Dead Gibson Girl

You were sitting on the couch reading a book. Sometimes, without even noticing, you'd tuck your curls behind your ear, focused. Ben sat next to you, touching your beautiful feet, which were clad in cute bow-tied socks. He was bored; the pills and whiskey weren't helping, and he wanted to play with you. Looking at you, at your plump, cherry-flavored lips, it was obvious he remembered their taste.

His green eyes watched as your skirt hiked up, revealing your soft thighs and those ridiculously cute white socks. "Damn it, y/n," he growled, his voice hoarse and full of irritation. "Are you trying to drive me crazy?"

His hand didn't stop at your leg; his fingers slid higher, climbing your calf with rough impatience. He grabbed your ankle, pulling you gently toward him, and pressed his thumb so hard into your skin that it left a mark. He wanted to recapture that cherry flavor your lips had felt when he caressed them.

"Put that damn book down, sweetheart. I'm bored as hell, and you're sitting here pretending you don't know what I'm thinking." He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear, his other hand sliding to the hem of your miniskirt. "Unless, of course, you want me to rip it off you right here."

"No, wait, Ben, I need to finish reading." Ben couldn't care less what you were reading. The moment the words left your lips, his patience snapped like a twig. "Read this, you stubborn little brat," he growled, snatching the book from your hands and throwing it across the room, where it landed with a satisfied thud on the floor. He wasn't interested in some damn story when you were sitting right there, looking like a tasty morsel.

"You think some damn paper is more interesting than me?" he muttered, brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, his stubble scratching roughly. He didn't wait for an answer before he began leaving marks on you, sucking so hard he left a bruise that would remind you who you belonged to. "Damn, you're such a tease, y/n. Always pretending to be innocent, like you don't need it."

When that soft, angelic moan escaped your lips, it caused a sharp reaction in his cock. He loved the sound, the way your composure crumbled the moment he started handling you roughly. It fed his damn ego, proving he could make you forget everything but what he felt inside you.

His hand slid higher up your thigh, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. "That's it. Make that fucking sound again," he growled, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he bit down hard enough to make you gasp. "Stop pretending to be sweet and show me how much you want this. I'm tired of waiting, sweetheart."

Ben let out a low, guttural growl as your fingers tangled in his dark hair. He didn't mind the grip; in fact, he fucking loved it. It made him feel like you were actually participating in this madness, not just enduring it. "Yeah, like that, hold on to me," he murmured, pressing against your skin, his voice vibrating through your chest.

His mouth was relentless as he moved lower, his tongue sliding over your breasts with a rough lust, leaving your nipples swollen and sensitive. He claimed you, leaving a trail of heat and saliva across every inch of your skin. "Fuck, you taste so good," he rasped, pulling back just enough to give you a smirk that was both arrogant and filthy.

Your shirt was discarded like trash as his hands slid lower, his palms scalding your stomach before slipping under the hem of your skirt. He moved across the couch with the predatory grace of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. You weren't wearing panties, which amused him. When his fingers finally found the wet warmth between your thighs, he didn't hesitate. He thrust two fingers inside you with such force that your hips instinctively arched.

"Fuck, y/n, you're already all wet for me, aren't you?" he teased, rubbing his thumb over your clit, watching your face. "Tell me how much you need me to stop fooling around and fill you up."

You whined, holding his hand, saying, "Please, not so fast."

"Not so fast?" Ben repeated with a rough, mocking laugh, his green eyes darkening as he watched you writhe beneath him. "You have no right to set the pace when I'm doing all the work, sweetheart." Despite his words, there was a sadistic satisfaction in the way you writhed, your soft moans making his cock twitch painfully in his pants.

Even as he continued to stretch you, his fingers moved with an inexorable, punishing rhythm. Ignoring your pleas for tenderness, he couldn't resist leaning down again to capture your cherry lips. He kissed you passionately, tasting your moans, which he absorbed with his mouth, his tongue sliding over yours with a possessive, rough look. He smiled, pressing his lips to yours, that arrogant, smug smirk that spoke volumes about how much power he had over you.

"Fuck, you're so fucking needy," he murmured between kisses, his breath hot and faintly scented with whiskey. He increased the pressure, digging his fingers deeper into your wet, hot vagina, his thumb mercilessly caressing you. He wanted you desperate, begging, to feel every damn inch of his impatience.

"You like it, don't you? Being treated like this?" His teeth grazed your bottom lip, hard enough to sting, before he pulled back to look at your expression. "Tell me how fucking good it feels when I fuck you like this, y/n. Say it."

You cried and moaned, nodding your head. Ben didn't let you come from his hand, pulling his fingers close to your sweet mouth so you could taste yourself, but you turned your head away.

Something dark and predatory flashed in Ben's eyes as you turned your head away. Refusal, even something as small as refusing to taste yourself, awakened a perverse need for dominance that pierced him to the bone. "Oh, so we're pretending to be shy now?" he growled, lowering his voice to a dangerous register. "We're pretending you're too good for this?"

Before you could protest or catch your breath, his large hand clamped down on your jaw. His grip wasn't gentle; it was firm, possessive, forcing you to face him again. "Open your mouth, you little brat," he ordered, and when you hesitated, he didn't ask anymore. He shoved two slick, swollen fingers into your mouth, giving you a taste of how much you wanted him.

"That's it, fuck," he rasped, watching your eyes fill with tears. He didn't care about your tears; he cared about how you'd given in. "Look at you. Nodding like a pretty little doll, and then acting like a snotty little brat." His thumb pressed against your chin, his fingers working in your mouth, mimicking the filthy rhythm he'd been giving your cunt.

"You're nothing but a naughty little slut. huh?" He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours as he looked straight into your tear-stained green eyes, his expression one of pure, unadulterated arrogance. "You like being treated like this. You like being owned. Now stop fucking fighting me and take it like a good little bitch."

Ben saw you bite your lip, your eyes clouding over despite your struggles. He could practically feel the desperation radiating from you, the way your body betrayed any resistance. "Fuck, how pathetic," he muttered, though there was a hint of approval in his voice. "You're so fucking wet, I'm practically drowning in you."

He didn't waste a second on foreplay. In one swift movement, he pulled his pants down past his hips, revealing his thick, throbbing cock. It was aroused and swollen, veins sticking out like rope, twitching in the cool air. He looked down at himself, then back at you with the same smug, self-absorbed smirk.

"You were talking nonsense with those sweet moans, so now you deserve it," he growled. His hand jerked forward, his fingers tangling cruelly in your hair. He didn't just touch you; he grabbed your hair, jerked your head back, baring your throat, and then pulled you onto his lap.

"Well? Let's fucking begin, baby." His grip on your hair tightened, and he pressed your face inches from his cock. "Lick it. Every fucking inch. I want to feel your tongue on me before I decide if I'm going to fuck you senseless."

