teninchattitude

My name is Abigail! But i go by Abbie, or Abs (abs to feel cool and fit half the time)!

I am a woman, and pronouns are she/her!

My favorite singers are:

Sabrina Carpenter, Olivia Rodrigo, The weeknd, and a few metal bands that i'm too lazy to type out since its like 12am 😭🙏

my main hyperfixations currently are the hit tv shows:

"The Boys", "Supernatural", and "Dark Angel"

(notice how they all star Jensen Ackles? 😉)

And the movies:

"Ten Inch Hero" and "Easy A"

I have an editing account on tiktok!

@.kryspn

where i post edits, and short slideshow fanfictions! (mainly about... DRUMROLL PLEASE... Jensen Ackles again!)

I have been writing since i was a child in primary school, from poems and short stories to full on books!

I had just recently started watching tv again more frequently over the past two years, being a lazy ass. And i discovered fanfictions, and decided... why not join the club?!

Most of my content on here will be +18, taboo content and more.

But occasionally, i might just make a few sappy stories that don't contain any of my beloved smut.

I am so excited to share my stories with the world and i would love to get feedback or recommendations!

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disclaimers: This story contains explicit adult content, graphic sexual scenes, and mature themes including trauma/PTSD, past medical experimentation/torture, and significant age gap relationships. It is strictly intended for readers aged 18 and older. If you are a minor or are uncomfortable with explicit material, please exit now.

word count: 1,986

+18, soldier boy/reader, ben/reader, age gap (82 years), trauma recovery, hurt/comfort, shower sex, intimate grooming, injury care, gentle dom/soft top, praise kink (light), possessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, unprotected sex, creampie, man out of time, PTSD/hyper-vigilance, consent-focused, gentle to rough, caretaking dynamic, forbidden romance (former supe/civilian), size difference, scarred male, crying during intimacy, aftercare.

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Backstory:

Soldier Boy or as you know and call him, Ben. Lived through  decades trapped in the suffocating darkness of the Russian cryo-chamber—lost in a terrifying blur of sensory deprivation and mental decay—combined with the agonizing physical violation of being treated like a helpless lab rat, completely shattered his sense of invulnerability. Having his autonomy stripped away through radiation testing and invasive surgeries left his nervous system locked in a state of hyper-vigilance, making his subsequent safety with you his only anchor to reality. Because he knows the exact, bitter horror of absolute helplessness and pain, he handles you with an almost reverent tenderness; he restrains his immense strength and acts with extreme care because he is deeply terrified that any harsh movement might shatter this fragile peace, accidentally hurt the only good thing he has left, or make him look like the monsters who tortured him.

You were a small little thing. Ben had settled down with you after living for over 100 years, well… he mainly lived for about 60 and some change. Due to the fact he had spent 40-45 years in the cryo. Frozen. Still. Everything was moving around him. For fucks sake! He didn’t even know what a GPS, the internet, or bluetooth was! 

Until he met a group that called themselves “The Boys”. Ben had worked with the group to basically annihilate Homelander. But that didn’t go as planned because Ben ended up finding out that Homelander was his son. That breastmilk drinking son of a bitch was his son… but that’s OK don’t fret! Homelander is dead now! But Ben isn’t… see the week of Homelander’s death, Homelander, or also known as John, had put Ben back into a cryo. A lot of that group called “The Boys” had went their separate ways, since Vought tower was basically an ancient history now you decided to visit it because at this point, it was like a monument or whatever kind of like the Colosseum. The tower was basically a monument of Homelander, but anyways. During your tour you had accidentally went into Homelander’s old room and found Ben. 

You ended up releasing him out of the cryo, he went defensive immediately… his chest started glowing,  until he realized you were just as confused as he was…? 

After showing him the new things around, and telling him about his son’s death, and telling him about how the group that he used to be in was now dismantled. I mean, since those group of men and those two women were basically the most wanted criminals ever, you had to know a little bit of information about them… you two hit it off pretty well. 

In your eyes, he appeared to be your overprotective guard dog. Hell, he even kinda looked like a dog with his shaggy hair, and his short facial hair that was… oh so sexy. 

And in his eyes were his precious little girl, but not in a father daughter way. In a very, very big age gap but legal way. I mean you were 25, when you met him? And for fucks sake, the man was around 107! 

Growing up, you never watched any movies about Homelander, or the seven. You watched the movies about Payback, and about Soldier Boy. You found them so fascinating about how things were back in times that your parents didn’t even exist!

On one of you and Ben’s dates you mentioned you were a big fan of one of his movies, Red Thunder; His most famous classic film. Touted as a Die Hard or Red Dawn style action movie, it stars Soldier Boy and the team Payback fighting off a Soviet invasion to protect the American way. He chuckled and offered to watch it with you. You agreed immediately and one thing led to another… It wasn’t just you anymore. 

