants to kiss you senseless and knock that eager little look off your face by shoving his tongue down your throat, his need to remind you of his power over you wins.

he’s quick to force his fingers into your mouth, his middle and index pressing against your tongue, instead of giving you the praise you’re so obviously yearning for. he ignores the way your face falls momentarily as your brain tries to catch up with the intrusion of his meaty fingers. “suck,” he commands, his voice low, watching as your lips gingerly wrap around his digits. “be a good girl.”

you hum with your mouth stuffed full, and you lap at them with your tongue, soaking up the lingering taste of tobacco smoke on his fingertips. your greedy mouth sucks around his fingers so fervently that drool manages to escape from the corner of your lips, but ben’s keen eye catches it, and he wipes it away with his thumb before bringing it to his lips and cleaning your mess off his finger. “mmm, taste so pretty, bunny,” he croons, his voice a low hum.

your lips pull into a smile around his salty fingers, and your hips continue to meet, rubbing your heat against each other, both of you getting more worked up as your panties grow wetter and wetter. ben’s cock dribbles out precum into his boxers, and the thin material of his sweatpants starts to darken from your arousal, leaving a little wet patch on his lap.

ben’s breathing gets heavier as he watches you engulf his fingers completely, doing just what he asked—submitting to him. the feeling of your tongue swirling around his fingertips sends all his remaining blood rushing south, only making his cock swell more. he slowly pulls his fingers out from the wet warmth of your mouth, his eyes locked on a string of saliva still connected to his fingertip and your lips.

“fuck, baby. such a messy girl,” ben huffs, slightly in adoration, slightly mockingly. his hand moves down to your throat, just resting on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse rapidly beat under his calloused skin. his thumb rubs over the column of your throat, letting his eyes flicker between yours and your mouth.

“daddy,” you whine, “please…”

your petulant little pout and the tone of your voice make ben’s dick twitch between your folds. it’s pathetic, the way he takes you apart so easily. “use your words, bun. c’mon. please what, huh?” he asks, the mockery still laced thick in his tone. his eyes glimmer with mirth and linger on the dribble on your lips and chin. he loves it, seeing you all wet and dishevelled for him. it drives him mad in the best fucking way.

he knows he’s whipped. and he doesn’t even fucking care.

“i want your tongue,” you tilt your head eagerly for him, your eyes searching his, silently pleading for something, anything; just a little gesture of softness, something to quell the burning need that pools in your core.

“oh, yeah? baby wants my tongue? for what?” he taunts, his warm hand giving your neck a squeeze, smirking as a soft noise bubbles up from low in your throat.

“ben—”

“try again,” he cuts you off, correcting you instantly.

“daddy,” you huff out sulkily, “kiss me.”

a calculated grin grows on ben’s lips at your whiny demand, the amusement written all over his face. “kiss you? darlin’, i don’t know if you deserve to be kissed.”

he has to hold back a laugh as he watches your face sullen even more, your sweet features pulled down by the expression. you look silly, your face all contorted and grouchy because he won’t give in, despite the both of you knowing he wants nothing more than to kiss you until you’re breathless.

“c’mon, babygirl. don’t give me that look. you’re too pretty to pout like that.” ben gives your neck another warning squeeze before letting go and gently grabbing your chin instead, tilting your face up to meet his head-on. his eyes fall over your face, analysing you, enjoying the way you reluctantly meet his intense gaze. he hums in thought, brushing his thumb over your pout, as if to soothe it away.

you take the small gesture in good faith and kiss the pad of his thumb softly, before gingerly taking it between your lips. your tongue laps at it with your sulky little puppy dog eyes watching him tentatively, like he’s going to pull away and tell you off. 

but ben lets you suck on his thumb, watching it pacify your needy behaviour. you’re such a damn baby, he thinks.

a groan rumbles up from deep in his chest, like you’ve yanked it straight from his lungs with your sweet ministrations. your droopy eyes stay locked on his in the most filthily deplorable way—like a little puppy begging for attention, sucking up to its owner in hopes of a treat. it’s so pathetic and pitiful, but it’s just how ben likes his women.

your tongue circles his thumb, teasingly so, like you're offering a show of what you can give him if he’d just play nice. a shameless moan escapes past your lips, hurling straight into his ears and landing down in his core. you feel ben twitch against your weeping heat again, the desire growing rampant between you.

“yeah, good girl. just like that. my sweet little slut knows just what to do, doesn’t she?” ben coos tauntingly, letting the smooth words fall from his mouth.

the friction from your grinding slowly builds a pressure in your lower stomach; a fiery heat simmers from your clit rubbing against him, your slick entrance squeezing around nothing. ben feels your pretty little cunt fluttering for him, and he huffs; he knows just how to get you open and ready to take his chubby cock.

the tension keeps growing between you, and so does the friction, as you salaciously suck his thumb, like it’s a pacifier or dummy, keeping your mouth busy instead of whining like he knows you’d be doing otherwise. your wide pleading eyes beg for more as you let drool spill from your mouth. his blown-out green eyes follow the spit, and he so badly wants to clean it up with his tongue, but he doesn’t. you’re such a needy little fucking tease, and yet, he refuses to give in to you.

when ben pulls his hand back, another petulant pout grows on your lips again. he tuts his tongue against his teeth. “be good, bunny, and maybe you’ll get that kiss, yeah?”

you huff in response and whine. “i am good,” you try to argue back, dying for his thumb back or tongue—hell, anything—to pacify your damn oral fixation.

ben lets out a hearty chuckle at your whinging, his eyes locked on your tongue licking up the stray saliva spilt around your swollen lips. “bun, you’re a tease. a brat who just can’t help herself. you’re lucky i think you’re so goddamn pretty, ‘specially with those twinkling cocksucking eyes of yours, sweets.”

your eyes light up at his foul words, and the pout on your lips dissipates a little, morphing into a small strange sheepish smile. ben watches the way you react, and he decides to let up a smidge, “alright, fine. c’mere. give daddy a kiss. a proper one. none of that goldfish peckin’ bullshit. i've taught you better.”

his words go over your head; you’re too in a state to care. you’re quick to attach your lips to his, parting them to allow his tongue to tangle with yours, letting him lead the dance in your mouth. your body continues to move itself, grinding your soaked cunt even harder into his lap. his sloppy kisses and the way he leads the kiss so dominantly send sparks flying throughout your body, making your pretty little clit twitch in your drenched underwear. you moan carnally into his mouth, not caring at how your attitude has faded into sheer desperation or how smug you know it’s making him.

ben rolls his hips up into yours firmer, his sensitive length nudging apart your pussy lips completely, rubbing against you in the most heavenly way. he takes over, one hand scrunched in your hair, the other on your hip, guiding you to hump his erection like the sweet bunny you are.

and so you roll your hips, meeting his, and your mind clouds over entirely, your whinging little girl act completely placated by ben and his thick fucking cock pressing against you. he grunts, feeling all self-satisfied, at how easily he’s managed to dismantle you—and your pitiful fucking attitude—just by kissing you and rubbing your clit a little.

you whine into the kiss, hastily humping your hips into ben’s. he doesn’t call you bunny for nothing. your body shivers as the coil tightens in your stomach, your needy cunt twitching and tightening around nothing, weeping into your panties, begging to be stretched out by the supe’s stupendous girthy length.

you’re so goddamn reactive to him; he feels your arousal drenching his sweatpants further, the same way your spit drools out of your attached mouths, coating the bottom half of your faces. you're a mess, and you just can’t help it.

he breaks the kiss, earning a grunt from you in protest as you chase his lips.

“mmm… bun, no,” he pulls his head back, panting slightly. “be a good girl. c’mon, make yourself cum on daddy’s lap. let dad see how good it feels, yeah?”

his vulgar words of mock encouragement send chills right down to your puffy little cunt. you rub yourself against him faster and faster, curling your fingers into his shoulders to keep yourself upright. the pleasure builds in your core; you’re so close to toppling over the edge. your jaw hangs open while your sweet noises bubble up your throat, and ben can’t help but think how adorable you are, how desperate and cockdrunk you look, and you’re not even bouncing on it like a good little bunny yet. you’re just such a good girl—exactly what a rough boorish man like him needs.

ben brings his hand to your throat again, though roughly gripping at it this time, like he’s helping squeeze out your sweet melodic sounds of pleasure. “yeah, bunny. look at you. s’that feel good, baby? rubbing on daddy like that?” he coos, the mockery still blatantly dripping from his tone.

his mean taunting words make your pretty cunt flutter. he tightens his grip around your neck, stifling your breath slightly, making your mewls sound choked and weak. your nails dig into his shoulders as you grind, and you wonder how he’s not losing composure the same way you are. you slowly nod in response to his question, like a good little doll, and try to meet his eyes through your heavy-lidded ones.

“yeah? c’mon, babygirl. show daddy what a sweet girl you are for me. cum, bunny, cum.”

he talks down to you like an owner speaks to their dog, but somehow, that does it for you and your cockdrunk hazy brain. a wave of pleasure crashes over you; your pussy clenches and twitches as you ride out your high, still humping his lap. what a good little bunny. your tired thigh muscles spasm, exhausted from the overexertion.

your sweet sighs of pleasure are music to ben’s ears. his dick twitches underneath you, completely soaked by your arousal and juices from your orgasm, drenching through his sweats and boxers, and his dick threatens to spill right there into his pants at the sight and feel of you coming undone, but he keeps himself from letting go just yet.

“there you go. jesus, that never gets old, does it? look at you, bunny. such a good girl for daddy. makin’ a mess on my fuckin’ pants, aye?” he laughs, watching your flushed face scrunch in ecstasy.

your twitching hips finally come to a still against his. you settle in the warm wetness of his lap, and the friction of your underwear against your sensitive clit makes you squeak. ben grins as the sound hits his ears, and he squeezes your neck, forcing more pretty sounds from you.

he seizes the opportunity and spits a wad of saliva into your agape mouth. it lands perfectly on your tongue, blessing your tastebuds with his sweet and smokey taste, and it's so disrespectful, but it still manages to make your eyes roll back into your head, which makes ben huff out a laugh, the sound low and winded.

“you with me, toots?” he asks, gently smacking your cheek with his free hand, ridiculing you for your lack of cognisance. “was just a little orgasm, doll. don’t be all pathetic now.”

“daddy,” you whine out, your voice hoarse from panting in and out of your open mouth. your rounded eyes blink up at him as his saliva spills out the side of your mouth before you manage to swallow it, still entirely too hazy to really fathom what he’s saying.

ben tuts at you. “wasting my spit again, bun? you know i don’t like that,” he huffs out, still slightly winded, and grips your throat harder, earning another surprised squeak from you.

you shake your head, meeting his eyes with your own blown-out droopy ones. “no, m’sorry. please give me more.”

ben narrows his eyes at you, weighing up his options in his head, but ultimately he decides you’ve been good enough, doing what he says and doing it obediently, and it makes him proud—he’s trained you well.

“open then, sweetheart,” he finally says, his gaze falling over your face and your swollen mouth.

your lips part instantly, and another glob of spit lands on your tongue. you roll it around in your mouth for him to see before you swallow, keeping your eyes locked on him. he feels the movement of your throat under his palm.

“atta girl, swallowing like that for daddy. my pretty bunny,” ben murmurs with his thick gravelly tone. a smirk spreads across his face as he pulls yours towards him, the motion rough and unforgiving. “my good little pet, yeah? you’re my good girl, always doing what i say. fuckin’ good little thing, you are. you know how to make your old man proud.”

fig yaps: is this weird? idk!!!! do i hate this? a lot!!!!!! not my finest work but i said i’d post it so here we are !! anyways girls with an oral fixation and a daddy kink stand up!!! this is 4 u! soldier boy + dry humping will forever be my go-to !!!!!!!

feedback and reblogs are welcomed and appreciated ofc! thank u!

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @daylighted @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlesoulshine @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @blossomingorchids @benscumgluzzer @soldiersgirl @arcannaa @gibson-g1rl @vmiina @h8aaz + the rest in the comments sorry!

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgement) !

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

fucking incredible

the camera shakes in dean’s hand as he lifts it, the lens zeroing in on you, sprawled out between them, bare skin already heated and flushed. he grins, that cocky, shit-eating grin that always makes your stomach twist up, except now it’s your cunt clenching around nothing, anticipation thick in the air. “look at her, sammy,” he murmurs, tilting the camera so it captures the way your chest rises and falls, the way your legs shift like you can’t decide whether to press together or spread wider. “she’s already fuckin’ gone for us.”

sam chuckles low, that deep, warm sound that always sends a shiver straight down your spine. he’s behind you, long fingers trailing up your arm, over your shoulder, teasing along the side of your neck. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, voice honeyed and coaxing. “you gonna show the camera what a good girl you are for us?”

you bite your lip, but dean’s already setting the camera down on the nightstand at an angle, making sure it catches everything as he leans in, hand curling under your chin. “nah, don’t do that,” he tuts. “lemme see that pretty mouth.” his thumb slides over your lower lip, pressing in just enough to coax it open, and his eyes darken when you let your tongue flick against the pad of it.

“jesus christ,” sam mutters, and then his hands are on your waist, pulling you back against him, his mouth hot against the curve of your shoulder. his teeth scrape, and you whimper—something needy and desperate that has dean groaning as he kneels between your legs, hands gliding up your thighs.

“sammy, get the camera again,” dean says, his voice rough with want. “wanna make sure we don’t miss a second of this.”

sam’s fingers drift lower, skimming between your legs, teasing, just enough to make you whine. “think she likes that,” he muses, reaching over to grab the camera, bringing it close again. the red light blinks, recording every second. he tilts it down, making sure to get dean in the frame as he spreads you open, running his fingers through the slick between your thighs.

“shit, sweetheart,” dean murmurs, gaze flicking up to yours as he lets his fingers sink in, slow and teasing. “you’re drippin’. bet you’ve been waiting for this all night, huh?”

sam chuckles, shifting the camera back to your face. “tell the camera, sweetheart,” he urges, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast, fingers tweaking your nipple just right. “tell it how bad you want us.”

heat floods through you, your skin burning under their touch, under the scrutiny of the lens. “please,” you murmur, breath hitching when dean’s fingers curl just right inside you. “want you so bad—need you both.”

dean grins up at you, then turns his head toward the camera, smirking. “you hear that, sammy? she needs us.” he glances back at you, wicked amusement flickering in his eyes. “guess we better give her what she wants.”

sam hums his agreement, shifting the camera to catch every detail—the way dean’s fingers work you open, the way your body reacts, trembling and eager. then he hands the camera off to dean, making sure it stays focused on you as he drags you back against him, letting you feel every inch of how hard he is through his jeans. “think she’s ready for us?”