He leaned back against the couch cushions, his muscles tensing as he waited for your submission, his green eyes fixed on you with frightening intensity. "Don't make me ask twice, y/n. You know what happens when I'm angry."

You sank to your knees before him.

The moment your lips captured him, Ben let out a sound, half growl, half moan, his hips involuntarily arching toward your mouth. "Fuck, yes... that's it, little slut," he rasped, his fingers tightening in your hair, guiding your head and forcing you to take more of his cock. He looked at you with narrowed eyes, relishing in the way you tried to please him, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the space between you.

But Ben didn't want you to stay there long. He wanted to feel you next to him, wanted to see that beautiful, tear-stained face looking up at him as he took you. "That's enough," he growled, suddenly letting go of your hair to grab your wrist forcefully, causing you to gasp.

With one powerful, impatient thrust, he lifted you from your knees. You stumbled and fell onto his chest as he pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his thick thighs around you. "I want to see those fucking eyes when I'm inside you," he growled, his hands sliding down to grip your ass tightly, squeezing the flesh until it left marks.

He guided your slick, hot length onto the head of his cock, slowly pressing you down so you could feel every inch of his thickness stretching you. "There. Right where you belong." His breath fanned your cheek as he braced himself, his cock sliding deeper into your vagina with each downward thrust. "Now, fuck, ride me, y/n. Show me how much you need this."

Ben let out a rough, approving sound when you finally took the initiative, his hips lifting just enough to meet your descent. As you guided his thick, swollen cock into your wetness, his immense girth seemed to stretch you to the limit. When you finally bottomed out, sliding fully onto him, your body began to tremble uncontrollably.

"Fuck yes, take it all," Ben growled, his hands moving from your ass to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips like claws to hold you down. He looked at you with his sharp green eyes, relishing every shudder that shook your body. "Look at you, shaking like a leaf. You can barely handle me, can't you?"

He loved how vulnerable you looked astride him, struggling to maintain any semblance of control. The way your hips trembled against his muscular legs only fueled his desire to push you further. He wasn't going to let you go easy; he wanted to drive you wild.

"Don't you dare stop, baby," he commanded, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, and pulled you into a passionate kiss. "I didn't give you permission to stop. Start moving. Press that pretty cunt of yours against me until you lose your composure."

His grip on your hips tightened, guiding your rhythm as he began to thrust upwards towards you, each movement deliberate and brutal. "That's it. Try harder. Show me how fucking good it feels to be filled with me."

You cried and moaned, begging him to kiss you.

Ben heard your plea through the haze of tears and moans, but he didn't relent. When you begged for a kiss, for some tenderness, you didn't respond with anything sweet. Instead, he just leaned back slightly, his hands still gripping your hips tightly, watching you fall apart.

A slow, smug smirk spread across his face. That irritating, arrogant smile told you he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"You're fucking pathetic when you beg like that, you know that?" he croaked, his voice trembling with amusement and arousal. "Begging for a kiss while I'm balls-deep inside you. You're so fucking sloppy, y/n." Every time you tried to press yourself against him, he thrust his hips up, hard and hard, making you cry out and deliberately breaking your rhythm. He wanted you to want him so badly, so badly it hurt, but he was going to make you deserve every damn second of it.

"Do you want my mouth that badly?" he teased, his green eyes burning with cruel hunger as he watched your lips tremble. "Then earn it. Slide harder. Fuck me until you're begging on your knees. Then maybe I'll give you what you want."

You could only listen and do as he said.

Ben saw it all on your face: the desperation, the rolled-up eyes, the barely clinging to reality. You no longer resisted him; you simply existed for him, obeying his every dirty command, like the obedient doll he wanted you to be. "That's my girl," he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched you surrender completely.

Seeing you on the verge of breaking, he finally broke the last vestiges of restraint. "Fuck," he growled. "Come here." He raised his hand, his strong arms encircling your waist, and he pulled your body against his chest. He didn't just want to watch you come apart; he wanted to feel it.

He pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was less tender and more dominant, muffling your moans, and began to thrust into you with all his might. The rhythm became frantic, brutal, and relentless. Each thrust was deep and crushing, sending waves of pain through your body as he furiously fucked you. "Fuck, y/n... you're so fucking perfect," he rasped, grazing your lips with his teeth. The end came quickly, just as he was nearing it. His hips jerked sharply against yours, pinning you in place, his muscles tensing. "I'm cumming, fuck!" he roared, squeezing your ass painfully. He thrust into you as deeply as he could, filling you with hot, thick streams of cum, his entire body shaking with the force of his orgasm.

The room fell silent, broken only by your ragged breathing and the heavy, satisfied wheezing of Ben's own lungs. Your body was completely exhausted, the adrenaline drained from you, and you trembled from the intensity of what he had just done to you. When you finally collapsed on him, resting your head on his broad shoulder, you felt like you were about to dissolve right there.

He sat on the couch with you, holding your lifeless body to his chest.

"That's it," he growled, his voice quieter but still rough as gravel. "Finally, fucking quiet, huh?"

His large hand, still warm from the friction, rose to your head. His fingers began to stroke your hair with a rough, familiar intuition. It wasn't exactly gentle, but it was the closest thing to comfort a man like him could offer. He ran his palm down the length of your hair, his touch heavy and possessive.

𝜗𝜚I really love him as dad's best friend 𝜗𝜚

Ben was your father's closest friend - always gruff, always wearing that familiar look of irritation, as if the whole world existed solely to test his patience. And yet, for you, there had always been something softer beneath that rough exterior, something unspoken and strangely comforting. He had known you since you were a child, had watched you grow up year by year, always lingering somewhere in the background of your life like an immovable shadow.

Ben was always there. He was the one who pulled you out of trouble when your recklessness got the better of you, the one who covered for you when your father was moments away from finding out what you had done. Any boy foolish enough to get too close was quickly sent away with a single cold look or a few sharp words from him. When you were little, he let you curl up on his lap during late-night movies, his large hand absentmindedly stroking your back while you fought sleep. On the nights when nightmares drove you from your bed, it was often Ben who calmed you down, his low voice and steady presence easing your fears. Sometimes he would take you along with him, just the two of you, letting you spend the day by his side in a way that always felt special, even if he never said much.

And even after you grew older, Ben never stopped coming by. He still visited your father, still filled your house with his imposing presence, still carried that same infuriating arrogance that made him impossible to ignore. Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you realized your feelings had changed. What had once been childish admiration had turned into something deeper, warmer, and far more dangerous.

It was impossible not to notice him. He was far too attractive for a man his age, broad-shouldered and strong, with a body that time had only sharpened rather than diminished. You found yourself wondering, far too often, what those large, rough hands might feel like if they ever touched you differently. He was handsome in a way that was almost unfair - too self-assured, too smug, too much of a bastard for his own good. From the stories he casually told his friends late in the evening, it was clear that finding women had never been difficult for him. Yet no woman had ever stayed by his side for long. They came and went, and Ben remained Ben - untouchable, unreadable, and entirely his own.

