#sub!ben

You knew about the money, or lack there of, before Ben ever brought it up. Which, to be fair, he never actually did. You had overheard your father talking about it in the kitchen late one night with a drink in hand and disdain in his voice. Something about Soldier Boy hemorrhaging money on parties, pills, pointless flexes, defaulting on obligations, still thinking he could throw his weight around while sitting on a financial crater.

“The prick acts like he runs the damn place,” your father said, and you remember the way he scoffed. “And he’s too dumb to realize we’re all watching him drown.”

You made a mental note. You didn’t judge him for it—you just filed it away as leverage. Something to keep in your back pocket. A crack in the armor that you could oh-so-easily wiggle your fingers into.

And you see it play out exactly as expected.

He’s not poor—not really. He’s still a legend. Still a name that gets doors opened, drinks comped, rooms silenced. But he can’t keep up anymore. Not with the way he used to live. Not with the lifestyle he built, not with the image he sells. He used to throw money at problems and crawl out of the wreckage with a scar and a story. Now he just throws the stories and hopes no one asks to see the receipts.

You don’t take him out—you let him take you. He picks the places. He makes the reservations for swanky booth where you sit with your back to the dining room so he can sit facing out, broad shoulders sprawled, thumb tracing circles on your thigh.

Big man. Bigger ego.

He “pays” too. Hands the waiter the black card with a grunt and a smirk and a look like he just did something worth praising. He’ll say things like, “don’t skimp on the wine, my girl’s got a taste for the expensive stuff.”

It’s the very same card you refill every week.

You don’t say a word. You never do. You let him order the bottle, sign the check, carry the leftovers out like he’s a provider. Like he earned this. And when he slips that card back into his wallet like a badge of honor, you only smile—sweet, slow, satisfied.

He used to argue. Used to fight you for the check, used to mutter about pride and independence and not being some goddamn chick. That fizzled fast. You didn’t scream or correct or roll your eyes. You just let him throw his little tantrums, let him puff his chest, and then paid it anyway because someone had to. Because he couldn’t. And worse? He knew you knew it.

And that’s what unhinged him the most. Not that you paid. That you never held it over him. Never looked at him like he owed you. Never said what he knew was true. You just let him pretend, let him act like the man, let him sweat and sulk and strut his way through the illusion while you sat across from him with your legs crossed and your power wrapped in velvet.

Now? He thinks this charade is the balance. And of course, you let him. You nod when he says he’s got it. You kiss him when he opens the door for you. You tell him he’s “so good to you” and let him fuck you after.

And in bed, it’s worse.

So much fucking worse. Or better, depending how you look at it.

Some nights, you lean back on the bed, legs spread, lazy and half-dressed, you watch him hesitate just a beat before he drops to his knees. Still cocky, still mouthing off.

“What, you just expect me to crawl to it now?” he smirks, licking his lips like he thinks he’s dangerous.

You tilt your head, reach out, curl your fingers through his hair. His whole body reacts. And when you pull him closer—just a little—his hands are already on your thighs and his mouth is already open.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it down there,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, and he groans. Burying himself between your legs like it’s instinct. Just like you’ve trained him to.

You guide his pace with your hands. Little tugs. A quiet word. A sharp sigh when he gets it right. And he responds to every signal like he’s tuned to you, like he needs you to tell him he’s doing good. You don’t say good boy. Not yet. You keep it just out of reach—because you know what it’ll do to him when you finally give it.

Tonight, he talks a big game like it’s his second language. Growls in your ear about how wet you are, how tight you are, how no one fucks you like he does. He brags like he’s got something to prove and the stamina to back it up. He keeps one hand locked around your hip and the other braced on the headboard and you’re fairly certain it’s all for show. Buy you let him have his fun. You moan for him. You take it like you’re desperate until you aren’t.

You grab him—really grab him—fingers locking tight at the base of his skull, nails digging just enough to sting. You tug his head back and he chokes on the sound he was about to make, thrust faltering, hips jerking like his body forgot the plan.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur, breath hot in his ear. “You were doing so good.”

It ruins him.

He groans, long and broken, cock twitching inside you, rhythm going sloppy as hell. He keeps fucking you, but it’s not confident anymore—it’s needy. Like he’s chasing something he just lost. Like every thrust is him asking please without saying the word.

You tighten your grip, control his pace, make him feel every inch of it. You whisper his name like it belongs in your mouth, like you picked it out special. And fuck—he folds. His breath goes uneven, his grip on the sheets desperate, mouth falling open like he forgot how to talk.

You press your mouth to his jaw, whisper something filthy about how good he feels, how pretty he sounds when he pants for you, and his whole body shakes. He thrusts deeper, slower, and for a moment, he forgets to talk. Just breathes. Just feels.