“oh, she’s ready,” dean says, voice thick with need. he adjusts the camera again, making sure it’s aimed right as he tugs his belt open, metal clinking, fabric rustling. “and she’s gonna look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it.”

sam reaches over, taking the camera from dean and flipping it around to face both of them. the screen reflects their wicked grins, eyes dark with hunger as they look straight into the lens. “hope you’re ready for this,” sam murmurs, dragging his tongue over his lower lip. dean leans in beside him, smirking at the camera. “gonna make sure she never forgets this,” he says, voice low and thick with promise. sam nods, glancing at dean before turning the camera back to you. “yeah, we’re about to wreck her.”

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

omg happy birthday😭

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

this was beautiful oh my word

i was made for lovin' you.

OR after years of unsaid emotions, supressed feelings and goddamn urges— you and dean finally confront the thing you'd both been avoiding: how there's so much you wanna do in the darkness. and you're gonna make all come true. tonight.

「 pairing 」 : dean winchester x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.6k.

「 content / warnings 」 : MINORS LOOK AWAY !!!, lateish seasons (if you squint) dean winchester x reader's first time (not virgins though), unprotected (mostly) soft sex with feelings, feelings, feelings!, aka porn WITH plot!, p in v, handjob, dean being a munch ofc (this is canon. go argue with the wall.), swearing (obvi). please let me know if i missed anything!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

from the moment you first met dean winchester while working a case, you knew you wanted to fuck him.

which was a little strange, because you didn't think like that outright about too many men— not ones you knew in real life, anyway.

but here the stupid bastard was, with his annoyingly pretty face and those stupid, big, rough fightin' hands that could touch you everywhere, pull the prettiest sounds right from you—

oh, we're getting way too far ahead of ourselves. you shoved those thoughts away. come on, this was a freakin' case. lives were at stake.

and once the initial secret lust you had finally went away, you realized you were experiencing something much greater than some stupid crush on dean.

because the more hunted with him, you got to see not just the tough, hard-as-nails side of him— but you saw the other side.

his people side.

you got to see the way he interacted with every single person he encountered on a case, not resting until the threat was completely gone and ganked. and sometimes, when a case hit too close to home, he treated victims and affected family no less than his own fuckin' family.

and you knew from your own personal experience that he'd do just about damn near anything for the family he did have. saw the way he got all soft and sweet around kids— and after a good while, even around you.

and that's when you knew you were in trouble.

you'd known dean for years now. and nothing had ever come of you two except him being one of the greatest friends you'd ever had.

but god help you if you didn't want more.

and nothing like a quick fuck, either. no, you wanted to be there for everything— even on those deathly-quiet nights when dean's thoughts got too loud and the debilitating weight he was carrying all alone just got too heavy, you wanted to be the one keeping him afloat.

it was something dangerously close to love.

you tried to ignore it at first. push it down. and it did work-- for a while. until fucking dean started acting weird around you, too.

and now things were... complicated.

you didn't know exactly when things had shifted so much to the point that it almost became unbearable to even be in the same room as dean without either of you knowingly holding back just spilling your guts-- but god, it was worse than dying.

inevitably, one night, it all just snapped.

there was no dramatic fight, or screamed confessions from either of you. no, it happened late in the darkness, when you both were sharing a motel room.

which would have made you fond of all the times you guys had shared motel rooms in the past— you would've smiled at the thought of younger you trying to make the most out of the fact that you had to share a room with a fucking boy.

but dean was now much more of a man than ever before now.

thank god there's two separate beds, you initially thought.

now, though? there wasn't a need for two beds anymore.

because you still somehow ended up in dean's that was closest to the window.

in his lap.

and kissing him.

you were sure you were in just another one of your dreams or fantasies you conjured up to get off-- but you could feel dean's hands on you through your shirt, grasping at the fabric. so this had to be real-- but just for precaution, you roll your hips into dean's a little.

yeah. that sound he made when he grinds his hips up into your own was definitely real— and right in your mouth.

you knew you were probably moving too fast— but fuck if you cared. your hands sneak in between you both and trail downward on the front of dean's shirt, not stopping until you reach the hem— and your voice is a whisper against dean's kiss-swollen lips.

"arms up, de."

and dean obliges in a heartbeat, raising his arms up over his head immediately— and he's silently praising the fact he decided to just wear a t-shirt to bed.

you actually somehow had only seen dean shirtless once or twice over the years— the latest being last summer when the air conditioning in the bunker was broken, and you conveniently and hurriedly stated that you had to stay in your room the entire day—because it was so much more skin than you were used to seeing.

but now?

you're staring.

dean's looking at you looking at him— and if the motel room wasn't so dark, you could've sworn his face got a little pinker under your gaze.

but you don't dwell on that for too long. because your hands are itching to reach out and just touch— and the moment your fingers start to graze on dean's biceps first, his eyes flutter shut and he lets out a shaky exhale, fighting to keep himself under control.

because it's you that's touching him.

you're still touching him when you lean back and kiss his lips again— and dean is very aware of the fact that you still have your shirt on.

but you have to break the kiss after a while to get stupid air— and your hands are reluctantly taken off of dean's skin, much to his protest. but the words he was about to say die in his throat when he sees where your hands were going.

you grasp the hem of the oversized shirt you were wearing, tearing it over your head and discarding it in the same motion— all while you were silently thanking whatever had possessed you not to wear shorts to bed.

or a bra.

and now, dean thinks he might die.

it was his turn to stare, eyes raking and flicking over every inch of you as you're straddling his lap like he didn't know where to look first— and dean's just so in awe, he says what he was thinking out loud in a barely-audible.

"god, you're beautiful."

you can feel a blush burning your cheeks at dean's words-- and judging by the way his eyes widened ever so slightly when he uttered those words, you knew he meant it. you smile softly down at him, your voice just as quiet as his once was.

"you're not so bad, yourself.''

and that makes the corner of dean's lips turn up in a small, soft smirk. god, he loves you. and he's gonna show you that.

all night long.

dean starts with his hands, the rough callouses trailing up your thighs, hips, waist, stomach, tits, arms, back— fucking everywhere on your bare skin as he stares up at you.

but your hands move on dean, too— touching him everywhere you could reach before you go lower, your fingers grazing on the waistband of his boxers— but you look back up at him again, a silent question in your eyes.

dean looks confused for half a second— until he realizes you're asking for permission. then he nods, his heart feeling warmer than it was before.

you tear his boxers off in one fell swoop— and holy goddamn.

you stare— again. and dean's fighting the urge to roll you over onto the mattress and just taking you.

instead, he forces himself to stay still under you— because the urge to do that and see what you do next is stronger.

dean's smirking up at you. the damn idiot. and then he quietly murmurs out—

"your turn."

you'd almost forgotten you still had your underwear on— oh, but dean didn't forget. the speed at which you yank down the fabric and discard it somewhere in the motel room should be a world record.

you look back down at dean again when you get situated back on his lap— but he's not looking at you anymore.

no, the man gulps at the sight of your pussy being exposed to him— and it takes him a while to look back up at you, his voice low and rough.

"c'mere."

you obliged, one of your hands reaching down and grasping dean's own that had been resting on your thigh.

this was new. oh, so new. dean wasn't new to you by any means, and that familiarity, that bond was still there— but he was new in this sense. this was different.

this was real.

dean was a man who rarely ever got what he really wanted— so you wanted dean to get whatever he wanted out of what was about to happen between the two of you.

"tell me what you want, dean," your voice is a mere whisper. "tell me what you want me to do, and i'll do it."

dean really thinks you should be illegal. you're all he's ever wanted—and you're asking him what he wanted.

he doesn't answer right away— dean's eyes rake over your naked form in his lap, and he's got his hands resting on your thighs as he meets your gaze once more.

"touch me."

you knew what dean meant by that. dean knew what he meant by that. and you both were fully aware of the line you were about to cross. but you weren't even nervous. and neither was he.

so take your hands, reaching down and trailing a path on dean's lower torso before you take him all in your hands.

and dean thinks he might die.

again.

because you start stroking him slowly— you weren't an idiot, you knew if you went too fast at first, it would hurt dean like a motherfucker rather than feel good.

and you're just looking at him, reading his reactions, making sure that it feels good.

all dean can get out at first is your name. he had opened his mouth to say something, but that's all that came out in a broken groan. he's letting out these little broken noises of pleasure— and his head has to fall back on the shitty motel room’s headboard so he doesn't cum right there.

you keep your pace of your hand on dean's dick steady, only increasing the intensity after a few moments when you can tell he needed more— by the way he gripped onto your hip, his rough fingers curling into the meat of your skin— and by the way he was fighting back the moans that had been treating to escape his throat.

it was definitely embarrassing how close dean was to cumming already, he knew that. but he also knew it was because it was you who was bringing him there. not some quick fuck with a chick he'd met that night, or his own hand— no.

it was yours.

and that thought combined with the way you're still looking at him— in awe, like he's something out of a museum, gets him way closer to the edge you were guiding him to.

"i'm— fucking christ, jesus—"

your name along with the man upstairs' son had come out of dean's mouth in a desperate attempt to warn you that he was right there, all because of you.

"i gotcha, dean," you whisper, and your free hand not jerking him off reaches to cup the side of his face as his head's tilted up towards you.

"just let it happen."

and that does it for him.

dean cums hard, his hands clutching on your thigh and part of your hips with all he's got, gasping and groaning, letting little out broken moans the whole way down.

you just guide dean through it with your hand, watching him under you as his skin was all flushed and red now, hair sticking up everywhere (courtesy of your hands), his pupils blown out and half-lidded before shutting fully.

"y'okay?" you whisper, your eyes flicking over dean under you. his own eyes continued to be closed— and you take that time to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wiping your hand clean before looking back and giving dean your full attention.

your other hand was still on his face, your thumb grazing on his cheek now, and for a split second, you almost think dean must not have liked it, or you went too far, because he wasn't saying—

"holy shit."

the curse leaves dean's mouth as his eyes open— and all he can do is reach his free hand up that wasn't grasping yours between the two of you already and rest it on the one cupping his face.

you can't even open your softly smiling mouth to respond, because the next words are coming out of dean's mouth, his voice still raw and rough from the way you just broke him apart.

"you know what i wanna do right now?"

you tilt your head a little to the side, still looking down at dean below you with his back resting against the headboard as you so desperately wanted to know.

"what?"

dean's downright devilish smirk reappears— and his eyes flick down to your almost dripping pussy that was spread as you straddled his legs before looking back up at you, his voice still rough as ever.

"I wanna taste you."

and a strangled sound gets stuck in your throat at the mere thought of dean eating you out. maybe it was a little embarassing how breathless your voice sounded when you leaned just a fraction closer to him.

"then go ahead."

an actual growl escapes dean at that— and you don't need to tell the man twice. he's got you flipped over and pinning you down, your scorching back hitting the cold motel sheets before you can even blink. you stare up at him when he hovers over you, both hands on the sides of your head, holding him up— and he's just looking at you.

but dean doesn't stay like that for too long. his lips hit your neck immediately after he leans down enough— and he starts just attacking at your skin, nipping, biting, sucking— he draws a path all the way down, until he reaches your now sopping pussy.

dean changes his position when he does, spreading your slick inner thighs further apart and settling between your legs, wrapping a strong arm around the meat of your thighs.

but he hesitates for a brief moment. he likes eating out pussy, but did you enjoy it? his pussy-drunk eyes flick up to yours— and you're a sight all spread out for him, your back against the pillows and sitting up a little so you could watch.

"i ain't gonna be gentle. y'know that, right?"

you knew that dean had always been considerate of you, long before this night— for as long as you'd known him, for that matter. but hearing him tell you that he didn't want to be gentle made your gaze soften and a smile tug on your lips as you nodded in response.

"yeah, i know."

and in that moment, dean thinks he loves you.

well, in all actuality, dean knows he loves you— but seeing you all soft and just so goddamn pretty in the moonlight that's filtering in through the motel room window, he's well aware of the blessing that's before him.

dean gives you one last smile— softer this time. then he dives in, burying in his face and going at you full force, his tongue flat and working against your puffy, slick folds before letting out a groan that vibrates everything.

and dean was right.

he was not gentle about it.

your eyes threaten to flutter shut as dean's tounge works on you— but you force them to be half-lidded as you look down at the sight of dean eating you out like a starved man.

and he's looking right back at you as he does it.

your hand flies to grasp onto dean's that was still resting on your thigh as his mouth continues to attack you— and he gladly takes it in his, not faltering his pace once.

you couldn't help but bite down hard on your bottom lip, attempting to contain the moans and noises that were threatening to spill out of you— and dean isn’t having it.

“nuh uh, darlin’,” dean shakes his head between your thighs, talking right into your pussy between flicks of his tongue on your clit. “i wanna hear you— wanna hear how goddamn good i’m makin’ ya feel right now.”

and with that, your mouth drops open almost immediately. it's like a switch flipped in you— and the first moan you let out is his fuckin' name.

"dean..."

christ on a cross. dean had wanted to hear just anything come out of your pretty mouth, but his name being the first thing on the tip of your tongue does things to him.

dean's imagined you moaning his name countless times, of course, but nothing can compare to the real you right now— tits heaving, groaning and eyes fluttering a little each time he brushes on a few sensitive spots on your pussy with his tongue.

now, it's embarrassing how close you are to cumming on dean's tongue. and oh, he notices. he holds your bucking and writhing hips down with his free hand that's not grasping and holding onto yours—

and goes to fuckin' town.

"fuck— dean!" you think you're gonna pass out— because you could barely hear the sounds of dean slurping up your juices and sucking on your clit when you cum without warning, back arching off of the sheets and grinding into his tongue, your grip on his hand becoming almost bruising as the pleasure cascades over you in waves.

dean doesn't look away from you for a second as your pussy flutters on his tongue, moving his mouth slower once more to not let a drop of you go to waste, making sure you're completely spent, pulling soft groans and gasps from your lips.

your legs tremble and shake under the arm that dean had wrapped around your thigh— and he takes a second to just watch you in the post-orgasm state you're in.