And around him, you were hopeless.

Every time he stood too close, every time you sat beside him, every time he spoke to you in that low, teasing voice, your breath seemed to catch in your throat. You would bite your lip, look away, feel heat rising to your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to remain calm. He loved to toy with you, calling you sweet girl or doll in the same indulgent tone he had used when you were younger, as though he knew exactly what those words did to you now. And of course, he noticed. Ben noticed everything. He saw the way your pretty eyes refused to meet his for long, the way your hands fidgeted, the way your whole body betrayed your nervousness. He only answered it with that faint, knowing smirk that made your heart race even faster.

Still, he never crossed the line.

Perhaps because you were too young in his eyes, too innocent. Perhaps because you were his best friend's daughter, the one boundary even a man like Ben would not dare step over.

But not tonight.

That evening, the house was full of men - your father's old friends gathered together, voices loud, laughter heavier with each drink poured. The air smelled of expensive liquor, cigar smoke, and polished wood. When you stepped out of your room and made your way toward the kitchen, all soft footsteps and quiet grace, the conversation blurred into a low hum around you. You greeted everyone with that same sweet, shy politeness they all adored, unaware of how easily you shifted the atmosphere just by entering the room.

Ben stood by the marble counter, one shoulder resting against it as he slowly stirred the amber liquid in his glass. The motion was lazy, practiced, almost absent-minded, but it did nothing to disguise the sharpness in his gaze. He half-listened to your father's endless talk of business schemes and half-forgotten war stories, offering the occasional nod at the right moment, though his mind had long since drifted elsewhere.

And then he heard you.

The soft click of your steps against the wooden floor. The gentle sound of your voice.

And just like that, every other thought in his head disappeared.

Then he saw you.

The way your miniskirt rode up as you leaned forward, revealing your legs, your miniskirt slightly loose, and those damn legs—the kind he couldn't stop thinking about when he was alone with a joint—made his throat go dry. He sipped his drink slowly, but his gaze never left the curve of your buttocks as you reached for the lemonade. A muscle twitched in his jaw. God, you're not the little doll he once protected from the neighborhood brats, are you? You've become something dangerous. Something made his pulse pound in his chest harder than it had felt since he'd last seen you. The alcohol clouded his judgment.

"Ben? Are you even listening, you old bastard?" your father barked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Ben didn't flinch, though his grip on his glass tightened. He forced a smirk, though it didn't quite reach his green eyes. "Yes, yes, keep talking. I'm listening. I'm simply admiring the hospitality in this house." His voice was hoarse, rougher than he intended. His gaze slid shamelessly over you for a moment before he turned to your father, though his thoughts were already elsewhere, imagining what those thighs would feel like wrapped around his waist.

A few hours had passed since the party. The house was buzzing, smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke. You were about to head out to meet your friends. You walked quickly and smoothly in your miniskirt, holding your phone in your hand, heading for the exit.

The noise of the party faded, replaced by a dull hum behind you, when Ben intercepted you near the foyer. He walked with a measured, heavy gait—the gait of a man who knew he owned every space he entered. Up close, he smelled of expensive bourbon and that sharp, earthy hint of marijuana that always lingered on his clothes—a scent that usually meant trouble, but to you, it was just *him*.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, baby?" Ben asked, striding straight toward you. He didn't care about personal space; he never did. He towered over you, his height casting a shadow that seemed to swallow you whole. The dim light of the hallway reflected the green of his eyes, making them darker and more expressive than when he was pretending to listen to your father.

His gaze lowered shamelessly, watching the way your skirt swayed as you fidgeted nervously. He knew exactly what he was doing, enjoying the way your breath caught in your throat. "Your old man is already half drunk and passed out in his chair."

You smiled tenderly at him, still slightly flushed and stunned by his change of mood. Standing opposite him, you said, "He's just tired; he had a good evening thanks to you, Ben. I'm going to see some friends and I really need to go." You smiled at him one last time as you left. His sudden grip was firm, not enough to bruise, but undeniable in its strength, and before you could gasp, the world turned upside down. Ben, with surprising agility for a man his age, pulled you back, dragging you into a shadowed alcove just off the main foyer, where the din of the party faded to distant whispers. The rough plaster of the wall dug into your back as he pinned you against it, his massive frame completely enclosing you.

"You're not going anywhere, damn it," he growled, his breath hot in your ear. The charming smirk vanished, replaced by something far more primal and hungry. His green eyes burned with such intensity that your knees buckled, his gaze tracing your face before settling on your lips. "You think you can show me off your damn legs all night and then walk out the door like nothing happened?"

He leaned closer, pressing his full weight against yours, making you feel every inch of his imposing frame. One of his hands released your wrist and rested on the wall next to your head, while the other rose to trace the curve of your jaw with surprising tenderness, even as his thumb pressed firmly against your bottom lip.

"You're blushing again, baby. What's wrong?" he provoked, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper that vibrated in your chest. "Nervous?" Or do you like it when I corner you like this?

You gasped, looking at him. You'd dreamed about this in your room at night, but you weren't ready for it to be reality. You couldn't even take your eyes off him.

"Ben... I...".

He leaned in and whispered in your ear, "It's crazy, your old man is passed out while his best friend is corrupting you." The heat from his body was unbearable, he pressed you so hard against the wall that you felt every hard line of his body. Your pussy grew wetter at his words. Ben leaned even lower, his stubble brushing against the sensitive lobe of your ear. "I bet your little pussy is so wet already, sweetheart," your cheeks burned with the heat of his dirty words, you bit your plush lip as one of his hands wandered up your skirt.

He didn't wait.

In one motion, Ben grabbed your face for a kiss. The kiss was anything but gentle. It was rough, forceful, with a hint of bourbon—a clash of teeth and tongue that left you dizzy. When he pressed his knees between your thighs, the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your soul, causing your legs to nearly give way. The sound of your own moan escaping you seemed alien, muffled by his lips as he smirked into the kiss, relishing your surrender. You desperately clutched his shoulders, responding and keeping up with his pace.

When he finally pulled away, the cool air of the alcove felt like ice on your heated skin. You were in a terrible state; your hair was disheveled, your breathing shallow and ragged, and your lips swollen and tender where he'd bitten you. You couldn't even form a coherent thought; your brain had turned to static and heat.

The phone rang again, its insistent buzz a sharp reminder of the real world beyond this shadowed corner.

Ben hadn't moved, still looming over you with predatory satisfaction. He looked down at you as if you were something he'd just hacked, his green eyes dark with amusement and something far hungrier. "Pick it up," he said, his voice rough and utterly unrepentant. "Your brats are probably waiting for you." He pushed his chest against you dismissively, though his gaze lingered one last time on your lips, his hands gripping your hips, moving up to your ass, squeezing it. "Don't waste time, doll, or your old man's gonna wake up." Ben walked away from you and headed back to the living room to his friends who were happily shouting his name and patting him on the shoulder while you, a mess with a wet pussy, were left standing there confused but smiling.