You roll him without warning, shove him onto his back and climb on top of him like you’ve done this a thousand times. He blinks up at you, stunned for half a second—then grins, cocky even now.

You sink down on him slowly, deliberately, watching his face fall apart.

He swears. Loud. Tries to buck up into you, tries to grab your hips and take over—but you plant a hand flat on his chest and grind down hard, sharp enough to steal the breath right out of him.

“No,” you say, low and firm. “Stay.”

And he fucking does.

Like it’s instinct. Like his body heard it before his brain could argue.

You ride him messy and relentless, chasing your own pleasure, not caring how wrecked he looks under you. He’s sweating, flushed, hands flexing uselessly at his sides because every time he tries to touch you, you pin his wrists or move just enough to remind him he doesn’t get to rush this.

He starts begging without realizing it. Broken phrases.

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“You’re killing me—”

“I’m so close—”

You lean down, bite his jaw, suck marks into his skin like you’re branding him. “Don’t you dare,” you whisper. “You don’t get to finish until I say so.”

He whines. Actually whines. It punches something ugly and hot straight through your chest.

You stop moving entirely.

He gasps, hips jerking up in reflex, eyes wild. “Jesus Christ—don’t be mean—don’t do that—”

You squeeze around him, slow and cruel, smiling when he nearly comes undone right there. You keep him right on the edge until he’s shaking, until his pride is gone and there’s nothing left but want.

When you finally start moving again, it’s merciless. Fast. Deep. All control and hunger. You grab his throat—not tightly, just enough to feel his pulse—and when he looks at you like that, wrecked and open and desperate for your approval, you know you’ve got him.

“Come for me,” you say.

He breaks.

He comes hard and loud, body jerking under you, voice tearing out of his chest like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He’s ruined—utterly wrecked—hands clutching at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

You stay on top of him while he comes down, breath shaky, eyes glassy, mouth still open like he’s stunned it happened at all.

You brush your thumb over his cheek, slow and possessive, then lean down and murmur, “Good job, baby.”

That does more damage than anything else.

He groans, wrecked, boneless, pulling you against him like he needs you close or he might fall apart. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t say a damn word.

Next time, you’ll do it all again.

And again

And again

Because he thinks he’s the one taking what he wants.

And you’ll let him believe it for now, it’s so much easier to keep him happy that way.

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GENERAL TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @ilikw @lupinslibraries @kyleighsstuff @sadpods @mochminnie @spookyysinsanity @mindfulmesses @paristheonewhoreads @prettywhenipanic @mostlymarvelgirl @shortcyclicalstoner @dead-sirens @boba-is-a-soup @l3tholog1ca @allthingswickedpodcast @musesfromashes @mollymal @sh1a10

THE BOYS @wwvvii @suckitands33 @scrmqwn @k-illdarlings @never-brooks @maneaterarabella @lolajeane @fratboychrisera @ladykitana90 @pieandflannel @deans-yn @ohperiodtpoohhh @lunaleah @poisonivy2267 @k4marina @rxi-pop @cranberrysauce666 @billyipa @kimxwinchester

⊹ you don’t say anything though—not wanting to snap ben out of this needy mindset you’ve somehow worked him into.

⊹ and as he keeps begging (“more, more– c’mon, faster, baby, i’m losing my mind here”), he begins to fuck up into your hand or mouth or whatever you’re using. and it’s sooo fucking needy. he’s literally chasing his orgasm.

⊹ but the plot twist is…. it’s only been like 10 minutes, and mr. self-proclaimed “stamina man” is already about to fucking cum.

⊹ and fuck, is the sight glorious or what? his eyes glisten in need and his lips are parted, exhaling the breathiest groans you’ve ever heard from him. it’s so fucking hot, but you do keep a part of your brain focused on the handcuffs, making sure he’s not about to break out of them.

⊹ but it doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to break free. it’s like he’s given into this completely—entirely focused on reaching his peak under your control.

⊹ you feel yourself practically vibrating from desire, having to clench your thighs together to lessen the ache between them as you work his cock.

⊹ you finally allow yourself to join in on the pleasure, sinking down onto his throbbing erection that’s wet from how much pre he’s been leaking.

⊹ the moan ripped from ben’s lungs is indescribable. so pathetic but so fucking deep and sexy. it makes your head spin.

⊹ but as you’re focused on finding a rhythm on ben’s dick… he fucking cums. right then and there. he groans gutturally and shoots his hot white seed inside you, coating your walls and filling you to the absolute brim.

⊹ your jaw drops. partially in disbelief, partially in amusement.