"y'okay?" dean's voice is rough but soft at the same time, looking up at you from his position between your legs like you're the night sky itself.

you open your eyes again, lifting your head off of the pillows just enough to see dean's eyes looking right back at you— and oh, he's a sight, his lips, nose and chin absolutley covered in your slick— and his hair's even more messy than before now.

"yeah", you breathe out softly, managing a nod against the pillows. "yeah, i'm all good. c'mere, de."

dean sees the soft look in your eyes— and his own gaze melts as he obeys, lifting off of the mattress and out from between your legs to hover over you, your faces just inches apart again.

dean can't look away.

and he never wants to.

"you're goddamn gorgeous, y'know that?" dean murmurs as he looks down at your moonlit face.

at that, you reach your hand up in the distance between you two, cupping the side of dean's face— and his head immediately leans into your touch before you whisper back.

"and you're perfect, dean."

dean's chest tightens at that— and his gaze somehow softens even more. no one's ever called him perfect before, and he couldn't think of one person in his life who even believed that to be true.

but you were looking at dean like he was.

you notice dean's reaction immediately— it was hard not to with how close you were.

you meant those words you said to dean— because being perfect wasn't about having absolutely no flaws or weaknesses.

it was about knowing that, and still carrying on anyway.

and then it clicks. because you could talk all you wanted to dean.

or you could show him how perfect he was.

"lemme show you," you whisper before dean could even open his mouth to deny it. "let me show you how perfect you are, dean."

and those words are completely breaking down what little resistance dean had left. his eyes actually get a little misty as he’s looking down at you— because he can't believe you're here, telling him everything he's never heard before.

dean nods— and his voice is shaking with anticipation mixed with pure awe.

"yeah. yeah, okay."

and that's all you needed. you look at dean's face one last time before lifting your head to close the little distance between the both of you, kissing him with everything you had to give him.

you didn't kiss dean like before— that was in a state of pure lust, desire, and want. now, you're kissing him softer, slower, and with purpose.

and purpose was exactly what dean needed. he tries to keep himself upright and hovering over you, but the way you're kissing him has his arms trembling as you're literally melting him.

you only take my lips off of dean’s when the air he and you had been breathing through your noses wasn’t enough— and your thumb grazes on his cheek again as his forehead rests on top of yours, eyes fluttering a little as i whisper against his lips.

“lay down for me, de.”

you don't have to say it again. dean obliges in a heartbeat, lifting off of you and rolling onto his back in one fluid motion— and you follow behind, tossing your leg over his to straddle him once more

dean’s hands go to your hips once you’re straddling him, looking up at you now— he still looks a little wrecked from earlier, and his chest is rising and falling in a slower, steadier rhythm than before, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

but seeing your naked form straddling him like this once more is just making his heart start to thump against his chest— again.

your hands find dean’s own on your hips,your fingers trailing on his skin, grazing past his wrists and up his arms— you're not exactly slow, but you're also not very fast with it, either.

no, you take your time touching dean all over again, fingertips tracing over every scar and dent you could see and feel as you're straddling him. your eyes flick up to his face, meeting his gaze once more— but you just keep touching him.

"oh, look at you, de," your voice is an awed whisper while your hands move on dean’s chest, grazing on the anti-possession tattoo he had on his skin. "see? you’re perfect."

and dean can’t help the little shiver your touch brings him right now, even though he's literally just laying below you, half-propped up by the pillows like you once were. he just can’t help it, because you’ve always been able to get the best reactions out of him.

dean swallows hard as your hands continue their journey over his body— your fingertips roaming over his skin, tracing all the scars he’d earned, right across his chest and down to his stomach.

and his breath actually hitches when you touch his anti-possession tattoo again.

your fingers trace on dean’s tattoo, watching and loving his reactions to just your freakin' hands.

and your hands stay resting on dean’s chest, but a little closer to his shoulders, shifting closer to him in his lap, pressing the entirety of your bare body completely against his.

your voice is still a whisper when you talk again, searching his face as you ask him to do what you've always wanted to.

because you needed to show dean how much you wanted him.

"can i ride you, de?"

if dean was hard before, it's nothing compared to the way his dick almost hurts now, throbbing at the way you asked permission to ride him.

"god, yes" is what comes out from dean's clenched jaw, and his gaze is locked onto yours as his hands rest on your hips.

a soft smile tugs on your lips again, your gaze flicking down for a brief moment when you hear how strained dean’s voice was— and the sight of him hard for you sends a wave of heat that pools in your stomach, making you clench around nothing.

because you needed dean just as badly as he needed you.

your eyes flick back up to dean’s green ones. and you notice that neither of you are nervous for his to happen. this was dean, after all. you'd wanted him in the least friendly way possible for as long as you could remember— and now? it was actually going to come true.

you didn’t have to ask dean anything else, or even say something. he wanted all of you— and you were going to give it to him.

so that’s why you shift a little, reaching down and guiding yourself to sink onto dean, keeping his gaze while your hands are still on his shoulders.

a broken groan escapes dean when you start to lower yourself down on him— and his own body’s reaction to your walls sucking him in just makes him want you even more.

dean lets his gaze travel all across your face— and he’s still looking right into your eyes when he lets himself go completely slack underneath you, letting you take the lead.

your fingers dig a little into dean’s shoulder at the burning sensation of your pussy being stretched— and your breath hitches, hard. your head falls forward a little as you screw your eyes shut.

your mind had felt like it was going over a thousand miles per second, but when your legs finally hit dean's and your pussy hits the base of his dick, everything just... goes away.

and dean couldn’t keep himself completely still anymore. he actually growled a little when he felt you fully sink down on him, and the sound that left him when he feels your tightness around him was a little more primal-sounding than he’d like to admit right now.

"oh, fuck," he breathes out your name, "you’re tryna kill me."

you can only respond to dean’s words with a strangled noise as the burning sensation was becoming full-throttle now, your grip on dean’s shoulders a little tighter, your head still hung as you try to keep my breathing steady.

because you literally couldn’t move yet. it was still the best feeling you'd ever felt— but you had to get used to dean's dick being buried deep inside of you before you could actually start to move on top of him.

and the way you’re holding on to his shoulders right now and how you’re trying to hold back little noises is driving dean insane.

he’s gripping your hips so tight that it has to be almost painful, and his eyes are fixed on you, still watching you while he tries to stay still for you. but it was taking a hell of a lot of effort on his part.

dean's chest is rising and falling fast, and he can’t help it when he finally chokes out your name in a whisper, unable to keep it in anymore.

"move. please."

at dean’s plea, you flick your hips just a little to see if you were adjusted yet.

and oh, were you ever. your fingers finally release their death grip on dean’s shoulders, one of your hands finding and grasping one of his own that was on your hip— and you finally start to move on top of him, rocking your hips into his.

the groan that escapes dean is the deepest one yet, his hand clutching onto yours and his eyes shutting for a moment as he feels you moving, his free hand tightening on your hip again.

"oh, god," dean gasps out, "jesus—"

you let out a raggedy exhale mixed with a moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling back into your head as you continue to ride dean's dick. it was hard, but you managed to keep your eyes open and half-lidded and on him, wanting to see his face— and you grind your hips into his faster and harder.

seeing you like this was getting to be borderline unbearable for dean.

your tits are bouncing a little in dean's face, and you're just not letting up, and you're so tight and warm, and he just fuckin' loves you—

dean realizes he's gonna cum if you keep this up.

and the embarrassing part is you barely even started riding him.

so it’s a damn good thing he’s still got a shred of control over himself right now.

"je— s— slow it down for a sec, darlin'," dean manages to get out, gritting his teeth as his eyes screw shut. "please."

the moment those words leave dean’s mouth, you immediately do as he says— you don’t abruptly stop, instead gradually slowing your movements to allow for an easy transition.

your hand trails up from dean's shoulder to cup on the side of his face while your're still on top of him— your eyes then search his when you breathlessly whisper to him.

"you okay, de?"

dean opens his eyes when you ask him if he’s okay right now, knowing that was pure concern in your words. he’s taking a moment to let his body level out a bit, since you stopped like he asked you to. and when he does, he manages a nod once he’s able to somehow form words.

"yeah, 'm good, darlin’--" dean swallows and takes a big gulp of air. "just got a 'lil too close to the edge for a second there. don’t wanna blow it right now."

an exhale of relief you didn’t know you were holding in was let out at dean’s confirmation— and your thumb almost absentmindedly grazes on the skin of his cheek as your hand was still on the side of his face.

"oh," you also nod, gaze softening as you look down at dean under you still. his words make you feel warm inside, along with a little sense of pride, too— but you still had to confirm. "it doesn’t hurt, though, right?"

"doesn’t hurt,” dean responds immediately. and that’s a bit of a complete understatement, because being inside of you right now felt like heaven. his own hand comes up to where yours is, his fingers skimming over your skin as he smiles softly up at you once more. "just wanna be able to last a 'lil bit longer for you, 's all."

your eyebrows scrunch together at that, and your expression is almost goddamn melted at this point as you look down at dean. you weren't sure why those words impacted you so much, but your chest tightens with emotion before you speak again.

"oh, de," you literally whisper, your thumb still skimming back and forth on dean’s cheek. "y'know you don’t have to do that."

"yeah, i do," dean murmurs immediately in response, looking right into your eyes the whole time he talks. "i've wanted this— you for goddamn years. i'm not lettin' this end yet."

so you don't.

you nod, leaning in and pressing a kiss on dean's lips before you talk again.

"okay, de," you nod against his forehead. "just move me when you want to, alright?"

dean gratefully nods, too, appreciating your understanding. his hands find and hold your hips again—this time, with less of a death-grip. and after he takes a steadying breath, he starts to move you.

you just let dean work and grind your hips into his own, holding his shoulder and face with your hands, allowing him to take what he needed and set the pace.

after a while, though, dean lifts you up off his dick by your hi a few inches before setting you back down fully— starting to actually fuck you a little.

you'd been quiet for the most part so far— but once the head of dean's dick brushes against that spongy spot deep inside of you, a string of broken moans and gasps spill from your lips.

and that just spurs dean on.

you'd both waited long enough now. it's been years of stolen looks, suppressed jealousy, unspoken thoughts and feelings— and tonight, you're making it all come true in the darkness of the motel room.

thank god dean's hands had been guiding your hips— because you're starting to unravel faster than you can comprehend. and so is dean.

dean's fucking up into you now like he'll never be able to fuck you again— which you both know wasn't true. and after tonight, you know you'd happily sleep with dean's dick buried inside of your pussy.

it takes only a whimper falling from your lips for dean to know that you're close— and your hand flies down to one of his on your hips again. he gladly takes it, wanting to hold your hand when he cums inside of you—

wait. is he allowed to do that?

"y— oh," dean groans out your name— he has not been silent throughout this entire ordeal, either. broken noises of pleasure and little groans of your name escaped his lips whenever your walls clenched around him. "can i— god—"

you didn't have to ask what dean meant by that. you nod almost frantically as his hand are still gripping your hips, guiding your pussy up and down his dick— and you squeeze his other hand tighter, the one you were holding.

and only then does dean let himself go, again.

your orgasm comes at the same time dean's does— and you both arch into each other and trembling as your moans echo off the motel room's walls. dean's face buries between your tits and groans into the skin while he spills up into you, your juices mixing with his.

you both stay like that for a while, naked, sweating, slick and gasping for air for god knows how long— until dean's raw and breathless voice vibrating on your breasts breaks the silence.

"i think i was made for you."

──────────────────────── 𖤐

you now have four ( 4 ) new message from the author ! ↓

oh heyyy... are any of y'all still here LMFAOOOOOO but seriously, on a real note— if you have stayed to the very end: first, THANK YOU for reading! and second, if you enjoyed, please consider SHOWING ME THAT ( reblogs / comments / etc ) because this took me FOREVER to write, and i want to know if my efforts are worthwhile!

also i will NOT be apologizing for how long it is, because mera (@bluemerakis) taught me that longer fics (especially smut) are acceptable! so THERE!

OH i also used a very special headcanon from @figthoughts' mastermind brain for this one because mr. dean winchester holding your hand while he eats you out is very much and totally 100% canon for me as well. fig you match my freak like no other and i hope to one day write as good and absolutely filthily as you do HEHE smooches to you my pookie <3

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

I LIED - I JUST HAD TO FINISH THIS IS WAS TOO FUCKING GOOD

inviolable

part II

Pairing: Ben x Fem!Reader

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

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

Word Count: 7,848

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

Without further ado: INVIOLABLE

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

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

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

You were gone.

Completely. Utterly. Gone.

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

And his mouth. His mouth was ruining you.

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

Wet. Deep. Ruining.

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

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

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

And Ben just grinned wider.

"Christ, you’re a fuckin’ mess, huh?"

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

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

You shuddered.

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

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

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

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

"Bet you’d have let him, though."

You shook your head.

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

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

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

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

You whined, wrecked, body tightening around his fingers.

"That what you want, darlin'?"

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

"No?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That it, Lamby?"

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

"You need me to teach you?"

You nodded, whining, wrecked, incoherent.

"Then fuckin’ come for me."

And that was it.

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

And Ben?

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

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

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

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

Like he was starving for more.

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

A pause. A breath.

"—how real men eat pussy."

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

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

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

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

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

And then—his mouth found your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath shuddered. You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That’s real fuckin’ cute."

And then—he slid your panties down your legs.

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

Ben pocketed them.

Your breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

And Ben just groaned.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ."

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

"Wanted to do this for so goddamn long."

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

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

And Ben?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wha—"

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

"Ben—I—oh, fuck—"

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

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

And then—it happened again.

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

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

And you—

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

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

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

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

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

And then, barely above a whisper—

"Thank you."

Soft. Sweet. Breathless.

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

Like he hadn’t even gotten started.

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

"Ain’t done with you yet, Lamby—"

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

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

Another sound. Footsteps. Retreating toward the upstairs bathroom.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he nodded. Sharp. Subtle.

Answer him.

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

Silence. Then—

"Ben still here?"

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

"Yeah—uh—he's still here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shouldn’t have fuckin’ done that."

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

And you—

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

And you didn’t know how to stop it.

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

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

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

Stop.

Your mouth snapped shut.

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

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

"I don’t regret anythin'."

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

"But it ain’t happenin' again."