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ text au / fem!reader.

fluff!!! roommate!reader. established friendship but peter is a fool in love. reader is aware that peter is spider-man. playful banter.

reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you!!

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ text au / fem!reader.

fluff!!! roommate!reader. established friendship but peter is a fool in love. reader is aware that peter is spider-man. playful banter.

reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you!!

Summary: Your dad asks you to run next door and borrow a wrench from your neighbor, Beau Arlen. When you return home, you find your dad fast asleep on the couch. You head straight back to Beau’s garage where you end up getting a lot more than just a wrench.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, age gap, thigh riding, finger sucking, praise, unprotected sex, risky, public setting, mild power imbalance.

wc: 1.3k

“Hey hun, can you ask Beau if he has an extra wrench?” your dad yelled from under the truck, his voice echoing in the garage.

You were sitting on the tailgate of the pickup, legs dangling, sipping cold lemonade. The ice clinked against the glass as you sighed.

“Yeah,” you called back, jumping down and sliding your feet into your sandals.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

You crossed the yard to Beau Arlen’s house, the grass warm under your feet. With a quiet knock, you waited on his porch steps, nervously fiddling with the thin strap of your tank top.

The door swung open and there he was, tall, easy smile, flannel shirt unbuttoned just enough to be distracting.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Beau drawled, his grin widening when he saw you.

“Hi, Beau,” you said, still tugging at your strap. “My dad was wondering if you had an extra wrench he could borrow?”

Beau’s eyes flicked down to your hand, then back up to your face. He reached out and gently caught your fingers, stopping your fidgeting. His touch was warm and steady as he tugged you inside.

“What kind of wrench, baby?” he asked, leading you through the house toward the garage, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You shrugged, heart beating a little faster. “I don’t know… a normal one?”

He chuckled as he opened a large metal toolbox. Tools clinked inside as he searched. After a moment he glanced back at you.

“Why don’t you go ask your daddy exactly what type he needs?”

You sighed, turning on your heels, cheeks already feeling warm.

“Okay, be right back.”

You jogged back across the yard, but when you reached the garage, your dad was already passed out on the old couch inside, snoring softly with a rag still in his hand. A small smile tugged at your lips. You turned around and ran straight back to Beau’s house.

“Hey Beau,” you said, slightly out of breath as you stepped into the garage. “He said any wrench will do.”

“Oh yeah?” Beau shook his head with a knowing smirk, walking back over to the big toolbox. He popped it open, pulled out a wrench, and handed it to you.

“Here you go, baby.” He patted the top of your head gently, his hand lingering for a second.

You took it, then immediately shook your head. “This isn’t the right one.”

“Oh really? It ain’t?” He scoffed, clearly amused.

“Mhm. It’s not,” you giggled, hopping up to sit on his workbench, legs dangling.

Beau watched you for a moment, eyes darkening. “It’s hot as hell out here. Why don’t you run inside and grab yourself something cold? While you’re in there, get me a beer. Then you can tell me which wrench is the right one.”

You smiled and hopped down, hurrying into the house. You grabbed a beer from the fridge for him and a cherry popsicle for yourself from the freezer. When you came back out, you handed him the cold bottle.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

You hopped back onto the workbench and unwrapped the popsicle, swinging your legs as you licked it slowly. Beau’s eyes followed every movement.

“Hm, is this the right one?” 

You shook your head, deliberately letting the cold red juice drip down your chin.

Beau let out a low chuckle. “I think you’re just enjoyin’ the view, darlin’.” He stood up with a grunt and walked over to you, stopping right between your knees.

“Maybe,” you said, still kicking your feet playfully. “But I really do need to bring the right wrench back to my dad.”

He reached up and wiped the sticky juice from your chin with his thumb. Instead of pulling away, you looked him in the eyes and slowly licked the popsicle again, slow, deliberate, and suggestive. Beau’s jaw tightened, his gaze locked on your mouth.

“Careful now,” he warned, thumb still brushing your bottom lip. “You keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna let you leave this garage for a while.”

“And what if I want that?” you said with a shrug, voice sweet and a little breathless as you looked up at him.

Beau’s eyes darkened instantly. “Fuck, baby.”

He didn’t waste another second. His big hands grabbed your hips and pulled you forward on the workbench so your core pressed right against his thick thigh. The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against you through your thin shorts as he guided your hips in a slow roll.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he praised, voice low and rough. “Look at you, already so needy for me. Grind on my thigh like a good girl.”

You moaned softly, rolling your hips harder, chasing the friction. The popsicle slipped from your fingers and fell forgotten to the floor. Beau watched you with hungry eyes, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw.

“Open up,” he murmured.

You obeyed, parting your lips. He slipped two thick fingers into your mouth. You sucked on them instantly, tongue swirling around his digits just like you’d done with the popsicle. Beau groaned deeply.

“Atta girl, just like that. Suck my fingers nice and pretty while you hump my thigh. You’re doing so good for me, baby.”

The praise made you whimper around his fingers. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks, while your hips moved faster, grinding desperately against the hard muscle of his thigh. Wet heat soaked through your shorts as pleasure built quickly.

Beau’s free hand gripped your ass, helping you move. “That’s my good girl. So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna make a mess on my leg before I even get inside you?”

You nodded eagerly, moaning around his fingers. He pushed them deeper into your mouth, gently fucking them in and out while you rode his thigh. The pressure, the praise, and the filthy sounds of your own wetness had you trembling.

“Come on, darlin’. Let me feel you come like this,” he growled, eyes locked on your face. “Be a sweet girl and soak my thigh.”

The orgasm hit you hard. You cried out around his fingers, hips jerking as you came undone, thighs shaking against him. Beau kept praising you through it, voice warm and filthy.

“Good girl, that’s my baby. So perfect. Look at you makin’ such a pretty mess.”

You were still panting when he pulled his fingers from your mouth, slick with your spit. He kissed you deep and hungry, tasting you on his tongue. Without breaking the kiss, he yanked your shorts and panties down your legs in one rough motion.

He freed himself from his jeans, hard and heavy, and pulled you right onto him. You sank down with a broken moan as he filled you in one smooth thrust.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against your neck. “Tight little thing… takin’ me so well.”

He fucked you right there on the workbench, deep, steady strokes while he kept whispering praise against your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that. Such a good girl for me, lettin’ me have you like this.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as another orgasm built fast. Beau’s grip on your hips tightened, thrusting harder.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come on my cock this time. Let me feel you.”

You shattered again with a loud cry, clenching around him. Beau followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name as he came inside you, hips stuttering.

For a long moment the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the distant birds outside. Beau stayed buried in you, pressing soft kisses along your neck and jaw, hands stroking your back gently.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, brushing damp hair from your face. “Did so good for me.”