It was you and Ben. 

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Present day:

You are currently in the shower letting the water cascade down your body, your curves.

The steam wraps around you like a warm blanket, fogging up the glass of the shower door. You're rushing, balancing on one foot with your leg propped on the edge of the tub, trying to get this done before Ben gets back from his run—

The razor catches wrong and "Fuck!" you yelp, loud enough to echo off the tiles.

The pain is sharp, immediate, there—high on your inner lip where the skin is most sensitive. You drop the razor, clutching yourself, and that's when you hear the front door slam. Heavy boots thundering down the hall.

"Sweetheart?" Ben's voice booms, panicked, and then the bathroom door flies open so hard it bounces off the stopper.

You try to cover yourself, embarrassed and stinging, but he's already there—big frame filling the doorway, chest heaving from sprinting up the stairs, eyes wild.

"You're bleeding." It's not a question. He's staring at the thin line of red on your thigh with an expression you can't quite read.

"It's just a nick, I was rushing—"

"Show me." He's kneeling before you can protest, huge hands gentle as they guide your leg wider, inspect the cut with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "Where's the razor?"

"Ben, it's fine, I can—"

"Where."

You point. He grabs it, then looks up at you with those dark eyes, and something in your chest tightens at the barely restrained fear there. Not anger—fear.

"Let me," he says, rougher now. "Please. I need to—I need to fix it."

You nod, unable to speak, and he positions himself between your thighs with a focus that would be comical if it weren't so earnest. His hands are warm, slightly calloused, impossibly careful as he rinses the area, then takes the razor and finishes what you started with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Almost done," he murmurs, breath hot against your hip. "I've got you. You're okay."

When he's finished, he doesn't move. Just stays there, kneeling in his running clothes, water from the shower misting his hair and face. His thumbs stroke over the freshly smooth skin, soothing, checking, caring.

"Ben," you whisper, and your voice breaks a little.

He looks up, and the vulnerability in his eyes hits you right in the chest. "You scared me," he admits, rough and raw. "Hearing you hurt and I wasn't—I'm supposed to be here. I'm supposed to keep you safe from everything. Even yourself."

You card your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a starved man, pressing his forehead to your hip. "I'm okay," you whisper. "Because you're here."

He makes a broken sound and turns his head, pressing a kiss to your hipbone—then lower, closer, his mouth warm against the place that stings. Not sexual, not quite, but intimate in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"Let me," he says again, but this time it's different. "Let me take care of you. Properly."

The water beats down around you, and you nod, and his hands slide up your thighs with that same reverent gentleness, ready to soothe away every hurt you have.

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles against your wet skin. He's still fully dressed—sweat-soaked shirt clinging to the hard planes of his chest, running shoes squeaking against the porcelain tub—and the absurdity of it almost makes you laugh. But then he looks up at you again, and the depth of want mixed with that ever-present fear of hurting you steals your breath.

"Tell me what you need," he says, voice rough as gravel. "I don't wanna—I need you to guide me. Tell me if I'm too rough. Tell me to stop."

You reach down, cup his jaw in your hands, feel the tension there. "I trust you," you say again, because it bears repeating. Because he needs to hear it. "You won't hurt me."

Something in him breaks. He surges up, catching you around the waist and lifting you easily against the tile wall. The shock of cold porcelain against your back makes you gasp, but then his mouth is on yours—desperate, grateful, hungry—and the contrast between his gentle hands and the fierce way he kisses you has your head spinning.

"Water's getting cold," you murmur against his lips.

"Don't care." He grinds against you, and even through the wet denim you can feel how hard he is, how much he's holding back. "Can't stop. Not yet."

"Then get in here properly."

He pulls back, breathing hard, and for a second you think he's going to argue—going to retreat into that hyper-vigilant place where he convinces himself he's not good enough for this. But then his fingers find the hem of his shirt, tear it over his head, and he's reaching for his belt with shaking hands.

You watch him, this man out of time, all scarred muscle and restrained power, and your chest aches with how badly you want him. How badly he wants to be wanted.

He steps out of his shoes, shoves his jeans down, and then he's naked with you under the spray—skin against skin at last. He makes a sound like a prayer when he presses against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach, and his hands slide down to grip your thighs, hoist you higher.

"Wrap around me," he orders, but it's soft, pleading. "Please, sweetheart. Need to feel you."

You hook your legs around his waist, and he enters you in one slow, perfect stroke—filling you, stretching you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shakes with the effort of going slow.

"Okay?" he grits out.

"Perfect." You arch against him, nails digging into his shoulders. "Move, Ben. Please."