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

You clenched your jaw.

"And?"

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

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

Your stomach dropped.

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

"Shut up."

The command was low, firm, final.

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

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

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

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

You swallowed it down.

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

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

Just gone.

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

The worst part wasn’t that he left.

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

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

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

A week passed. Then another. And another.

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

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

Like he hadn’t felt it too.

And now? Now, it had been three weeks.

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

But Ben?

Ben wasn’t here.

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

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

But today? Today he was nowhere.

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

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

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

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

And you?

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

If he even had the nerve to look.

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

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

And then—

The sound of tires crunching over gravel.

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

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

And she stepped out.

No.

Your grip tightened around your beer.

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

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

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

And then—

"Okay, hon."

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

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

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

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

Ben rolled a shoulder, casual. Too casual.

"Just keepin’ things casual this time."

Casual.

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

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

"Daddy?"

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

A shift.

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

But you weren’t done.

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

"Do you need any help?"

Ben still wasn’t looking at you.

Good.

"Need me to grab more ice?"

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

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

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

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

That was all you needed.

Victory.

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

But you had.

And now?

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

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

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

The lemonade?

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

The beer?

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

Because he was watching.

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

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

And he?

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

But you could see it.

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

And then—

The evening settled.

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

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

And then you locked eyes with him.

Ben.

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

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

A silent challenge.

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

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

And then—the lock.

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

Your lips barely had time to part before—

"You fuckin’ little tease."

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

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

"Took you long enough."

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

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

The breath rushed from your lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, but there was no humour in it.

"Not so fuckin’ smug now, are you?"

Your stomach flipped.

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

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

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

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

"You really are a fuckin’ brat, huh?"

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

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

Your breath hitched. Because holy fucking shit.

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

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

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

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

Ben grinned. A wicked, sharp thing.

"‘Course I am, sweetheart."

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

"You think I didn’t know?"

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

"Think I didn’t fuckin’ notice?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I’m not wearing any panties."

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

And then—

"On your fuckin’ knees."

Oh.

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

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

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

"Oh, now you’re in a hurry?"

Your breath shuddered out of you, heavy, desperate.

"Ben—"

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

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

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

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

"Open fuckin’ wide, darlin'."

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

And Ben?

He took his time.

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

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

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

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

And then—

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

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

"This—"

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

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

Ben laughed. Low. Dark. Cruel.

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

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

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

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

And Ben?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get your ass on the bed."

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

"And take those fuckin’ stupid shorts off."

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

And Ben laughed. Mean. Smug. Fucking cruel.

"Look at you."

Your stomach clenched.

"Desperate little thing, huh?"

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

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

And you loved it.

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

And fuck.

Your stomach flipped.

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

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

His arm curled around your lower back, and suddenly—

You were airborne.

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

Your head spun. Your lungs forgot how to work.

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

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

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

"Been wantin’ this, huh?"

Your head fell back against the pillows.

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

"Yeah, I fuckin’ know."

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

"You ready for this?"

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

"Ben—"

"You sure, Lamby?"

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

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

And then his lips brushed yours again.

"That’s my good girl."

He lined himself up, and sank in. The first push in was slow.

Deep. Careful. Like he was testing you, testing himself, testing how long he could hold on before he lost every shred of self-control.

And fuck, you felt it. Felt the thick stretch, the deep, deliberate press of him sinking inside, inch by inch, forcing your body to open up for him.

Your mouth fell open, a breathless gasp tumbling free as your fingers clawed at his shoulders, dragging down his back, needing something to hold onto because your entire world was shattering around you.

"Jesus fuck—"

Ben’s jaw clenched, his arms caging you in, biceps flexing as he braced himself above you, his forehead dropping against yours for half a second as he fought to stay slow, to stay in control.

His breath shuddered, hot and heavy, his mouth hovering just above yours. "So fuckin’ tight, baby."

A low, wrecked groan rumbled from his chest as he pulled back just an inch, then pushed in a little deeper, hips rolling slow, controlled, torturous.

"You feel so fuckin’ good," he grit out, his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Fuckin’ knew you would. Knew you were made for me."

And God. That did something to you.

That flipped something inside you, sent something unraveling, burning, made you arch up into him, made you clutch at his shoulders, made your thighs squeeze around his waist, locking him closer.

Because this was Ben. This was your Ben. The only one you’d ever wanted, the only one who had ever mattered. And now? Now, he was inside you, surrounding you, filling you, owning you.

"Ben—"

Your voice broke, shattered, your nails biting into his skin, your body desperate for more, for everything, for him.

"Shhh, I got you," he murmured, low and soothing, his lips brushing soft against your cheek, against your temple, against the hinge of your jaw. "Gonna take such good care of you, baby. Gonna make you mine."

Your chest heaved, your heart pounding against his, wild and erratic, because fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—

And then he pulled back, and slammed in.

"Oh—oh fuck—"

Your body jolted, a sharp cry breaking free, your mind yanked back to the present, back to the way he was stretching you, filling you, wrecking you completely.

And Ben? Ben grinned. Mean. Smug. So fucking pleased with himself.

"Yeah?" He rasped, rolling his hips again, slow and deep, then slamming forward hard. "That what you needed, sweetheart?"

You whined, writhed, clawed at his back, needing more, more, more.

"Fuckin’ knew it."

His mouth was everywhere. Lips and tongue and teeth on your throat, on your jaw, on your cheek, sucking bruises into your skin, licking into your mouth, swallowing every desperate, wrecked little noise you made.

"Knew you’d take me so fuckin’ good."

His teeth scraped against your pulse point, his hands gripping your hips tighter, rocking into you, dragging himself through your slick, the obscene wet sound of it filling the room.

"My perfect little Lamby."

Your breath hitched, your head spinning, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding onto him like you’d fucking drown if he stopped.

"Always knew you were mine," he muttered against your throat, dragging his tongue over the mark he’d just left.

"Ben—"

"Say it."

"Yours—"

"That’s fuckin’ right."

Another deep thrust, his hips grinding down, dragging the thick, hard length of him against the most sensitive part of you.

"You’re mine, baby."

A kiss against your cheek.

"Always fuckin’ have been."

A lick at your jaw.

"And now?"

His lips brushed against your ear, voice dropping lower, rougher, darker.

"Now, you’re gonna let me fuckin’ ruin you."

His rhythm deepened, roughened, hips snapping against yours with punishing force, dragging deep, filthy sounds from your throat, sounds that barely sounded like you anymore.

His grip on your hip was hard, bruising, but the other hand? Gentle. A contrast. A contradiction. A cruel, beautiful juxtaposition. Because while he was wrecking you, pounding into you, splitting you open on his cock, taking you like he owned you—

His other hand cradled your cheek. Soft. Tender. Worshipful.

"So fuckin’ beautiful," he rasped, voice wrecked, ruined, breaking apart with every thrust.

And then warm spit hit your cheek, and his palm smeared it across your skin, rubbing it in, marking you, branding you.

A sharp, desperate moan tore from your throat, your hands clawing at his back, nails dragging over heated skin, your mind fogged, blank, gone.

And then—

His fingers flexed, slid down, wrapped around your jaw, holding your face in his hand, thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers gripping the other, forcing you to look at him, to see the hunger, the devastation, the pure fucking need carved into his features.

And then—

"Christ, I think I fuckin’ love you."

Everything. Stopped.

His hips never faltered, never missed a stroke, never lost rhythm—but your world shattered. Because fuck. Because holy fuck. Your stomach flipped, your heart stuttered, your head spun, because he wasn’t supposed to say that.

Because you thought it. Because you felt it. Because you had always known.

And that was it.

That was all it took. The words slammed into you, sent you spiralling, sent you over the edge so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You came instantly. Hard. Harder than you ever had before. Your thighs shook, your back arched, your breath caught on a sharp sob, your entire body clamping down around him, gripping, milking, convulsing with pleasure so sharp it almost hurt.

And Ben felt it.

"Oh, fuck—"

A low, wrecked groan tore from his throat, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking, his cock throbbing inside you, chasing after you, chasing after his own release.

But then—

"I gotta pull out," he panted, voice strained, breath uneven, muscles trembling from restraint. "Can’t fuckin’—"

You pouted.

And he laughed. A disbelieving little scoff, shaking his head, pressing a messy, wet kiss to your lips, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down before pulling away.

And he slid out, the loss of him making you whimper, already aching to be filled again—

His hand wrapped around himself, his fist moving fast, desperate, slick with everything you’d given him.

"Jesus—fuck—"

A deep, guttural groan, his head tilting back, his body shuddering as he finally let go, finally broke apart, finally unraveled completely. And he spilled hot over your stomach, painting you, marking you, panting like he’d just run miles, completely spent, completely ruined, completely fucking yours.

For a moment, there was only the sound of breathing. Harsh, heavy, wrecked.

Ben’s weight pressed into you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, broad chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat, his scent wrapped around you like something tangible, like something you could hold.

Your stomach was still messy, sticky with him, cooling in the humid air, your thighs trembling, your body still thrumming from everything he had just done to you.

And him?

Ben was still panting, still hovering above you, his face buried against the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing lazy, thoughtless kisses along your skin, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, even now.

Your fingers curled in his damp hair, nails scratching light against his scalp, soothing, grounding, loving.

And then your brain caught up. Your stomach flipped. Because oh, fuck. Because he had said it.

"Christ, I think I fuckin’ love you."

The words lingered, heavy, thick, pressing into your skin like bruises, like a brand, like something permanent.

You grinned. Wide. Stupid. Completely helpless against it. And before he could react, you moved. Fast.

You twisted out from under him, bracing your hands against his chest, pushing him back, laughing breathlessly as you tackled him straight onto the mattress, knocking the air from his lungs.

"What the shit—?"

His hands caught at your hips, steadying you instinctively, holding you close even as he fell back, head bouncing against the pillows, arms coming up to cage you in.

And you? You just curled into him, into his warmth, into the strong, steady weight of him. Your legs tangled with his, your arms wrapping around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest, the slow, steady thud of his heart beating against your ear.

Ben exhaled hard, like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or completely fucking undone by the way you were holding onto him.

And you kissed him. Not on the lips, but everywhere else. Little, fluttering, barely-there kisses. Along his jaw, against his cheek, into the rough, scratchy warmth of his beard. Soft, adoring.

And then—

"I don’t know if you meant that," you murmured, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, voice quieter now, tinged with something raw, something real.

Ben stilled beneath you.

You swallowed, heart pounding, fingers curling against his ribs.

"If it was just some spur-of-the-moment thing."

A beat. A pause. A breath.

And then—

You lifted your head, met his gaze. And told him the truth.

"But I love you."

His fingers twitched against your hips.

"I always have."

Ben exhaled hard, and smirked. Because of fucking course he did.

"Yeah?" He rasped, tilting his head, one hand sliding slow up your spine, the other curling possessively around your jaw, brushing his thumb against your lips.

You nodded.

He grinned. "That’s real fuckin’ good to know, sweetheart."

And he kissed you. Deep. Slow. Sweet in a way that almost hurt.

Because yeah—

Your dad was still outside. Everyone was still outside. And eventually? You’d have to go back out there. But for now?

For now, Ben was yours. And you were his. And nothing else fucking mattered.

There are things in this world that were never meant to happen.

Things that should have remained buried beneath the weight of time, of expectation, of unspoken rules written in blood and history.

Some lines were meant to hold. Some boundaries were meant to endure. Some names were never meant to be spoken like a prayer, gasped against heated skin, against lips that never should have met.

But the thing about inevitabilities?

They don’t wait for permission. They don’t care for consequence. They do not ask—they take, they claim, they make and unmake, until there is nothing left but the truth beneath the wreckage.

And the truth? The truth is that some things were never meant to remain untouched.

Not this. Not you. Not him.

Because the weight of the world had shifted beneath your feet long before either of you dared to fall.

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @sl33pylilbunny @drakulana (I so hope I haven't forgotten anyone. <3 pls let me know if I have!)

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

OH LORD HAVE MERCY...if i wasn't so tired i'd read part 2 immediately but it has to wait until morning💔

inviolable

part I

Pairing: Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ben's your dad's best friend, his partner in crime, your godfather. You've harboured a secret crush on him for years, and maybe—just maybe—he's got some hidden feelings of his own that he's kept bottled up for too long.

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

Word Count: 7,741

A/N: I'm back. Christ, I'm on a proper mission with writing at the moment. Must be the insomnia. Thank god for it though, eh? Anyways... this is a little something that's been in my head for a long old time, it's based off a weird dream I had a couple months back (I was watching The Boys damn near constantly, like falling asleep with it on and everything, as well as reading a bunch of SB smut) and I just built on it, and it's kinda run away with me a lil bit. <3 Lot of the plot in this first instalment... plot is a term I use lightly. Because—what goddamn plot? Hope you guys like the little Sameo! (see what I did there? Cameo... but... Sam? No? Sorry.) So... this is part one. This one will definitely only have two parts... and knowing me, I'll have it finished by some time tomorrow night. So, yeah, while all the warnings listed above may not be evident here? They will be in the next part. S'gonna be a doozy. Until then? All the love.

Without further ado: INVIOLABLE

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

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

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

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was always there, a quiet, undisturbed thing, like a seed buried deep beneath the soil, waiting for the right moment to break open.

Ben had been a constant for as long as you could remember. Your godfather. Your father’s best friend, his shadow, his second half in ways that made it impossible to imagine one without the other. There was no family barbecue, no holiday gathering, no Sunday spent in the backyard without him. He was always there, cigarette tucked behind his ear, beer in his hand, voice rough and low like gravel warmed by the summer sun.

And God, he had always been so handsome.

Even as a child, you’d thought so—before you even knew what handsome was supposed to mean. You just knew you liked looking at him, that your stomach flipped when he laughed, that you wanted him to notice you. And he always had.

Where your father had rolled his eyes at your endless energy, Ben had indulged you. When your dad had said no, Ben had smirked, crouched down, and let you climb onto his shoulders anyway, holding you steady as he walked around the yard like you belonged there, like he didn’t mind carrying your weight. He let you hang off his leg, dragging him down with your tiny hands locked around his knee, and he would walk anyway, his booted steps slow and exaggerated as he played along, dragging you through the grass while you shrieked with laughter.

And the gifts. The perfect gifts.