You nodded, still dazed and glowing, a shy little smile on your lips.

Summary: Your finally eighteen, freshly single, and stuck spending the last weekend of summer at your dad's best friends lakehouse. Beau has been always amazing to be around, but now things feel different.

⟢ Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, age gap, dad's best friends, praise kink, pet names, finger sucking, mild babying kink, risk of getting caught, creampie

wc: 4.3k

You hadn’t been to Beau’s lakehouse in years.

The invitation had come late in the summer, almost as an afterthought, your dad mentioning over dinner that Beau was opening the place up one last time before the season ended, and that the whole family should come. A weekend by the water. A few of his other friends. Their kids. The usual crowd.

You were eighteen now. High school was finished. College waited on the other side of a few short weeks. Everything felt temporary and too loud at the same time.

In the passenger seat you kept your headphones on, bare feet propped on the dashboard. You weren’t looking forward to any of it, the noise, the heat, the forced conversations. You just wanted to be left alone.

Your boyfriend had cheated. Everyone knew because your dad had made sure of it, telling the story to half the town. The looks that followed you around felt heavier than the breakup itself.

“Headphones off. We’re here.”

Your dad’s voice cut through the music a second before he reached over and pulled the headphones down around your neck. You rolled your eyes and unbuckled, the seatbelt sliding free with a soft click.

He always insisted on arriving early. Predictably, the long gravel driveway was empty when the truck rolled to a stop in front of the lakehouse. No other cars yet. Just the quiet stretch of water beyond the trees and the low wooden structure that still looked the same as it had when you were a kid.

You stepped out into the heat and stretched, arms overhead, the hem of your shirt lifting for a second. Then you tugged your jeans a little higher on your hips, smoothed them once, and looked toward the porch.

The place smelled like sun-warmed wood and lake water. Somewhere inside, a screen door was already propped open, waiting.

Your dad hauled the cooler out of the truck bed and headed for the open screen door. You followed a few steps behind, the heat of the day already settling against your skin.

“Hey, Beau.”

Your dad set the cooler down with a solid thud. Beau looked up from where he’d been wiping down the counter, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Hey. You two are early.”

He crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled your dad into a quick, back-slapping hug. Then his eyes shifted to you.

“Hey, kiddo.”

The nickname landed differently now that you were standing there in an off-the-shoulder cover-up with the thin straps of your swimsuit visible underneath. You fidgeted with one of them, twisting the fabric between your fingers.

“Hi, Beau.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

Your dad gestured at the cooler. “Where do you want this?”

“Out on the back deck. Ya’ need a hand?”

Beau raised an eyebrow, already half-reaching for it, but your dad shook his head and lifted the cooler again. “I got it.” He disappeared through the sliding door toward the water, leaving the two of you alone in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

Beau exhaled, watching him go. Then he turned back to you. The easy smile faded into something softer, more careful.

“You okay, sweetie?”

He reached out and ruffled your hair the way he used to when you were younger, but his hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your scalp.

“Your dad told me—”

“He told the whole town,” you cut in, eyes dropping to where his hand still rested near your shoulder.

Beau’s mouth tightened. He let his hand fall away, then said quietly, “I’m sorry, baby. You deserve better than that.”

Beau’s hand dropped away, but he didn’t step back. The kitchen felt smaller with just the two of you in it. Outside, you could hear the cooler lid open and close, the distant splash of water against the dock, but in here it was quiet enough to hear the low hum of the refrigerator.

He studied your face for a second, like he was deciding how much to say.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, already turning toward the fridge. “I’ve got water, soda, beer if you’re–” He stopped himself, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Water?”

“Water’s fine.”

He pulled out a bottle, twisted the cap off, and handed it to you. When your fingers brushed his, neither of you pulled away right away. His eyes dropped for half a second to the thin strap of your swimsuit where it cut across your shoulder, then flicked back up like he’d caught himself.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said.

You took a sip, mostly for something to do. “Just tired of people knowing everything about me.”

“I’m not everybody,” he said, voice lower. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I’m here if you do.”

The sliding door opened before you could answer. Your dad stepped back inside, wiping his hands on his shorts.

“Cooler’s good,” he said, then looked between the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

Beau pushed off the counter like nothing had happened, the shift so smooth it almost looked practiced. “Just getting her a water. You want one?”

Your dad shook his head and clapped Beau on the shoulder. “Nah. I’m gonna go grab the rest of the bags. You two catch up.”

He headed back out toward the truck, leaving the door open behind him. The sound of his footsteps faded down the porch steps.

Beau’s gaze returned to you the second your dad was out of sight. He didn’t smile this time.

“You really okay?” he asked again, quieter now that there was no chance of being overheard.

You nodded once, but it didn’t feel convincing even to you.

Eventually the driveway filled with cars. Voices carried through the trees, kids shouting, cooler lids slamming, someone laughing too loud. One by one people made their way down to the lake. Your dad and Beau stood over the grill, smoke curling up into the late-afternoon light. A handful of younger kids cannonballed off the dock. A couple of teenagers tossed a football back and forth in the shallow water.

You stayed apart from it all, sitting at the edge of the dock with your feet dangling in the cool water, cover-up still on. The noise felt far away.

After a while Beau left the grill and walked over. He dropped down beside you with a quiet sigh, leaning back on his palms. The wood creaked under his weight. For a moment he just sat there, watching the water the same way you were.

Then he glanced over.

“Why don’t I make you a plate?” he offered, voice easy. His arm settled around your shoulders, warm and casual in a way that still made your pulse jump.

“I’m not very hungry.”

He shook his head, a low laugh under his breath. “Come on. I cut up a whole watermelon just for you.”

You looked at him. The corner of his mouth was tilted up, eyes soft in a way that felt private even with everyone around. A small smile pulled at your own lips before you could stop it.

You pushed yourself up from the dock.

You followed Beau up the slight slope toward the grill, the wooden planks of the dock warm under your bare feet. His hand stayed lightly at the small of your back for a few steps before he let it fall away, like he’d only just remembered other people could see.

Your dad glanced over from the grill, tongs in hand. “She finally hungry?”

“Working on it,” Beau answered, already reaching for a paper plate. He piled on a few slices of bright red watermelon, then added a small piece of grilled chicken without asking. “Sit,” he said, nodding toward the picnic table under the trees.

You sat. He set the plate in front of you and dropped onto the bench across from you instead of going back to the grill. Close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

“Eat the watermelon at least,” he said, voice low so it stayed between the two of you. “You look like you haven’t had anything all day.”

You picked up a slice. The juice ran sticky over your fingers the second you bit into it. Beau watched for a second longer than necessary, then looked away toward the water, jaw flexing once.

Your dad called something about needing more charcoal. Beau answered without getting up. “In the shed. I’ll grab it in a minute.”

He didn’t move. His eyes came back to you instead.

“You still thinking about him?” he asked quietly.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, not meeting his gaze right away. “Trying not to.”