⊹ and when he finally comes down from that excruciatingly good high, he sees your face… and the way your lips have twitched into a smirk.

⊹ he swallows, schooling his face back into his regular tough-guy expression. “no– no. not a word, doll. i swear–”

⊹ and you laugh because 1. it’s funny and 2. the brute of a man below you just prematurely blew his load.

⊹ and lord, does your laughter irritate ben?

⊹ your chuckling is cut short when you hear the clink of the metal handcuffs break. you’re immediately thrown onto your back. “don’t fuckin’ laugh at me. i’ll show you what’s fuckin’ funny.”

⊹ uh oh….

fig yaps: this felt like a tiny lil fic so i’m tagging my taglist heheh !!!! mahi, here are some deer and a birthday kiss from me to u <3

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @honeyyxxbee @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @misatxox @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlejackles @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @blossomingorchids @benscumgluzzer @soldiersgirl @arcannaa @vmiina @h8aaz @iluvdeanwinchester @n-o-p-e-never @liiiilsss

☆☆☆

You could still smell the intoxicating mix of cologne, scotch, and cigarettes and feel the ghost of warm arms wrapped around your body when someone’s voice pulled you from your haze.

“Earth to Y/N,” Lucy said, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Huh? What?” you asked confusedly after batting her hand away.

“Well I was trying to have a conversation with my friend, until Ben came up to hug you and so rudely interrupted me. Then you turned all mushy ‘cause you’re in love with him,” she said dryly.

“Wh- I- I am not in love with him,” you sputtered out, having made the mistake of taking a sip of your drink as she spoke.

“You’re in love with him, you think he’s cute, same difference,” she replied and you were about to protest when she kept talking. “I don’t know why the two of you don’t get together, or at least fuck.”

“Oh my- because we don’t have feelings for each other that’s why,” you reasoned and she gave you a withering look. “…Well he doesn’t have feelings for me, is that a good enough reason for you?”

Lucy laughed, actually laughed at your question and you frowned in confusion. “Are you kidding me? You don’t think that that man- Ben- has feelings for you? How do you explain his touchiness and lingering hugs and kisses on the cheek?”

You shook your head at her and explained, “Ben’s just a flirty person. He’s like that with everyone, especially when he’s tipsy.”

“Bullshit. He doesn’t hug me like that, with his hands wrapped tight around you, squeezing your waist, and practically running a hand through your hair. And he only kisses my cheek and just barely when we say hello and goodbye. He kisses you for no reason all the time,” she countered, her gaze set evenly with yours.

You opened and closed your mouth a couple times, trying to find a response even as Lucy’s description of what your and Ben’s hugs looked like made you feel warmer than usual. Then you said lamely, “That’s just because you have Rami. He’s not going to be the same with someone who’s in a relationship.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna keep talking this shit, at least go get me a refill,” Lucy said, holding her empty glass up to you.

You rolled your eyes but smiled and grumbled out, “Fine,” before grabbing her glass and heading to the bar.

The bar was a much louder scene than the one the two of you were in at your little high-chaired table for two. There were people shouting at one another in conversation, clearly too drunk to realize they weren’t using the correct volume. Many were clamoring for the bartender’s attention to order more drinks and you cringed at the thought of heading into the fray. Lucky for you, you spotted four of your friends in a little group and walked up to them, catching them at the end of a conversation.

“Just do it, you coward,” Joe laughed before taking a shot and you saw all the other three down theirs as well. His comment had been directed towards Ben, and you assumed it had been about taking the shot. Since you had walked up behind him, you couldn’t tell what he had thought of the shot he didn’t want to slam.

“Hiya guys,” you said cheerfully, and three sets of eyes moved to you in synch. Joe, Rami, and Gwil’s faces cracked into smiles as they started laughing for some reason, just as Ben whipped around to face you.

Ben’s face immediately flushed, a side effect of the alcohol you mused, and he cracked an uneasy smile of his own.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice unusually high, but he still pulled you closer for a quick peck on the cheek as if he couldn’t help himself, and you felt heat spread from the point of contact across your entire face. Hopefully it wasn’t too noticeable.

“Whatcha up to?” Joe asked you goofily, nodding to the one practically full and one completely empty glass in your hands.

“Oh, I was sent to get a refill for Lucy. Apparently our topic of conversation requires some libation,” you joked, careful not to reveal anything specific.

“I can handle that, why don’t you stay and chat for a second?” Rami told you, grabbing the glass from your hand and walking up to the bar, somehow finding the one empty spot and getting the bartender’s attention right away.

“You know, I was just thinking I wanted to put a song on the jukebox. Help me find a good one, Joe?” Gwil asked, Joe nodded, and as they walked away together you saw them giggling and stealing glances back.