It had been your sixth birthday when he’d given you the lamb. A stupid little stuffed thing, soft and floppy-eared, but from the moment you’d unwrapped it, it had been yours. Clutched in your arms at bedtime, dragged through the house by one matted paw, tucked beneath your chin when you curled into your father’s lap.

"Lamby," you’d called it, with all the solemnity of a child bestowing a title upon something sacred. And it had stuck.

Your father’s friends had made it a joke—called you Lamby just to get a rise out of you, to tease you until you were red-faced and flustered. "Only Uncle Ben is allowed to call me that!" you would snap, every single time. And your father had only laughed, nudging Ben with a knowing grin, muttering something about his little admirer.

You hadn’t understood what that meant back then. You hadn’t known it was anything more than adoration.

But then puberty hit.

And the adoration didn’t go away. It just... shifted.

You told yourself it was still innocent. That it was normal to notice the way his arms looked in his rolled-up sleeves, the way he leaned against your father’s truck, the way his voice melted into you like whiskey and smoke. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything when you hated seeing other women near him. When he brought girlfriends to family parties, when they sat too close, when they ran their hands down his arm or pressed their lips to his cheek, it made your chest ache with something raw and unfamiliar.

He was yours.

Not in any way that made sense, but still. He was your Uncle Ben.

And then came the night after your eighteenth birthday.

You had been drunk. Slurring your words, tripping over the sidewalk, clutching your best friend’s arm as she tried—and failed—to keep you both upright. The thought of calling your father had been enough to send panic clawing up your throat, so you’d called the only other person you trusted.

He had picked up on the first ring.

And twenty minutes later, his truck had pulled up to the curb, headlights slashing through the dark, his expression set in something between relief and exasperation. He hadn’t lectured you. He hadn’t yelled. He had just sighed, tipped your chin up to look at him, and said, "This gonna become a regular thing, Lamby?"

And God, you had hated how warm that stupid nickname made you feel.

He had dropped your best friend off first, watching until she was safely inside, then pulled into your driveway and put the truck in park. He had glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim glow of the dashboard, fingers drumming against the wheel before he spoke.

"I can’t lie to your dad, you know."

"You won’t have to," you had promised, voice soft and a little too sincere.

And that had been enough for him. He had ruffled your hair, just like he always had, fingers threading through the strands before falling away. "Get inside, get some water, and go to sleep. No more stupid shit."

You had nodded, cheeks burning, throat tight. You had felt so young then, under the weight of his gaze. Too young. But you weren’t. And someday, he was going to realise that too.

Then came 4th of July weekend, the year you'd turned nineteen. 

The heat had been unbearable.

Thick and wet and heavy, clinging to your skin, making the air hum with something dense and slow-moving. The whole backyard had smelled like charcoal and cut grass, the acrid tinge of fireworks powder settling into the summer air as your dad and his friends—Ben included—set up the launch station.

You’d spent the whole day running back and forth between the house and the yard, fetching ice-cold beers, mixing up pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, your father muttering something about not letting his old ass friends drop dead from heatstroke. It should have been annoying, but you liked being useful, liked the way they all grumbled their appreciation, knocking back the drinks you handed them, sweat dripping from their temples.

And Ben? You’d liked it most when he reached for the glass.

The way his fingers had brushed yours, barely noticeable. The way he had tilted his head back, swallowing deep, Adam’s apple bobbing, before exhaling with a low groan. "Christ, Lamby. Think you saved my goddamn life."

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did.

But you had.

And now, as the sun dipped low, casting everything in burning gold, you were perched on the picnic table, watching them finish the setup. Your legs bare, thighs sticky from the heat, the denim of your cutoffs riding too high—not that you were about to fix it. Your father was barking out orders, directing Ben and the others, but you could tell they were moving slower now, the heat catching up with them, exhaustion weighing down their steps.

Then Ben sighed, slapping his hands against his jeans. "Goin’ for a smoke," he muttered, and without much thought, he came to rest right beside you.

Not on the bench, but on the table itself. Perched, ankles crossed, the slight shift of the wood beneath his weight making you acutely aware of how close he was.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, that earthy scent of sweat and sun-baked skin mixed with the cigarette as he lit it, fingers cupping the flame from the breeze before shaking the lighter closed.

And then—he glanced at you.

Just for a second too long.

Just long enough for your heart to stutter, for something low in your stomach to twist itself into a tight, hot knot. He looked away too fast, like he caught himself before it could mean anything, and it made you feel a little sick with wanting.

So you grinned, cocked your head, and asked, "Can I try?"

His reaction was instantaneous. A sharp scoff, a low laugh, and then—"Fuckin’ behave yourself."

Your breath hitched.

You shouldn’t have felt it the way you did. But you did.

Something in his voice, in the rough scrape of it, made the air feel different. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or something else, but either way—your face burned with the heat of it.

You tried to brush it off, tried to act like it didn’t matter, but as he took another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the humid air, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d felt it too.

The fireworks had gone off like crackling constellations, splitting the night sky into pieces, blooming in colours that made your father’s face glow with the kind of pure, boyish joy that made your chest hurt. He had been beaming, beer sloshing in his hand as he threw an arm over one of his old friends, laughter bubbling from his chest.

The rest of them had been just as bad, slurring through old war stories, cheering every time another explosion thundered overhead.

You had slipped away at some point, away from the heat of bodies and the tang of sweat and liquor in the air. The mosquito lamp buzzed softly from the porch as you leaned against the railing, staring out into the yard, the scent of burning gunpowder still thick in the air.

Then—footsteps behind you.

Ben.

"Knew you’d be hiding somewhere," he muttered, already pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He perched on the railing, flicked his lighter open, and took a slow, deep drag. Then, without looking at you—without any warning at all—he pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it out.

"Just this once."

Your chest constricted.

For a second, you just stared at it—like maybe if you reached for it, you’d burn yourself on something else entirely. But he was watching now, eyes flicking sideways, and you didn’t want to look like a kid.

So you took it. Put it between your lips. Inhaled, tried not to cough.

Ben chuckled. "Look at you. Lil’ fuckin’ menace." Then—softer, lower, just for you: "Lamby."

That did something to you.

Something dangerous. Something hot and breathless and twisting, your whole body thrumming with something bright and stupid and electric.

Then, before you could even process it, he was holding out his beer. "C’mon. Might as well complete the set."

You took a sip, felt the cold bite of it trickle down your throat, the taste of smoke still lingering on your tongue. Ben watched, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, before he tapped his nose with two fingers and winked.

"Don’t tell your dad."

And just like that—he stood, stretching, rolling his shoulders before heading back toward the others.

You sat there, reeling.

Preening.

Because it wasn’t much, was it? Just a cigarette, just a sip of beer, just a joke. Except it wasn’t. Because it had been just for you. Because you’d felt seen in a way that made something curl and bloom in your chest.

And later, when the house was quiet—when the night was settled, heavy, deep—you still weren’t asleep.

The guys had been too drunk to leave, sprawled across couches, filling up the guest rooms, your father snoring loud enough to shake the goddamn walls. But you were still awake, still buzzing, still aching with something you couldn’t name.

And then—footsteps. Soft. Slow. Passing by your room. You watched the shadow slip under your doorframe.

And then—pause.

Just for a second. Not long. Not even long enough to be real. But you felt it all the same. The moment passed. The shadow moved on. The footsteps faded.

And still—you sat there for the next hour, face buried in your pillow, biting back the giddy, breathless, shaking laughter in your chest. Because whether it had been him or not, it didn��t matter.

You wanted it to be.

And when your first date had come around, you had been so excited.

Not the kind of giddy, fluttery excitement that made you feel small—no, this was something deeper, something that made you feel light on your feet, steady in your chest. It had been a long time since someone had noticed you like that, since someone had looked at you and seen more than just the girl they grew up around, more than your father’s daughter.

And Sam had seen you.

A guy from a couple of towns over, nice enough, awkward but in a way that had made you laugh, spilling beer on you at the bowling alley before immediately scrambling for napkins, his face red as he apologised over and over. He had stayed with you the whole night, ditching his friends without hesitation, choosing instead to sit in a dimly lit booth while the two of you talked.

Not just talked—really talked.

Folklore. Mythology. The things that made your brain buzz, the subjects you had been considering studying in college, but never quite voiced aloud to anyone who might take it seriously.

But Sam had taken it seriously.

He had leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, asking real questions, pushing deeper, not just humouring you, but actually listening.

And when he had asked you out, when he had ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck, waiting for an answer—

You had squealed. You had said yes immediately, heart skipping, stomach twisting, exchanging numbers before parting ways, feeling like maybe—just maybe—you were stepping into something new.

So tonight, you had dressed for it.

Your prettiest sundress, soft and light, swaying when you moved. Sandals, simple but delicate. You had done your hair, your makeup, catching your reflection before heading downstairs, thinking—"I look… grown up. Pretty, even."

The thought had felt strange, thrilling, like shedding something old, stepping into something undiscovered.

And then—you walked into the living room.

Ben and your dad were lounging on the sofa, beer bottles in hand, eyes fixed on the baseball game you hadn’t even realised was on. The room smelled like cologne and sweat, hops and leather, the low murmur of the commentators filling the space.

You had barely glanced at them as you passed, already reaching for your bag, when you said, "Sam’s gonna be here soon to pick me up."

And that was when Ben spoke.

"Who the hell is Sam?"

His voice had been flat, clipped, like he was barely paying attention—but then your dad answered.

"Some guy who asked her on a date. Seems like a good kid. Bit of a square."

You had opened your mouth to protest, to defend Sam, to tell your dad that being a square wasn’t a bad thing, when you felt it—

Ben’s eyes on you.

A slow, sweeping once-over.

Your breath caught, the moment thickening, stretching, twisting into something you weren’t sure you were imagining.

Then he turned back to your dad, muttered, "She’s too young to be goin' on dates."

And your stomach dropped. Not because you were embarrassed—no, because of the way he’d said it.

The rough edge to it. The way his fingers tightened around his beer bottle, the way his jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing where he leaned into the couch. It wasn’t some offhand comment—it was something else.

Your dad had only laughed, smacking Ben’s arm, shaking his head. "She’s twenty now, man. C’mon."

Ben didn’t answer. Not at first. Just took a long sip of his beer, eyes flicking back toward the screen, but not really watching.

And that’s when your heart started pounding.

Because your father had been fine with it. He had laughed it off, joked about it, made peace with it weeks ago.

But Ben? Ben wasn’t fine.

Ben was annoyed.

And you didn’t want to play things up in your head, you didn’t, but he was coming across jealous.

And that—that made your chest feel too tight, too warm, something curling behind your ribs, something you shouldn’t want as badly as you did.

Because Ben had never looked at you like that before.

Sam had been sweet.

That was the only way to describe him. Sweet. Earnest. Polite in a way that most guys weren’t. He had kept his hands to himself all night, opened doors for you, paid for dinner even when you’d offered to split, and had spent most of the drive home talking excitedly about a new book he thought you might like, glancing over at you every so often like he couldn’t quite believe you were still sitting beside him.

And maybe that’s why you let him walk you to the door.

Because it had been nice. Because he had treated you like someone special, not just a pretty girl, but someone he actually wanted to know.

You had stood there on the porch, shifting slightly, fingers curling around the strap of your purse as he leaned in.

Not too fast. Not too forceful. Just slow, like he was making sure you had time to pull away if you wanted to. And maybe you would have let him kiss you. Maybe you would have closed the gap, felt something soft, something simple, something nice.

But you didn’t.

Because the second your lips almost met—

The door swung open.

And there stood Ben.

Big. Broad. Muscular as hell. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, eyes hard and cold and fixed—not on you, but on Sam.

"’Bout time you got home, Lamby."

Your stomach dropped. Not because of the nickname, but because of how he said it. Because it wasn’t warm. It wasn’t teasing.

It was territorial.

And Sam? He felt it too. You could tell by the way he shifted his weight, by the way he glanced at you, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping back, voice soft, awkward.

"I had a great time."

"Me too," you said, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He hesitated, gave you a small smile, then turned, walking quickly toward his car, never once looking back.

You stood there, arms wrapping around yourself, watching the red glow of his taillights as he pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.

And then—you turned, crossed your arms tighter, and fixed Ben with a glare.

"What the hell was that?"

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He just… looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged over your bare legs, the hem of your dress, the soft slope of your throat, the lingering flushed heat of almost being kissed. His gaze swept slow, unhurried, deliberate, before finally settling on your face.

And his nostrils flared.

You shifted your weight to one leg, your jaw tightening, mirroring the way he stood, meeting him with a glare of your own.

And then—he scoffed.

"Get your ass inside," he muttered, stepping past you, brushing against your shoulder as he did, bigger than you, overwhelming in a way that made your stomach twist. "Before I tell your old man you were about to let some lanky fuckin’ two-pump chump feel you up on the doorstep like you’re easy or somethin’."

You bristled. Your whole body went rigid, something inside you snapping.

"If I didn’t know any better," you bit back, sharp, breathless, "I’d think you were jealous or something."

Not your wisest choice.

Because Ben went still. Not in a way that meant hesitation. Not in a way that meant denial. No—he stilled like a predator hearing its prey snap a twig.

Then—he moved.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. Slow. Unavoidable.

Stepping forward, backing you up against the frame of the doorway, dipping his head down just enough so his mouth was level with yours, so his voice coiled low and hot in the air between you.

"I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight," he murmured, so quiet, so rough, "but it sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You gasped. Your body locked up, breath hitching, eyes going wide.

And Ben just smirked.

Like he liked that reaction. Like he had wanted it.

Then—he straightened. Stepped back like nothing had happened.

"Better get upstairs, get into your comfies," he muttered, voice gruff, unreadable. "Come watch the football with me ‘n your dad. Or I’ll take you over my fuckin’ knee for the backtalk."

Your breath shuddered. You nodded. Wordless. Weak. Then you turned, stepping inside, feeling the weight of his eyes on your back as you headed upstairs—

And you knew.

You knew that nothing about tonight had been normal. That something between you had shifted. Twisted. Changed.

You took your time.

Stripping out of your sundress, pulling on one of your dad’s old t-shirts—soft, worn, faded, the fabric thin from years of washes, hanging loose over your frame. Bare legs, bare feet against the cool wood floors as you splashed cold water over your face, washing away the night.

Washing away Ben’s words. Or at least, trying to.