Beau nodded once, like he understood more than he was saying. Under the table his knee stayed pressed lightly against yours, steady and warm, while the rest of the party went on around you like neither of you were sitting in the middle of something that felt a little too quiet and a little too close.

“Thanks Beau,” You said with a smile, before one of the kids dragged you to the water.

You stood up from the picnic table, catching Beau’s eye for half a second before you reached for the hem of your oversized cover-up. You pulled it off in one smooth motion and dropped it on the bench, leaving you in just the thin swimsuit that clung to every curve.

Beau’s gaze dragged over you before he could stop it, quick, dark, and not nearly as subtle as he probably thought. You felt the weight of it settle warm under your skin.

You grinned, a little breathless already, and took off running down the dock.

“Don’t even think about it–” your dad started, but you were already launching yourself off the edge with a bright, unrestrained giggle. The cold water swallowed you whole, shocking and perfect. You surfaced with a gasp, hair slicked back, and floated for a moment as the sky turned gold and soft pink above the trees.

Some of the younger kids immediately started splashing toward you. You laughed and kicked away, holding one hand up.

“Hey, no, not the hair! I just got it nice!”

From the shore you could feel Beau still watching. When you glanced back he was standing near the grill, arms crossed, plate forgotten in his hand. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, but his eyes stayed on you a few beats longer than they should have, lingering on the way the water beaded across your shoulders and the line of your swimsuit as you floated there in the fading light.

You turned onto your back, letting the sunset paint everything warm, and pretended you didn’t notice. But the small, private smile on your face gave you away.

You floated a little longer, letting the last of the sunlight warm your face, then swam back toward the dock with slow, easy strokes. Beau was still there when you reached the ladder, standing at the edge like he’d been waiting.

You climbed up, water streaming down your legs and dripping onto the wood. He held out a hand without a word. You took it. His palm was warm and rough, and he didn’t let go right away, just steadied you as you stepped onto the dock, his fingers lingering against yours a second too long.

“You’re freezing,” he said, voice low.

You weren’t, not really, but the way he looked at you made your skin prickle anyway. He reached past you for the towel someone had left on the bench, then draped it over your shoulders himself. His hands stayed there, smoothing the fabric down your arms, thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your elbows.

“Thanks,” you said, a little quieter than before.

Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. The party noise felt distant, kids still splashing, your dad laughing at something by the grill, but right here it was just the two of you and the dripping water between your bodies.

He leaned in slightly, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoke and sunscreen on him.

“You’ve got something…” His thumb came up and gently wiped a droplet from the corner of your jaw, lingering there. “Right there.”

The touch was soft. Deliberate. His hand didn’t drop immediately.

You tilted your head just a fraction, enough that his fingers rested more fully against your cheek. Beau’s breath left him in a quiet exhale. For a moment it looked like he might actually close the distance,

Then a loud splash and a kid’s shriek broke the air, and he stepped back half a pace, jaw tight, like he’d just remembered where he was.

As the night wore on, the last cars pulled away down the gravel drive. The lakehouse grew quieter, just the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of bottles left behind.

You sat curled in one of the chairs, phone in hand, a towel wrapped tightly around your still-damp body. The air had turned cool once the sun disappeared. Goosebumps rose along your arms.

Your dad and Beau sat a few feet away, beers in hand, laughing about something that happened years ago. You shifted in the chair and frowned.

“Dad, I’m cold.”

He glanced over, took another swig, and sighed. “I know, hun.”

Beau looked at you instead, eyes soft in the porch light. “Stay the night. You’re too drunk to drive anyway,” he told your dad, though the smile he sent your way felt like it was meant for you. “Plenty of rooms.”

You managed a small, awkward grin.

“Go on in, sweetheart,” Beau said, tipping his chin toward the door. “I’ll get your dad settled in a minute.”

“Thanks.” You stood, tightening the towel, and headed inside. Your dad followed a short while later, still chuckling about whatever story they’d been telling.

The house was quiet and dim. You walked down the hall toward the bathroom, already thinking about hot water, when you noticed Beau’s bedroom door cracked open. Soft blue light from the TV spilled into the hallway. He was stretched out on the bed in a clean T-shirt and shorts, watching a game, one arm folded behind his head.

You hesitated, then knocked lightly on the frame.

He looked over, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “Hey bunny,”

“Hi.” You shifted on your feet, still wrapped in the towel. “Do you have any extra towels? I was about to shower.”

Beau sat up with a quiet grunt, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah. You heading in now?”

“Mhm.”

He stood and walked toward you, stopping close enough that you had to tilt your head back a little. “Need help?”

You raised a brow, a small laugh catching in your throat.

His mouth curved. “With the shower. It’s got one of those fancy handles. Takes a second to figure out.”

You ducked your bangs behind your ear, suddenly aware of how little the towel covered. “Probably, yeah.”

Beau grabbed a couple of clean towels from the shelf in his closet and handed them to you, his fingers brushing yours as he did. The contact lingered a beat longer than it needed to.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low. “I’ll show you.”

You followed him down the short hall to the bathroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside first, flipping on the light. The space was nicer than you remembered, clean white tile, a big glass shower with a complicated-looking chrome handle.

Beau set the extra towel on the counter and reached for the handle, demonstrating. “You push in, then turn. Hot’s this way. It takes a second to catch.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you. You were still standing in the doorway, towel clutched tight around your body, hair damp and starting to dry in soft waves.

“You got it?” he asked.

You stepped closer, into the bathroom proper, until you were right beside him. “I think so.”

He didn’t move away. Instead he stayed there, one hand still on the handle, the other braced on the tile wall, effectively boxing you in just a little. The air between you felt warmer than the rest of the house.

“Here.” His voice dropped. He took your hand, gently, deliberately, and guided it to the handle, covering your fingers with his own. “Like this.”

His chest was almost against your back. You could feel the heat of him through the thin towel and his T-shirt. When he turned the handle for you, the water started up, steam already beginning to rise.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

Beau’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles. You felt him exhale, slow and controlled, right near your temple.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, but you didn’t step out of the circle of his arms. For a second it felt like he might close that last bit of space, like he was thinking about it hard.

Then a floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall (your dad, probably), and Beau straightened, letting your hand go. The moment cracked open just enough for reality to slip back in.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside, giving you room.

“I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he said, eyes still dark as they met yours. “Just... yell.”

You managed a small smile. “Okay.”

He paused in the doorway one last time, looking at you like he was still deciding something, then pulled the door most of the way closed behind him, leaving it cracked just enough that you could still hear him settle back onto his bed.

You stood under the hot water longer than you needed to, letting it beat against your shoulders while your mind kept replaying the feel of Beau’s chest against your back and the way his hand had covered yours on the handle. The bathroom filled with steam. Outside the cracked door you could hear the low murmur of the game still playing in his room.