“Okay…” you said, taking one of their empty chairs to face Ben. You were about to make a comment about everyone’s strange behavior when you looked at Ben. His face was still flushed, and he kept glancing between you and his hands.

You reached out and placed a hand on his knee gently, “Ben, you alright?”

His knee tensed at your contact, and he looked at your hand apprehensively, so you started to move it away, self-conscious at having initiated the contact, but before you could completely, Ben grabbed your hand.

Looking up at him as you felt the warmth from his hand spreading up your arm and through your entire body, you waited for him to speak.

“Actually, can I talk to you?” he asked nervously.

“Of course, you can talk to me about anything,” you nodded, a little worried from his tone that something was wrong.

“…Do you wanna go outside for a bit? I can hardly hear my own voice in here,” Ben suggested and you agreed, following his lead out the door.

As soon as you stepped outside, you were hit with the temperature change. The bar had been hot and almost sweaty with all the people, but outside the air was freezing. You shivered, and rubbed your hands on your upper arms, hoping the friction would keep you warm.

“Oh fuck, I forgot how cold it is out here,” Ben said, after he turned back to you and saw your shivering form. He took off his overcoat and had you turn around, helping you to pull it on over your cute, but definitely too thin for the weather, sweater.

You turned back around, smiling at him for the friendly gesture. He smiled back at you, a dreamy look in his eyes at seeing you wrapped up in his too-big-for-you coat. The warm feeling it gave him distracted him from why the two of you had come outside.

“So…” you prompted, wondering yourself what you were doing out in the cold.

“Right, I’m supposed to be talking to you,” Ben said, shaking his head clear from those thoughts. “Basically, um, I just wanted to tell you– well, the boys told me to tell you– not that it’s not true or anything, I’m just kinda a coward and not good at this stuff– and I do want to tell you– I guess I think I’m trying to give hints or something, but, um, they told me that’s not enough and that I should just get over it and– I mean I’m just kind of nervous and I don’t, um, want to, uh, make anything weird– well, I’m–”

“Ben,” you said, interrupting his rambling lest he go on and on until the two of you froze. “Take a breath. I promise, whatever you’re trying to tell me will be alright,” you told him, trying to be a supportive friend through whatever seemingly troublesome thing he was trying to tell you.

He took your advice and breathed in and out in time with the guidance of your hands a couple times before he seemed ready. “Okay. What I’m trying to tell you is that I really really like you and have feelings for you, romantically. And I guess I’m hoping you feel the same way.”

You stared at Ben in shock, not moving except to blink a couple times in confusion. As you remained silent, Ben started getting a slightly panicked look on his face and lifted a hand to cover it slightly.

“Aw, fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything, now the whole group’s dynamic is going to be off–”

“Wait, Ben are you serious? Like, you’re for real?” you ask, interrupting him again and making him drop his hand to look at you.

“Serious about liking you? Yeah I’m serious about that,” he said a little sheepishly, dropping his gaze from yours.

“Like 100%, heart attack serious?” you repeated, the meaning of his words finally breaking through your shock.

“Yes, 100% heart attack serious, do we really need to drive this point furth– are you laughing?” now it was his turn to be confused and he looked back up to see you smiling and giggling. Even in his confused state he couldn’t help but return your beautifully contagious smile, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because, Ben, I’ve liked you for months, and Lucy just told me, like ten minutes ago, that you like me and I didn’t believe her,” you explained, taking a step closer to him, still smiling.

“She did? How’d she know? Did the boys tell her?” he asked you, skipping over the part where you said you liked him too.

“No, she said it was obvious with all the hugs and cheek kisses and stuff, but I didn’t believe her,” you admitted, taking another step closer.

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean, you’re a pretty flirty drunk, Ben. Always giving and receiving those cheek kisses like no one’s business,” you said cheekily, taking one more step. “Then again, maybe I just notice it happening with everyone else because I’m jealous.”

“Jealous?” he asked, his voice higher again as you were now just one step away from being pressed up against him.

“Mhm,” you nodded, and you moved your forearms to rest on his chest, keeping one hand there but running a finger from the other hand along his cheek and jaw to his chin. Then you brushed the pad of your thumb ever so lightly along his parted lower lip. “Yeah I think I was just jealous because I wanted all of that attention, your lips on me, and my lips on you, and no one else’s anywhere.”

Ben’s hands found their way to your waist and he said, practically breathlessly, as he stared into your eyes, “That’s- that’s what I want too.”

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing between his eyes and lips and he moved closer and closer.

“Yeah,” he breathed over your lips, just before connecting his mouth to yours.

★★★