But they sat heavy in your head. The way he had looked at you. The low scrape of his voice, the bite of it, the way your whole body had locked up at the filth that had dripped from his mouth.

"It sure as shit better not be that fuckin’ pussy’s fingers."

You shuddered, inhaled deep, let the cold burn of the water centre you before heading downstairs.

The game was still on when you walked back into the living room, your dad and Ben both where you had left them—sprawled out, half a beer deep, yelling at the screen like the players could actually hear them.

Ben saw you first.

His eyes flicked over you, quick, assessing, then—that nod. That slow, subtle nod to himself, like he was fucking appraising you. Like you were something to be measured, studied, cataloged.

You ignored the way it made your stomach twist.

Instead, your dad’s attention finally snapped toward you, and his brow furrowed.

"I been wonderin’ where the hell that shirt went," he muttered.

You just grinned, gave a smug little shrug, before nudging his leg with your bare foot, signaling for him to move over.

"Looks better on me, anyway."

Your dad snorted. "The hell it does." Then, before you could flop onto the couch, he smacked your foot away. "Grab a couple more beers before you park your ass."

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told, gripping the hem of the t-shirt and curtseying, voice sickly sweet.

"Yes, sir."

Then you saluted him, just to really drive it home.

"Fuckin’ wiseass," he muttered.

Ben just chuckled, deep in his throat, like he was trying not to laugh.

You disappeared into the kitchen, grabbed three beers, popped the caps off, and pressed two of them against your chest as you sipped from the one in your free hand, the glass cold against your skin.

By the time you returned, the game had picked up speed, your dad too distracted to care when you plopped the bottles down on the coffee table and threw yourself onto the couch between them.

"Could have moved your lazy ass, y’know," you muttered.

Your dad just scoffed, didn’t look away from the screen.

But Ben?

Ben side-eyed you, slow and heavy, and when he spoke—you felt it.

"Keep up the cheek, Lamby, and I’ll take that beer off you."

Your fingers tightened around the bottle.

"Don’t know what the fuck you’re so cocky about," he muttered, tipping his own beer to his lips, voice just this side of gruff. "Stealin’ one of my beers like I gave you any kinda permission to."

Your stomach flipped. But you didn’t let it show. You just sighed, long-suffering, exaggerated as hell, before taking another slow, deliberate sip, the bubbles sharp against your tongue.

And then—you settled. Leaning back, letting yourself sink between them, wedged in the space you’d claimed a thousand times before.

Except this time, it was different. Because this time, you felt Ben. Felt the heat of him, so close, so solid, so unignorable. And it took everything in you not to shiver.

Because even if you were watching the game—

He was watching you.

The game rolled on, the low drone of the commentators mixing with the occasional grumble, scoff, or sharp curse from your dad or Ben. You sat nursing your beer, the bottle cold between your palms, the sharp bite of it against your tongue as you stared at the screen, more focused on the way the room shifted around you than on the game itself.

Your dad was getting tired. You could tell.

He tried to pretend he wasn’t—hiding yawns behind his bottle, stretching in that slow, lazy way that meant his body was giving up on the night before his mind was.

You, on the other hand, were stretching out more. Slow. Casual. Your bare feet crossed at the ankles, propped up on the coffee table, legs long and catching the glint of the TV, skin warm under the flickering glow.

And Ben noticed.

You felt it, even if he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached for his cigarettes, shaking the pack once before holding it out toward your dad.

Your father just waved a lazy hand, shaking his head. "Not for me, but might as well light one up in here. Don’t drag your ass outside on my account."

Ben just nodded. Grunted. Then—he lit up, fingers steady, bringing the cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his lips as he inhaled, slow and deep.

The scent hit you instantly—smoke and something deeper, something heavy and masculine, something that made the air feel too thick.

Then your dad yawned—loud and unrestrained.

"Shit, I’m beat," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’ll gimme a ring tomorrow or somethin’, tell me how it ends?"

Ben just grunted again, smoke curling from his mouth as he nodded.

Your dad turned to you next. "Lock up after him when he heads out, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," you murmured, waving him off.

He just rolled his eyes before disappearing upstairs.

And then—it was just you and Ben.

You went to shift over, to slide into your father’s now-empty spot, but—

Ben clicked his tongue.

Your breath hitched.

Not because of the sound—but because he didn’t even look at you when he did it. Just sat there, lips still wrapped around his smoke, one arm swinging lazily over the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed, commanding.

"Stay put."

So you did.

But the shift in weight, the pull of gravity, had you falling into his side—your shoulder brushing up against the heat of his broad chest, pressing up into the space right under his arm.

And that was when it hit you.

The smell of him.

The mix of soap, sweat, beer, and smoke, clinging to his skin, wrapping around you like a hand at the base of your neck. It made your head feel light, your skin too tight, your thighs press together just a little too much.

You took a sip of your beer, trying to steady yourself, trying to act normal.

And then—without really thinking, without really meaning to—you turned to him.

"Can I have a puff?"

He scoffed. Didn’t answer right away. But that was fine, because you were already reaching up, already plucking the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to your own before he could stop you.

And when you took a slow, deep drag, before reaching up and placing it right back between his lips—

The eye contact?

Was fucking unbearable.

The kind of slow, steady hold that made the air thick and stifling, the kind that felt like something physical pressing against your chest.

Your lips curled into a slow, shit-eating grin. And then—you exhaled. Blew the smoke right into his face.

Ben didn’t move. Didn’t react. Not at first.

Just let the smoke roll between you, let the weight of it settle as he stared right into you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark, unreadable.

And then—he smirked, slow and knowing, that cocky, heavy-lidded thing that made your breath hitch even though you refused to let it show.

"You’re fuckin’ trouble."

You just smiled, all sweetness and venom, voice syrupy smooth.

"Learned from the best."

His expression twitched—just a fraction. He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face, before finally pulling the cigarette from his lips. His fingers curled around it loosely, letting the smoke rise, twisting in slow tendrils toward the ceiling.

Then—his voice dropped.

"Nah."

His eyes dragged down over you, slow, tracking every inch. His gaze stopped at your thighs, where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, baring just a little too much of your skin.

Then lower. Down your legs, down to your feet.

"I mean it," he murmured, voice gravel, something heavier lurking beneath it. "You are trouble."

Your mouth went a little dry. But you tilted your chin up anyway, feigning innocence.

"Oh yeah?"

He hummed, a slow, lazy sound, before shifting in his seat.

"Didn’t like the way you looked at me earlier."

That threw you. Your brow furrowed, beer bottle cooling between your palms.

"What?"

His jaw ticked. He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, exhaling through his nose.

"After that little cocksucker left," he muttered, voice low, cutting, "you looked at me with a sharp little glare. Didn’t fuckin’ like it. Not one bit."

That made your lips twitch.

"Maybe that’s because you were acting like an overbearing ass."

The moment the words left your mouth—

His palm cracked against your bare thigh.

Not hard. Not painful. But sharp. Sudden. Enough to make you yelp. Your whole body jerked, legs snapping together, feet moving off the coffee table—

But before you could fully pull away—

Ben grabbed them. Big hands, rough hands, curling around your ankles as he shifted you in one easy movement, and the momentum sent you falling back against the arm of the couch, spine hitting the worn fabric, breath catching in your throat.

By the time you realised what had just happened—your feet were pinned in his lap. And he was staring at you. Sharp. Knowing. Unreadable.

Your stomach flipped. You squinted at him, eyes narrowing in accusation, your body already on edge, already tense. Because you knew. You knew exactly where this was going.

And Ben knew you knew.

His smirk shifted—turned into something smug as fucking sin. And then, he moved. His free hand dragged along the sole of your foot, fingers skimming, featherlight. A slow, deliberate touch.

Your whole body jolted.

"Ben—"

His fingers danced over your skin again, dragging across the arch of your foot—and you burst into laughter. Sharp, breathless, uncontrollable.

"Shove off, you big asshole—"

He only chuckled, voice gruff, satisfied.

"Better keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered, pinning your feet harder, his other hand relentless as he tickled along your soles, grinning as you squirmed. "Or your old man’s gonna come down and bust some heads."

You tried to snap your foot back, tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too big, too fucking relentless.

"Dad’s snoring like two bears having a fight up there—" you gasped between giggled curses, thrashing uselessly. "Not even a nuclear blast’d wake him right now—"

Ben let out a bark of laughter.

"Christ," he muttered, still grinning, his fingers raking over your skin again, making you kick and writhe. "You got a fuckin’ mouth on you."

You writhed in his grip, half-giggling, half-breathless, your muscles burning from the struggle as he pinned your feet down like it was nothing. Like you weighed nothing.

"Gonna fucking kill you," you gasped, still kicking uselessly, your ribs aching from the laughter that you hated, that you didn’t want to be enjoying as much as you were.

"Oh yeah?" Ben drawled, voice low, amused, unbothered as hell. "You ‘n what army, Lamby?"

Your frustration surged, and before you could think—before you could talk yourself out of it—

You got a leg free.

And with one smooth, defiant movement, you lifted your knee, stretched your leg out, and pressed your toes against his jaw, pushing his face away.

"This one," you muttered, breathless, still flushed from the tickling.

And for a second, everything stopped. Because Ben froze, his fingers locked around your ankle, catching it before you could pull away, holding it there.

And then—his gaze dragged down your leg. Slow. Deliberate. Lazy in the way that only meant he was taking his time.

You felt it.

Felt his touch, felt the way his fingers tightened, felt the way his eyes swept over your thigh, over your skin, the places where your dad’s old t-shirt had ridden up, the hem curled high from how you’d been squirming—

And then, he saw.

His stare landed on the place between your thighs, on the thin, soft fabric of your panties, barely visible from the angle you were sitting at.

And your entire body lit on fire. Your stomach plummeted, heat spreading up your spine, over your chest, over your face, until you felt like you were glowing under his gaze, burning under it.

And Ben sucked in a sharp breath.

One second. Two.

Then, suddenly, violently, he shoved your leg back down, his fingers gripping too tight for a beat too long before letting go.

He sat up straighter, bracing his elbows on his knees, reaching for his beer like it was the only thing in the room that made sense.

The bottle tipped against his lips. He took a long pull, his throat working, his jaw tight, his whole body stiff.

You just stared at him. Stared at the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his fingers twitched against the glass, the way he muttered something too low to catch, barely audible under his breath.

And you wanted.

You wanted so fucking bad—

To crawl into his lap, to trace the sharp edge of his jaw, to tangle your fingers in his hair, pull, make him look at you the way you needed him to.

Because he looked so fucking good like this. Like a mountain of a man, big and broad and sturdy, something you wanted to climb, sink onto, plant your flag in.

Your fingers tightened around your own beer bottle.

You tipped it back, taking a long drink, letting the liquid burn its way down, grounding yourself, steadying yourself.

Then—without a word—you shifted, leaning forward to set the bottle on the table, before settling back into your new spot.

Your feet still in his lap.

Ben didn’t react. Didn’t flinch at the contact, didn’t shove you off. He just watched the game. And after a moment, his hand—big, warm, heavy—started rubbing absentmindedly over the arch of your foot.

The game had all but faded into background noise.

The occasional roar of the commentators, the distant sounds of the crowd—none of it mattered. Not when his hands were on you. Not when he had been absently kneading his thumbs into the arch of your foot for the last ten minutes, rolling slow circles into your skin, his grip firm, practiced, easy.

You could feel the rough heat of his callouses, the way they pressed just right, the way his fingers flexed, working the tension out of your muscles like it was second nature.

And he wasn’t even thinking about it.

That was the best part.

Ben was just sitting there, cigarette balanced between his lips, rubbing slow, absentminded strokes over your skin while he watched the game, like he hadn’t once stopped to consider how fucked this was.

So you smirked.

"Let me bum one."

His fingers paused. Then—a glare. Sharp, lazy, warning.

"Cut it with the fuckin’ lip."

But you weren’t done. You tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice turning syrupy-sweet.

"Oh, come on, Uncle Ben..."

That made his jaw clench.

"Let me bum one," you pressed, pouting, teasing, just to see how far you could push. "You know you wanna."

And then, just to twist the knife—

"Corrupt me a little bit."

That did it.

Ben sucked in a sharp breath, something dark flickering through his eyes, his whole shoulders locking up—

And then his cigarette fell. Right into his lap.

"Shit—!"

He jerked upright, cussing, ash scattering over his jeans, pushing your feet off his thighs, slapping at the embers, brushing at the fabric as he snatched up the cigarette and stubbed it out fast in the ashtray.

You should have felt bad. You didn’t. Because you saw it. The shape of him. The press of something thick and stiff against his thigh. And suddenly—your whole body went hot. Because you weren’t imagining it. He was affected.

You were getting to him.

Your stomach coiled tight with satisfaction, your pulse thudding at the base of your throat, and you barely even thought before you moved.

You sat up slow, shifting forward, reaching for the cigarette in the ashtray, fingers just about to brush it when—

Ben’s hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. His grip was strong. Firm. Tight enough to hold you in place, but not tight enough to hurt.

And when you turned to look at him, his face was dark. His eyes were on fire.

"Fuckin' quit it," he muttered, voice rough, almost wrecked, something like threat and warning and desperate restraint all tangled together.

And then, just low enough that it sent heat licking down your spine��

"Or I’ll tan your fuckin’ ass and send you up to your bed snifflin’ and sobbin’ like you fuckin’ deserve."

Your breath hitched. The air between you thickened.

His fingers burned into your wrist, his body coiled tight, his chest rising and falling just a little too hard, a little too sharp.

And you? You should have backed down. You should have apologised, pulled away, let the moment die.

But instead—

You just tilted your head, blinked up at him with wide, mock-innocent eyes, voice so quiet it could have almost been sweet.

"Promise?"

Ben went still. Not stiff. Not tense. Just—still. Like a predator right before it pounced.

And you felt it—the moment he cracked. The moment you broke him.

Ben didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just sat back, spine sinking into the couch, exhaling slow and deep through his nose, his fingers still wrapped tight around your wrist.

Then—he shifted. His body sprawled wider, his legs spreading, one arm draping across the back of the sofa, his whole presence turning into something vast and unavoidable, taking up space like he was daring you to crawl into it.

And he patted his lap.

"C’mere."