When you finally shut the water off, the house felt even quieter. You dried off quickly, wrapped the fresh towel tight around yourself again, and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards were cool under your feet.

Beau’s door was still open a few inches. The blue light of the TV flickered across the wall. You hesitated, then knocked softly with your knuckles.

“Yeah?” His voice was rough, like he’d been half-asleep or just thinking too hard.

You pushed the door open a little wider. He was still on the bed, but sitting up now against the headboard, remote in one hand. His eyes moved over you once, towel, damp hair, bare legs, before he dragged them back up to your face.

“Everything work okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for the help.”

The silence stretched, thick and warm. You should have said goodnight and gone to the guest room. Instead you stayed in the doorway, one hand still holding the towel closed at your chest.

Beau set the remote down. “You warm enough now?”

“Getting there.”

He studied you for another second, then shifted over on the bed, making space without quite saying why. “You can sit if you want. Game’s almost over. Or I can find you something to sleep in. You’re gonna freeze in that towel.”

You stepped inside and quietly pushed the door most of the way closed behind you. The click of the latch felt louder than it should have.

Beau watched you the whole time. He didn’t say anything at first, just shifted a little more, leaving clear space on the edge of the mattress. You sat down carefully, still clutching the towel, the bed dipping under your weight. The heat of his body was immediate even with a few inches between you.

The game murmured on the TV, some late-inning commentary neither of you were really listening to.

“You want a shirt hun?” he asked after a moment. His voice was quieter now that you were this close. “I’ve got clean ones in the drawer.”

You nodded. “Please.”

He got up, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a soft gray T-shirt that looked like it would swallow you. When he handed it over, his fingers brushed yours again. This time neither of you pretended it was an accident.

“I’ll turn around,” he said, but he only half-did, giving you his profile more than his back. You stood, kept the towel up with one hand, and pulled the shirt on over your head. It fell to mid-thigh. The towel dropped to the floor.

“Better?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yeah.”

You sat back down. Closer this time. Your bare knee rested against the side of his leg. He didn’t move away.

For a few seconds the only sound was the TV and the distant creak of the house settling. Then Beau reached over and gently tugged the collar of the shirt straight where it had twisted, his knuckles grazing your collarbone.

His hand stayed there a second longer, thumb brushing lightly over the skin just above the neckline of his shirt. The touch was careful. Testing. When you didn’t pull away, he let out a slow breath and shifted so he was facing you more fully on the bed.

“Your dad’s out cold already,” he said, almost like he was reminding himself as much as you. “Passed out on the couch the second he finished that last beer.”

The information settled between you, heavy and deliberate.

Beau’s gaze dropped to your mouth. He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again.

You didn’t say stop.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.”

His voice was soft but left no room for argument. He lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against your lower lip, waiting. The second your lips parted he slid them in, slow and deliberate, resting them on your tongue.

“That’s it, good girl. Suck.”

You did. The low, pleased sound he made went straight through you.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Nice and gentle.” His free hand stroked your hair, almost petting you. “Look at you. My sweet little thing, taking my fingers so well. You’re doing so good for me.”

He pushed them a little deeper, watching your face the whole time.

“Such a good baby,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Pretty mouth. You like being good for me, don’t you? Nod if you do.”

When you nodded around his fingers he smiled, soft and a little dark.

“That’s my girl. Keep sucking.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead while his fingers stayed in your mouth. 

His other hand slipped under the hem of the oversized shirt, warm palm settling on your bare thigh, stroking lazily.

Beau slowly pulled his fingers from your mouth, trailing them wet across your bottom lip.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands slid under the oversized shirt and pushed it up, peeling it off you in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for only a second before his warm palms replaced it, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he made a low, approving sound.

“Look at you, so pretty for me.” He laid you back against his pillows, hovering over you. “Gonna take care of you now, okay? Just relax. Let Daddy make you feel good.”

He kissed down your throat, your chest, lingering to suck softly at each nipple until your back arched. Then lower, settling between your thighs. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and dragged his tongue through your wetness in one long, slow stroke.

“Fuck, already so wet for me, baby.” He licked again, slower, savoring. 

He worked you with his mouth, tongue circling your clit, two fingers sliding inside and curling just right, while his free hand pinned your hip down. Every time you whimpered he hummed praise against you.

“Feel how nicely you open up for me?”

He brought you right to the edge and held you there, then pulled back with a wet kiss to your inner thigh.

“Not yet. Want you cuming on my cock first.”

Beau shoved his shorts down, kicked them away, and settled between your legs. He rubbed the thick head of his cock through your folds, coating himself, teasing your clit with it until you were squirming.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You did. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. A deep, guttural sound left him when he bottomed out.

“Taking all of me so well.” He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, brushing hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Feel how full you are?”

When you nodded he started moving, deep, steady thrusts that filled the quiet room with the soft, wet sound of him fucking you. One hand stayed laced with yours above your head; the other gripped your thigh and kept you open for him.

“Taking my cock so pretty.” “

“Gonna come for me soon, aren’t you?” he murmured against your mouth. 

His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect rhythm with his thrusts. The dual pressure pushed you over fast. You clenched hard around him, gasping his name, and he groaned like it wrecked him.

“Fuck, yes,”

He kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out, then buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken sound, spilling deep inside you. He stayed there, pulsing, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

After a long moment he kissed you soft and slow, still buried inside.

He carefully pulled out, gathered you against his chest, and tugged the blanket over both of you. One big hand stroked up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head.

‘Always on my own’

You were having a terrible day. Something had upset you so much that you simply collapsed. You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chin, crying. Of course, Ben, that smug bastard, couldn't pass you by without cracking a joke.

Ben snorted disdainfully at the sight of you curled up on the couch like a pathetic stray dog. He sipped his whiskey, and the burn from the alcohol did nothing to dull the irritation rising in his skin. Seeing you like that—knees up, face buried in your skin, shivering—he didn't reach for a handkerchief or offer any sentimental support. That wasn't his style.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, his voice hoarse and dripping with sarcasm. He took another sip of whiskey before slamming the glass down on the coffee table. "Oh my god, y/n, you're going to flood the whole apartment if you keep this up. What happened? Did some idiot hurt your feelings, or are you just realizing how awful this is?" He leaned back, crossing his thick arms over his chest, and looked at you with his sharp green eyes. He wasn't cruel out of the blue—well, maybe a little—but he truly didn't know how to handle vulnerability. For Ben, weakness was something to be combated with gunpowder or a goddamn dose of cocaine. Watching you fall gave him a nervous tension, an discomfort that irritated him more than anything else. Hearing no response from you, only quiet sobs, he said, "Damn it, wipe your damn eyes," he muttered, though a microscopic crack had appeared in his usual sharp tone. "You make me feel like I'm sitting next to a goddamn fountain. Spit it out or go cry somewhere else. I can't think with all that noise."