He does—careful, rolling thrusts that hit exactly right, his hands supporting your weight like you weigh nothing. The water beats down on his back, steam swirling around you both, and he keeps his eyes locked on yours like he's memorizing you, like he's terrified you'll disappear.

"You're real," he pants, picking up the pace just slightly, still so controlled it must be killing him. "You're real and you're here and you're mine."

"Yours," you agree, and you feel him swell inside you at the word, his rhythm faltering.

"Say it again."

"Yours, Ben. All yours."

He groans, presses you harder against the wall, and finally—finally—lets go of some of that iron restraint. His thrusts deepen, hips snapping with power that should terrify you but doesn't, never with him. He's grunting now, broken sounds against your throat, and you feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.

"Close," you whimper. "Ben, I'm—"

"I've got you." One hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating precision. "Let go, sweetheart. I've got you."

You come apart with his name breaking across your lips, your body clamping down on him so hard he snarls—actually snarls—and follows you over the edge, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a ragged groan that sounds like surrender.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The water runs lukewarm now, but he doesn't seem to notice, just holds you against him, still inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

"Ben," you whisper, stroking his hair.

He lifts his head, and his eyes are wet—not from the shower. "Thank you," he says, rough and raw. "For letting me—for trusting me with—"

You kiss him quiet. "Always," you promise. "Now let's get out of this shower before we both prune."

He laughs—actually laughs, bright and surprised—and sets you down with exaggerated care, checking you over for injuries like you didn't just get thoroughly ravished against the tile.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him, but you're smiling.

"Yeah," he agrees, wrapping a towel around you with the same gentle focus he used with the razor. "But I'm your ridiculous."

disclaimers: This story contains explicit adult content, highly suggestive themes, and strong language. It is strictly intended for readers aged 18 and older. If you are a minor or are offended by explicit material, please exit now.

word count: 4503

+18, no y/n insert, dad's best friend, rough sex, dominant male, submissive female, breeding kink (light), praise kink, degradation kink (light), possessive behavior, age gap, secret relationship, bruising/marking, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, public teasing, power dynamics, angst, forbidden romance.

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Jensen Ackles, your father's extremely rich best friend and business partner. He owned the ultimate dream estate—a massive, modern cottage secluded in the woods by the water, lined with endless windows that you had admired ever since you were a little girl. 

Jensen and your father, John, first met at a coffee shop where John worked as a barista. Jensen’s company was just starting out, and John happened to make a killer latte. Seeing something special in him, Jensen offered John a chance to escape a low-paying job and build a real living from rock bottom. John agreed, rising from coffee maker, to coffee carrier, all the way to Jensen's equal partner and ultimate ride-or-die.

Not only was Jensen rich, humble, and giving, but he was strikingly handsome... and single. Like, for fuck's sake. Jensen possesses a ruggedly handsome face defined by a sharp, square jawline, an intense gaze from striking hazel-green eyes framed by heavy brows, and a charmingly asymmetrical smirk that pulls to one side across his sun-kissed, subtly freckled skin. His physique is powerful and commanding, sporting a classic athletic V-taper with broad shoulders that narrow down to a lean waist. He carries dense, functional muscle rather than bulky mass, boasting a sculpted chest, thick biceps, and vascular forearms that give him a naturally formidable and authoritative presence. He was a breathtaking man, any logical woman's dream man.

And you happened to just be in a position of being the “damsel in distress…”

Your 21st birthday was coming up in two days and you had everything planned out: the times, the guests, and the exact booze you were going to have for your first legal drink. The one thing you didn't have planned was the venue. Thank God your father came to the rescue. Jensen offered to let you host the party at his luxurious cottage—but there was one exception you had to make. He would be monitoring everything. You immediately accepted the offer because, hell... getting wasted and boozed up under the supervision of someone whose face you want to sit on? That's a no-brainer.

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The tires of your car crunch against the gravel driveway, cutting the silence of the secluded woods. Through the windshield, the cottage looms—even more breathtaking up close, its endless windows reflecting the afternoon sun and the shimmering water of the nearby lake. It feels less like a house and more like a fortress of pure luxury.

You kill the engine, grab your weekend bag from the passenger seat, and step out into the crisp air. You expect to find the place locked up, or perhaps a housekeeper waiting to let you in. Instead, the heavy oak front door swings open.

Jensen steps out onto the porch.

He isn't dressed in the sharp, corporate suits you usually see him in. Instead, he’s wearing a fitted, charcoal-grey t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, paired with dark jeans. His vascular forearms are on full display, dusted with a light sheen of sweat as if he’s been working on something inside.

He stands at the top of the steps, his striking hazel-green eyes locking onto yours as that familiar, asymmetrical smirk pulls at the corner of his lips.