Your breath stuttered. You should have hesitated. You should have played coy, drawn it out, but you didn’t. You scrambled. Too fast. Too eager. Hands bracing against his shoulders, knees pressing to the outside of his thighs, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, settling into the space he had made for you.

And fuck—he was warm. Solid. Unshakable beneath you. His hands landed on your bare thighs, big and hot, fingers spreading, gripping you just enough to make you feel held.

And then—his eyes lifted to yours.

"You," he murmured, voice low, steady, edged with something raw, "are workin’ my last fuckin’ nerve."

You grinned. Syrupy-sweet, saccharine, the kind of smile that could make a saint burn alive.

"I’m happy to work something else, if you want."

The slap came fast. Sharp. Sudden. His palm cracked against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt, your breath hitching, your fingers tightening where they had settled against his chest.

"Where the hell’s this fuckin’ attitude come from?" He muttered, jaw tight, eyes dark, heavy.

You shrugged, playing at innocence, eyes lidded, mouth curling.

"Dunno." Another shrug, slow, deliberate. "Probably frustration."

That made him squint. Accusing. Waiting. Expecting.

So you tilted your head, batting your lashes, voice dropping into something honey-thick and dangerous.

"I mean…" A pause. A breath. A glance down at his lips before dragging your eyes back up to his. "You ever thought about how hard it’s been for me?"

He didn’t blink.

"Enlighten me."

You leaned in just a fraction, your fingers smoothing over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the warmth of his skin even through his shirt.

"How I’ve had to spend the last few years," you murmured, voice soft, feigning confession, "watching you walk around with your tight shirts, and your big arms, and that beautiful fucking hair and beard that could give a saint bad thoughts."

Ben huffed. Lips parting, breath sharp, eyes dragging over your face like he was looking for something. Then—his fingers squeezed, pressing into your thighs, holding you just a little tighter.

"One to fuckin’ talk," he muttered.

Your stomach flipped.

"Oh yeah?"

Ben scoffed. And then—he let it out.

"Had to put up with you swayin’ around in those little cut-offs—"

His hands slid higher, fingers flexing just beneath the hem of your dad’s t-shirt, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"—watchin’ your ass eat ‘em up every time you walked away from me—"

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"—legs on fuckin’ show, flutterin’ those big eyes at me like you’re fixin’ to get fuckin’ stuffed."

Your whole body flushed with heat. You sucked in a breath, sharp, uneven, lips parting before your tongue darted out, wetting them.

And then—you mock-gasped. Eyes wide, voice soft, laced with something insidious.

"You’re my godfather," you whispered, tilting your head, watching him twitch at the words. "You’re having impure thoughts about me?"

Ben exhaled hard. His grip tightened—just for a second, just long enough to send a pulse between your thighs. Then he groaned. Long. Frustrated. Dropped his head back against the sofa, dragging a rough hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling like he was praying for salvation that wasn’t coming.

And then—his voice. Low. Wrecked. Raw.

"Christ on a cross."

A breath. A sigh.

"Don’t fuckin’ remind me. Your old man’d fuckin' kill me."

Ben’s voice was low, rough, edged with something like guilt—but not enough of it to stop him. His fingers flexed against your thighs, thumbs brushing higher, the pads of them teasing dangerously close to where you wanted him most.

"If he knew the kinda shit I’ve been thinkin’ about you since you turned eighteen—"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your whole body going hot at the admission.

Since you turned eighteen. Since you’d beenlegal. Since the world had decided you were fair fucking game.

You gasped, mock-shocked, but real heat licking through your veins.

"What kinda stuff?"

Ben stilled. For a second, he just looked at you, his green eyes burning, pinning you in place. And then, low, quiet, wrecked—

"Stuff that makes me feel like a fuckin’ pervert."

Your stomach dropped. Your whole body tightened, throbbed, ached. And then you laughed. Low. Sweet. Dangerous.

"I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

Ben grunted, his grip tightening on your thighs, squeezing, pressing.

You tilted your head, grinning down at him, teasing, watching the way his jaw flexed, the way his fingers itched to grab you harder.

"I’ve been thinking about you when I touch myself."

He groaned. His head tipped back, his whole chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp.

Your hands slid up his chest, nails scraping lightly over fabric, feeling the way his body locked up beneath you.

"I think about how your hands would feel between my legs," you whispered.

Another grunt. A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching, his grip bruising, branding.

Your breath shuddered, your body buzzing, your mind spinning with the filth of it all. But you weren’t done.

"I wonder if you’d let me sit on your face."

His whole body went rigid.

"Wonder if I’d feel that nice, clean beard between my thighs—"

Ben rutted up into you.

A sharp, unconscious thrust, his cock pressing up through denim and cotton, so fucking solid that you felt it pulse against you.

You gasped. Your fingers dug into his chest, your whole body throbbing.

But then—his head snapped back up. His eyes met yours again. Dark. Hungry. And then his lips curled.

"You wanna talk about confessions?"

You swallowed, hard.

"Few months back."

His hands slid lower.

"Stole a pair of your panties outta the bathroom."

Your heart stopped. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, pulse hammering between your ribs.

"Pretty little pink ones," he murmured, low, knowing, like he was fucking testing you. "Little bows on the sides."

You gasped.

"I’ve been looking for those—!"

His smirk deepened. Then—he rolled his hips into you again. The pressure made you whimper, made your head drop forward, your forehead nearly brushing against his.

"You ain’t gettin’ ‘em back."

Your stomach coiled, tight and hot and pulsing.

"Been using ‘em."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, knuckles going white.

"At first, just sniffin’."

Your whole body burned.

"Then the scent went."

Your nails dug into him.

"So I started usin’ ‘em to jerk off."

A sound escaped you, something breathless, wrecked.

His smirk turned downright wicked.

"Not a trace of your scent left in ‘em now, Lamby."

He ground up into you harder, your panties soaked, pressed against the thick ridge of him through his jeans.

"They’re mine now."

You whimpered. Writhed. Because fuck. He was just as wrecked for you as you were for him. And now—neither of you could take it back.

You shouldn’t have said it. You knew it was cruel, knew it was the final fucking push, knew it was only going to break him more—

But you said it anyway.

"If I’d known that sooner," you purred, voice silky, sinful, designed to ruin him, "I would’ve left more out for you."

Ben groaned. Deep, guttural, wrecked, his fingers clamping tight around your thighs as he dragged you along his cock. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. The ridge of him pressed up against your cunt through your soaked panties, denim rough, thick, a perfect contrast to the slick heat between your thighs.

"You’re a fuckin’ menace," he muttered, gritting his teeth, his hips shifting up just enough to make you gasp. "Been temptin’ me too much."

You gasped. Let your nails scratch over his chest, let your mouth part into a mock-pout, breathless, needy.

"That’s not fair."

Ben huffed, blinking hard, like he was trying not to look at your lips.

"What’s not fair?" he muttered, voice gruff, strained, thick with restraint.

"Knowing I’ve been batting my lashes at you—" you breathed, voice sickly sweet, ruined, eager, "and you’ve been stringing me along."

His fingers twitched.

"Not giving in."

His thighs tensed under yours.

"Not giving me what I deserve."

The slap came sharp. Not as hard as before, but closer. Higher. Right at the crease of your thigh, just barely missing where you wanted it most.

Your whole body jolted. Your breath hitched. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clinging to him.

And then—his voice.

"If I gave you what you deserved," he muttered, voice low, deep, dangerous, a fucking promise, "you wouldn’t be walkin’ right for a week."

A slow, agonising pause.

"And your dad’d know it was me."

Your stomach dropped. A full-body shiver ran down your spine, curling at the base, settling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his shirt. Your mouth parted, a small, helpless sound escaping before you could stop it.

And Ben?

Ben felt it. He heard it. And it made him fucking crazy.

"You scared my date off earlier," you gasped, voice small, teasing, ruined. "You owe me now."

Ben’s jaw clenched.

"Should at least make up for it," you whispered, barely any breath behind it, "by letting me touch your cock."

He cursed. Low. Filthy. His fingers dug into your thighs, a full-body shudder raking down his spine, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

Then—his eyes snapped to yours. Dark. Sharp. Unforgiving.

"You sure?"

The words came gritted, strained, wrecked.

You nodded. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second guess. Just nodded. And that was it. That was the final straw.

Ben moved fast.

His hand shot up your thigh, rough and unhesitating, fingers hooking under your panties, yanking them to the side—

And then he was inside you. Two thick fingers, stretching you, filling you, sinking to the knuckle in one sharp, devastating push.

You gasped, body arching, your forehead nearly bumping into his.

Ben groaned. His other hand snapped up, tangled into your hair, gripping the back of your neck, pulling you down, down, down—

And then—

He kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Ruining. His mouth slotted over yours like it belonged there, like he had been starving for it, like he couldn’t fucking breathe without it.

His fingers plunged deep, curling, pressing up against the spot that made you quake, made you whimper right into his mouth.

"Keep your fuckin’ voice down," he muttered against your lips, licking into you, filthy, hot, deep.

You moaned, soft, helpless, rocking into his fingers, clenching down on them, your breath shuddering, uneven, wrecked.

"That’s it," he breathed, groaning, his teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging, biting.

His hand tightened at the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping you locked against him.

"You’re a soaked little thing, huh?"

You whimpered.

He dragged his fingers deeper.

"All this for me?"

Another groan, another thrust of his fingers, sharper this time, rougher, working you open.

"Fuckin’ hell," he rasped, swallowing your moans, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, groaning as he sucked, wet and hot and desperate.

His tongue slid past your lips, licked into you, a full-bodied claim, filthy, unrelenting.

And you—

You couldn’t think.

You could only cling to him, whimper into his mouth, lose yourself in the feeling of his fingers inside you, wrecking you, coaxing you closer to something you’d never felt before.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

hey i'm back (5 months later)

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

oh shit this was GOOOOOOOOD🫣🫠

3. “Bite her Hip”

Nancy Wheeler x Fem!Reader

꒰Caught + Hate Sex꒱ - 1.8k

• enemies, some plot, getting caught masturbating, mutual fingering, cursing each other out while fucking, mean!Nancy, mean!Reader

kinktober m.list

The assumption that Nancy Wheeler was a priss was not wrong, not in your eyes at least. She was self centered, stuck up, and generally unlikeable with how she treated your friends. They always eventually warmed back up to her even after she treated them horribly. The catch with you is that you did not. You had no need or want to be her friend and you made that known.

Sure, when Vecna tries to cross into your world you help save each other, but that means nothing. You only spoke to each other when you needed to and that was precisely the only reason why you two were currently talking. Being the sharpshooters of the group you two often were paired together to stop whatever monster was hunting you down this time.

Now, with the end of the world, you were forced to hole up in a dilapidated cabin on the outskirts of Hawkins. Calling it a cabin was a stretch of the word. You would have preferred Hopper’s cabin with the man made, mind flayer made, skylight. However, this was on the other side of town where the two of you stayed, communicating with the group over walkies and keeping an eye out of your own. God knew you couldn’t trust the military, so why not guard the town on your own?

The kids went to school, hell, you should have been in college now, but this was a joint effort. No matter how much you hated Nancy, the pair of you were in it together. Once a week you got visits from the others, switching visitors out to keep them in low numbers to not to draw attention. It made things…interesting. 

By now the loud arguments had mostly died out, but the petty arguments stayed. Things were still escalated by the quiet, an everlasting tension between the two of you though. You would be lying if part of the anger didn’t come out of horniness. Could you blame yourself? You had been stuck here for months without so much as being able to masturbate.

To say you were backed up wouldn’t be an understatement. Yes, Nancy had a boyfriend for a bit but Jonathan was…Jonathan, so yeah she was backed up in the sex department now too. Both of you were at odds, so worked up yet never daring to tell the other person. So what else did you do but calculate how many minutes Nancy took on patrol so you could finally get off?

It was a short amount of time, but you had been so worked up that you were sure you could also finish just as quickly. The moment Nancy was out the door you were stripping yourself of your pants and underwear. Rationally, you should have at least kept them near you, but you were deliriously horny, only thinking clearly enough to put a towel under your hips. The mere thought of being able to finger yourself had you wet all morning, not wanting to leave evidence behind.

As you sat back on the bed two of your fingers sweeping through your folds to gather the arousal that had long pooled there, coating them in your warm slick. You didn’t have to work yourself up to easily push your fingers into your pussy. The relief was immediate, a huff leaving your lips when you crooked your two fingers up, petting the warmth of your walls. Your other hand slid down your stomach to part your folds, rubbing at them as you slid your fingers out.

Strings of arousal kept them connected when you spread your ring and middle finger apart. Pressing them together again, you thrust the tips back in quicker this time, the middle finger of your other hand finding your clit. You pressed down, drawing tight circles on the bud as you started to thrust your fingers in and out.

Your moan bounced off the room, drawing the attention of Nancy who had just made it back home. Her patrol hadn’t even begun when she could barely make it off the property due to leaving her jacket back in the cabin. Nancy’s brows furrowed, pressing against the wall of the open door. The slick sounds of your cunt let her know what you were doing.

Her eyebrows met together as she whirled around the corner, seeing your legs spread, fingers deep in your cunt. “Are you kidding me!?” Nancy’s shrill voice shattered your pleasure. “On the bed!” You groaned out of annoyance, dropping your head back onto the flat pillows. “Why aren’t you on patrol?” Your legs fell down from having your feet planted on the bed, knees knocking together.

Nancy circled the bed, folding her arms. “I needed my jacket,” she stated bluntly. Rolling your head to the side, you smiled sarcastically. “Then get it and leave.” Stubbornly, Nancy wanted to stay. “No.”

“No?” You snorted, pressing on. “Are you going to stand there and watch me?” Nancy scrunched her nose up, looking at you down the bridge of it. “What? No!” She insisted, while she stood over the side of the bed. “It’s not my fault you’re using our bed to..to…” A laugh answered her, your grin getting under her skin.

“To finger myself? Hey, I have needs.” The feeling of you leaking over your fingers became harder to ignore, the smell of your arousal filling the air. “So do I.” Nancy shot back. You tilted your head, mocking her. “So do something about it.” The words settled in her brain and she jerked back. “Right here?”

“Right here, right now.” The urge to fight her swiftly blurred into the urge to fuck her. Nancy’s brows raised in shock, subconsciously taking a step closer to the mattress. Her knees pressed into the plush of it, her eyes trained on your face. “Really?” You nodded, leaning back as you spread your legs again.