You needed his affection. You really did. But his words hurt you even more, and in annoyance, you abruptly stood up from the couch, uttering a curt, "Leave me alone!" and headed for the kitchen. Ben watched you go, rolling his eyes in disdain, but he didn't stay. His stubbornness and egocentricity wouldn't let him just sit idly by while you fucking had the last word. He followed you into the kitchen, his heavy boots slamming on the floor like a warning. He didn't know how to properly show "affection," but he also couldn't stand the tension hanging in the air like foul smoke.

"Fuck this dramatic exit, y/n. This is very mature," he growled, stepping into the kitchen after you. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking your path with his broad shoulders, looking every bit the intimidating brute he was. "You think you can just throw a tantrum and leave like some spoiled brat? Fuck that!"

He took a step closer, invading your personal space with an all-consuming, radioactive heat that seemed to emanate from his skin. He saw your shoulders tremble, and though he wanted to call you a crybaby, something about your small, defeated expression made his chest tighten in a way he hated.

"Look, I'm not going to apologize because I don't mean anything bad, okay?" he muttered, his voice dropping to a rougher, more dangerous tone. "But stop with the damn theatrics." If you want something, just ask for it instead of acting like it's the end of the world."

You bit your lip, but tears welled up in your eyes from the hurt of his words, from the terrible and difficult day. You hit him in the chest. "Leave me alone, you're just awful!"

Ben cursed in irritation as your fist connected with his chest. It was nothing to him, just a gentle touch, but your words caught him off guard. "Terrible?" he repeated, clenching his jaw. "God, you really know how to hurt a man's pride, huh?"

When you tried to push past him again, his patience snapped like a dry twig. In one sharp, aggressive movement, his hands shot out, gripping your wrists like iron handcuffs. His grip was tight, almost painful, but he wasn't trying to hurt you, he simply wanted control. "I told you to stop this damn theatrics," he growled, his breath hot on your face.

Without giving you a chance to protest, he lifted you, your legs dangling in the air, before he pushed you back onto the cold granite countertop. The sudden movement knocked the wind out of you as he stepped between your thighs, pinning you against the cabinets. He leaned closer, his massive frame looming over you, pinning you against the counter.

"You want to act like a spoiled brat? Fine. But you have no right to hit me and then tell me to go to hell," he growled, his green eyes blazing with irritation and something darker, something more primal. "You're tense as a fucking spring, y/n. Now shut up before you say something else stupid."

Ben let out a long, frustrated sigh, his anger fading, replaced by an uncomfortable feeling of genuine concern. Seeing you turn your face away, hunched over, crying quietly, leaning against the kitchen cabinet, made him feel even more like an idiot than usual. He hated this feeling, this damn vulnerability that made him do things he wasn't programmed to do.

"Damn it, y/n... look at me," he muttered. His voice wasn't a scream anymore; it was rough, but the edge had dulled. He reached out with a large, calloused hand, firmly but gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to turn your head back to him. His thumb roughly brushed across your cheek, smearing away a tear.

"Stop this nonsense. You're fucking ridiculous when you cry like that," he whispered, though his eyes were no longer cold. "You're too damn beautiful to waste your tears on some stupid day. You hear me? You're incredible. Most girls would kill for half your damn soul." It was the closest he could get to a sincere confession without feeling like he was going crazy.

Leaning down, he didn't unleash his usual rudeness on you. Instead, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was unusually soft, almost reverent. It was gentle, with a hint of whiskey and nicotine, a silent, clumsy attempt to bring you back to reality and prove he wasn't going anywhere.

And here it is.

When you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as if he were the only solid link in a crumbling world, Ben made a sound, half moan, half sigh. For a split second, his instinct told him to tense, to push away this unbridled need, but then your lips were pressed against his again, desperate and insistent, and something in his chest gave in. His large hands slid from your face down to your waist, gripping your hips with such force they left bruises, pressing your slender body against his muscular one.

"That's it, baby... fuck, you're so fucking good at this," he growled against your lips, his voice husky and unusually warm. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. "Look at you. You're perfect. "Hear that? Damn perfect."

But he didn't stop there. He became obsessed with mapping your face, his kisses growing more and more frantic, yet surprisingly gentle. He pressed his lips to your forehead, then to the bridge of your nose, before moving to your cheeks. "Beautiful girl," he whispered, pressing his lips to your skin, each word accompanied by a gentle kiss. "Darling, you have no idea how good you look right now."

He kissed your temple, your cheekbones, and the corner of your mouth, running his lips over your skin as if trying to memorize every inch of your body. This time, the rough, vulgar bastard disappeared, giving way to a man who clumsily and desperately tried to make you feel like the only thing that truly mattered in this world.

Your quiet, broken moan pierced his usual defenses like a damn knife. Most people would be frightened or angry at the sound, but for Ben, it made something deep inside him growl with a protective, possessive need. He didn't know how to fix the world for you, and he certainly didn't know how to fix what had broken your heart today, but he could beat all the sadness out of you if he tried hard enough.

"Shh, damn it, don't make those noises, baby. It's okay," he murmured, pressing against your skin. His thumbs were rough, scarred from decades of battles and worse, but as he wiped the salty tears from your cheeks, he moved with surprising delicacy. He erased the traces of your breakdown, as if he could simply erase that terrible day with his own hands.

"I get it. I'm here, okay?" His voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating against your body. "No one will touch you as long as I'm here."

He didn't wait for an answer, because he knew you needed action, not more words. He pressed his lips to yours again, deeper this time, greedily devouring your lips, simultaneously soothing and filling you. The kiss was possessive, a reminder that you belonged to him, and he belonged to you. He muffled your moans with his tongue, his hands sliding down to press your buttocks hard against the countertop, pressing you against him as he tried to drown out everything else in the world with just the taste of your lips.

When you went limp, your body finally giving in to exhaustion rather than sadness, Ben felt the change immediately. He didn't pull away or make some crude joke about you being a fucking wreck. Instead, he shifted his posture, bracing his feet against the ground to support both your weight and his as your head rested against his. He let you wrap his arms around him, his huge arms enveloping you in a protective cocoon that seemed almost too large for the small space between you.

When your fingers began to slowly, absentmindedly trace circles on his forearm, Ben froze for half a second. He wasn't used to a gentle touch without ulterior motives or demands. This was unfamiliar territory, sending shivers of unfamiliar vulnerability across his skin. But he didn't push you away.

"Fuck," he whispered, but this time there was no bite in his words. There was almost a tenderness in them, a rough acknowledgement of how much you could disarm him without even trying. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. His beard lightly tickled your scalp as he held you, inhaling the scent of your hair. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the noise in his head—memories of the war, the Russians, the betrayal, the constant urge to numb the pain—felt quiet.

He simply stood there in the dim kitchen light, pinning you to the counter, while the world outside the window continued to be a damned terrible place. He said nothing more; he knew that sometimes, when everything else is crap, silence and a pair of strong arms are the only things that really matter.