Her eyes instantly flicked to your hand nestled between your legs. On shaky feet, Nancy stepped out of her shoes, working her skirt down before crawling onto the bed. “I can’t believe you did this on our bed,” she grumbled, sitting next to you. You pulled your sticky fingers out of your cunt turning to sit up. Wrapping your fingers around the hem of her underwear, you unceremoniously pulled them down.

Nancy huffed, “No insults?” You looked up at her, arms wrapping around her waist to hoist her onto your lap. “Shut up, I’m not going to insult your cunt.” Nancy’s nose wrinkled once more at your vulgar words, but she couldn’t hide the way she throbbed, not with your eyes trained on her mound. A familiar heartbeat appeared in her pussy when your thighs moved apart, prying hers apart in the process. 

“I’m honored,” she snarked. “You should be,” you bit back, hand sliding over her hip and ass. Using the angle, you pulled her up your lap till she was toppling into you. “Careful.” Nancy scoffed in response to you, straightening herself out. 

“Oh shut up, you’re the one who yanked me forward.” You shrugged, using the closeness to slide your hand the rest of the way to her pussy. Your fingers rubbed up and down, barely dipping between her flushed lips as she shuddered. “Are you going to get to work?”

Propping your other elbow to the side, you tilted your head, looking up at her sardonically. “Give me a second.” Her grumbles only amused you as she slipped her hand between your legs, laying her palm on your cunt. “Come on.” You grunted, hips moving forward as you hooked a fingertip on her entrance.

Nancy sighed shakily, curling two fingers to press into your velvety walls. You sighed, fingers pressing into her as well. For a beat silence fell between you two, your fingers starting to scissor in her cunt. Nancy moaned, leaning forward as you fingered her.

“Shit..” Nancy exhaled. Your lips parted in surprise, “Did miss priss just curse?” Her fingers hooked suddenly to the side causing you to jolt with a sharp moan. “Careful.” She threw your words back in your face, her fingers relaxing to follow your movements. Each time your fingers swirled in her cunt or rubbed against her sensitive walls she would copy the movement with her own fingers.

You learned her pattern, starting to quickly thrust your fingers in and out. The heel of your palm smacked against the end of her slit, cream making her pussy obscenely loud. Nancy moaned, head rolling back as she sped up, mouth perpetually open.

Your chuckle was suddenly easy on her ears as your fingers were buried knuckle deep in her. “Is that all you needed? To get fingered so you’d chill the fuck out. Guess you aren’t a prude, just a horny, frigid bitch.” Nancy’s hips hit your thighs as she started to bounce, her fingers giving you punishing curls. “Guess you aren’t so much a bitch but a slut,” she argued.

The argument didn’t even make sense but you had to fill the silence with something else than the squelches of your cunt drooling over her fingers. “At least I’m a thoughtful one. I put a towel under me.” You grinned up at her as she finally looked down at you.

Without dignifying you with a response, Nancy leaned down and smashed your lips together. Taking your surprise in stride, she bit your bottom lip desperately. You whined, walls clenching around her. “Oh fuck.” You grunted, surging forward to tug her lower lip into your mouth.

You sucked on it harshly when her thumb found your clit. As she stimulated it, you haphazardly continued ramming your fingers up, hitting her sweet spot with every thrust. “Such a bitch,” you huffed, hurtling towards the edge.

The vitriol energy filled the room again as you both neared finishing. “Slut,” she responded. “Cunt.” “Tramp.” A second later your free hand was gripping into her hip. “I’m going to-“ “Me too,” she whined. Both of your pussies tensed, spasming as you came at the same time.

Your open mouths bumped into each other, breaths being exchanged as you moaned in tandem. “Ohmygosh!” Her voice cracked, lips seeking yours out. You pressed your lips to hers, slowing down, gently rubbing inside of her. Compared to you, Nancy’s fingers stilled entirely allowing you to lay down and roll onto your sides.

Nancy panted, cunt fluttering around your finally still fingers. “That was…” You closed your eyes, “Don’t talk.” It was half-joking, earning a sharp glare from Nancy. “Average,” she snipped out a lie. The corner of your mouth twitched upwards. “Could say the same.”

The two of you laid there, drowning in the feeling of finally cumming after months of deprivation. “Want to go again?” Nancy nodded, “You’re on top this time.” You shifted your hips, clenching your walls around her fingers as you moved to sit on her lap. 

“So fucking bossy.”

tags: @babybatlover, @starrgurl46, @wowzers-07, @nenukkjhj, @morgan0lw21, @kinokomoonshine, @slut4ddn, @adventures-of-impala, @shesadilema13

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

holy fuck...

pretty girl | s.w

warnings; smut under divider, creampie, roughness, dirty talk. i think that’s all. inspired by my previous post 🫡

an: this is my first time posting any work so take it w a grain of salt…enjoy my lovelies

you couldn’t look at him even if you wanted to. his veiny hand was holding your face down into the heart-shaped pillow you sometimes humped when he was gone on hunts, preventing you from looking at how he was fucking you.

“sammy–” you moaned, trying to reach behind you and grab his arm but he quickly used his free hand to pinned your arm back down to the bed.

he groaned at the sound of your voice. he was fucking you from behind, rough, just how he liked it. “yeah, baby. that’s it. being such a good girl ‘f me.” he pulled out slowly, teasing you like he knew you liked it, and rammed back into you all at once.

you couldn’t help but moan louder at the sensation, his massive cock hitting you in places you swore couldn’t be reached before you met him.

“shh, be quiet sweetheart, don’t want anyone to hear you. want those pretty little moans all to myself.” he said as he slapped your ass, and you knew there would be a big mark there tomorrow when you woke up.

sam’s cock wasn’t the only big thing about him. his hands were huge, often wrapped around your neck when you were on your back and taking his cock, and his shoulders? oh, how you loved scratching them while you begged for more. they were your canvas, broad enough to have a story to tell. your place to show that he was yours, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

he picks up the pace, the tip of him hitting you in the right place once he lifts your ass up a little higher on his cock. “f-fuck! baby, you’re so deep!” you whined, loud enough for him but quiet enough for anyone else outside the motel walls.

he could tell by your whines you were gonna cum soon, his free hand snaking down to the front of your pussy and circling your clit. his other hand still kept your head down, lost in the need to make you finish first. “milk this cock, sweetheart, it’s yours. let go.”

you see stars. his voice, his words, the sensation of his big fingers on your clit, his cock slipping in and out of you, all allowing you to reach your high and moan his name out repeatedly. you don’t even hear his words, the only thing in your brain right now being sensation.

“oh shit, i’m gonna fill this sweet cunt up, baby. gonna–f-fuck, give you my load. pretty girl deserves it.” he says, and empties himself into your hole, his seed already so deep inside you as he continues to moan sweet nothings.

he lets go of his grip on you, pulling out and hissing. “you okay, baby? too rough?” he asks after catching his breath. you can only grin out of bliss, too fucked to even manage to say full sentences.

“never better.” you laugh, he places a kiss on your lips and gets up to find a towel, cleaning the spilled cum that drips out of your hole.

“you’re so beautiful” he places a kiss to your inner thigh, and you blush, still not believing how sam could be so thoughtful yet rough all at once.

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

i might pass out

contains: gender unspecified reader; reader with a vagina; dry humping; makeouts

your clit keeps catching on the rough denim of steve’s jeans. feels so fucking good. your hands rest on his shoulders, fingernails biting into his forest green sweater. his lips wrap around a nipple, gently biting, swirling his tongue, doing everything he can to convince you that you’re too empty. that you need to sit on his cock and let it stretch you out. that you have to let him take care of you.

the button and zipper to his pants are open. steve’s cock still strains under them. he adjusts his grip on your hips, ruts his cock as nonchalantly as he can against your knee, pressed between his legs. like a bitch in heat, he wants to hump it. wants to fuck you so bad it makes him feel stupid.

to you, it’s funny. steve goes from a strong-willed gentleman to a dumb puppy in five minutes when you have him like this. he’s lost, doesn’t know how to take control, nor does he really want to. he likes when you call the shots, until his cock starts hurting and his need to be buried in your hot cunt increases tenfold.

he lets go of your nipple with a little pop!. he looks up at you with wide eyes, mouth agape. he can’t help it. “honey,” he says, real sweet with it, voice hoarse. “want - i want to give you more.”

you grind hard on his thigh. he looks down. the wet spot you’re leaving makes his balls ache.

“just want this,” you breathe. not true. you just like seeing him all pathetic. “you feel so good.”

sometimes you wonder if he’ll ever snap. you don’t think he really has it in him. he at least doesn’t have it in him today, doesn’t manhandle you onto the couch and tsk at you for being a tease.

he swallows hard, looks back up at you, dazed.

“my fingers,” he whimpers. “don’t you want that? all full, gettin’ stretched out? doesn’t that sound good?”

you know his game. you adjust, pushing your knee into his cock again, and he has no restraint this time. just grinds against it, fingers on your hips going slack, groaning deep. his hands move to cup your thigh between his, rutting himself against you.

“oh, christ,” he groans, so deep it makes your chest hum.

“yeah, steve.” you lean down, kissing him. he leads. messy, tongue sliding against yours, teeth clashing, weakly bringing a hand to the back of your neck to keep you close. you find a break, pulling back just enough to murmur against his lips, “if i can get off on your thigh, you can get off on mine.”

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

this is making me go fucking insane i love it

— sucking his cock in the confession box <3

“baby, we can’t do this here- ahah..” he struggled to stay composed, you were both here for a case. a case. yet Sam just looked so good in that collar.. and you couldn’t help your teasing remarks. Which led you both to being in a more secure place of the church.

this whole getup had your pussy aching, how he looked so pure, how he looked so composed. You wanted to see him fall apart.

“Forgive me, Father.” You teased, pulling his cock out and licking a stripe up the underside. He let out a hiss. Your fist was in a vice like grip around his shaft. Your tongue tracing a vein before you fully engulfed him in, hollowing your cheeks.

He had to be quiet, he had to be.

You were so desperate, rubbing your clit underneath that stupid nun costume from the store down the street. And sucking his cock like it was a lollipop.

“fuck, sweetheart, i’m not gonna- ngh.. last.” You relaxed your mouth, your nose pressed against the little hairs at his pubic bone. taking him in fully.

You gripped his thighs, tapping them slightly. You wanted him to cum down your throat? In the house of god?

“you’re so fuckin’ dirty, honey, sucking me dry in the church, knowing that we could get caught.” he groaned, his hair fell in his face. and you felt his cock twitch, and then his warm seed slid down your throat. God you loved this part.

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

I PHYSICALLY FELT THIS IN MY HEART. MY CHEST HURTS WTF😭🫶 i love them so much

kind of obsessed with the idea of dean and cas getting a house and sleeping in the same bed and building a normalcore life together, without ever officially getting together. cas comes back from the empty and dean hugs him, and after a few days he says they should get a house, so they do. they get a two bedroom and cas assumes it's so they each have their own room, but then dean picks one room as theirs, and says he thinks the other room will make a nice guest room for when sam and eileen/jack/claire come to visit. cas just goes with it. they always sleep in their pyjamas, and dean occasionally in his underwear when it's hot, so cas just figures they're friends who sleep in the same bed. dean has been so lonely his whole life, after all. dean sometimes puts on slow music and asks cas to dance, and cas is hesitant because he can't dance, but he figures dean needs casual touch and softness in his life, so he obliges. and then one day dean says "we should get married", and cas blue screens because he doesn't understand which need of dean's this is covering. his need for stability and family, perhaps, but he thought the house had been enough. so he just says "what?" and dean seems disappointed by that, and asks with a pout, "don't you want to?". cas is confused, but he answers honestly. "i do. i just don't understand why." dean seems confused too, but he presses on. "well, we've been together for almost a year now, and let's be honest we were basically together for twelve years before that, so i think it's time. plus i heard there are benefits, for like taxes and stuff. not that we pay that, but it could come in handy, i don't know." he searches cas' eyes, and cas' brain is going hold on a minute man. hold on a minute. dean asks again, "don't you want to?", and cas has to ask. "dean. when you say we've been together, what do you mean?" and dean is like, "i mean, like, dating? like a couple? right?" and when cas keeps looking at him with goldfish eyes he panics and goes, "oh god. haven't we? cas. we're together, right? i love you, you love me, all that? you haven't changed your mind on that, have you??" and cas about loses it like "what do you mean you love me??? when have you ever mentioned that?? dean, i thought we were just friends who lived together, i thought-" and now it's dean's turn to go "now hold on a minute man... you- what?? cas, we sleep in the same bed! we have breakfast together every morning! we've got a fucking garden!!" and cas just looks at dean stupidly and says, "but. we've never kissed? you sleep in your underwear! you've never said-" and he cuts himself off before he loses his damn mind because what??? so dean goes "oh. but you've been sleeping in pyjamas. and you've never tried to kiss me, or touch me. i tried it, with the dancing, but it was clear you were only doing it because i asked, so i didn't press it..." and cas does the goldfish bit a few more times before metaphorically shaking his head straight and saying "so, to clarify. we're a couple. and you think we should get married. and you want to kiss me?". dean laughs incredulously and says "yeah, pretty much. you okay with that?" and cas says yes. so dean kisses him. and wowza. cas would love to keep doing that forever. and well, apparently he can, because they're getting married.

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

My name is Yahya from Gaza, I am 20 years old, a student in the Faculty of Pharmacy. I had ambitions and dreams and I was living a happy life with my family in our simple home, but something like a nightmare happened. The war came and took all our dreams and destroyed our home. Our lives became very difficult and arduous. We were living in tents in the extreme heat. My father suffers from chronic diseases, heart disease, blood pressure, diabetes, and a defect in two cartilages in his back and a cartilage in his neck. My little brother suffers from visual acuity, which means very weak eyesight. Help me save my sick family, my father and brother. I ask for your support and participation. A small donation makes a difference. Thank you all 🙏♥️

https://gofund.me/94e5d5e3

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

“i’m a sam girl” “im a dean girl” ok???? im both sam and dean girl????? i want them both????? at the same time?????? idk polyamory or some shit idk?????

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

Jensen Ackles | Entertainment Weekly, May 23, 2022

[grilledcheeseandtomato]

Perpetually thinking about how they gave God boyfriends and girlfriends but they can’t make some dude from Kansas gay for an angel