"You're early," Jensen says, his deep, gravelly voice echoing slightly in the quiet air. He descends the stairs with a slow, commanding stride, effortlessly reaching out to take the heavy bag right out of your hand. His fingers briefly brush against yours, sending a sudden spike of heat straight up your arm. "Your dad said you weren't coming down until tomorrow morning with the catering truck."

He looks down at you, his gaze intense beneath those heavy brows, completely unaware of the chaotic, unfiltered thoughts running through your head.

"Not that I'm complaining," he adds softly, turning to lead you inside.

"Gives us some time to go over the ground rules before your friends turn my place upside down."

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The interior of the cottage is just as jaw-dropping as the outside. Polished hardwood floors reflect the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and a massive stone fireplace dominates the main living area. It feels completely isolated from the rest of the world, surrounded only by dense trees and the quiet lapping of the lake.

Jensen sets your weekend bag down by the staircase and turns to face you. He crosses his arms, the movement causing his biceps to flex tightly against his charcoal shirt. His hazel-green eyes lock onto yours, full of that calm, commanding authority that makes your heart race.

"Alright," he says, his deep voice carrying a low rumble. "Before the chaos starts tomorrow, let's talk about that exception. I told John I’d keep an eye on things, which means I'm in charge of the keys, the alcohol limits, and making sure nobody wrecks the place. If things get out of hand, I shut it down. Clear?"

He tilts his head slightly, that familiar, teasing smirk playing on his lips as he waits to see how you handle his authority.

"But isn't it my 21st birthday? Not yours, or my father's... but mine?" you question sarcastically.

Jensen runs a hand over his face, then lets out a long, exhausted sigh. "My toilets are too expensive for them to be vomited in. And I do not doubt that is what is to occur if you drink too much of your 'top-class vodka,'" he says with a raised eyebrow.

You scoff, offended. "Okay, wow... I don't have pussy tolerance."

Jensen's eyebrow climbs impossibly higher on his face. "Pussy tolerance, huh? Never heard that one before."

"Well, now you have," you shoot back instantly.

When you decided to arrive early, you hadn't considered the fact that you would be completely alone with this big hunk of muscle. To mask how nervous and turned-on you actually are, you resort to short, snarky, and snappy remarks—acting like a disrespectful little brat.

"You know, doll. You used to never act like this... disdainful," Jensen says, walking closer to you.

As he steps into your personal space, you can smell the rich scent of honey and warm musk clinging to his skin. But why honey? Your brain momentarily shorts out, staring at his chest, completely distracted by his scent and his proximity.

"Doll...?" Jensen prompts, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating right through you. "Are you going to answer me? It's not nice to ignore people. Especially your elders."

Before you can think of another snappy comeback, his large, warm hand rests on your shoulder. He gently but firmly turns you back around to fully face him. Gosh… the proximity between you two is dizzying. Standing this close, you have to tilt your head up just to look into his dark, intense green eyes, his broad chest completely blocking out the rest of the living room.

You cross your legs instinctively, pressing them tight together to try and distract your mind from the sudden, overwhelming heat pooling deep between those slutty little legs of yours.

His gaze follows yours, noting the way you’ve closed yourself off. A low sound, more of a thoughtful hum than a laugh, vibrates in his chest as he studies the sudden change in the room's atmosphere. Jensen has always been skilled at reading people, and the silence between you now feels heavy with unspoken words.

"You've gone quiet," Jensen observes, his voice steady but carrying an underlying weight that demands your attention.

He takes a deliberate step toward you, closing the distance until the sheer presence of him feels like a physical barrier. He doesn't look away, his eyes searching yours for a reaction as he places a hand on the banister right next to your arm, effectively cornering you within the narrow space of the stairwell. The air feels thin as he leans in slightly, his expression unreadable but intense.

"There's a difference between being brave and being reckless," he says softly, his tone shifting from casual family friend to something much more serious. "And right now, you're making it very hard to tell which one you're trying to be."

He remains there for a long moment, watching the way your breath hitches, before finally stepping back just enough to give you room to breathe, though his focus remains entirely fixed on you.

"Jensen..." you gasped.

"What was that, doll? You know what... actually. Remember how I said there was going to be some ground rules. Well considering those. Let me add one more." he said as he put his index finger under your jaw, and thumb resting on your chin.

"A-and what's that...?" you reluctantly asked.

"No speaking unless given permission to... Up until your little 'friends' get here for the big girls 21st... how's that sound...?" he said as his grip on your chin tightened

"Sounds good. Very g-" you replied but were abruptly cut off by Jensen's voice, low, gravelly, and commanding

"Did I say speak?" he asked furrowing his eyebrows, face leaning closer into yours, your noses a breath apart, his hot breath fanning against your lips.

You shake your head from side to side, keeping your mouth shut... for now.

"Good girl... such a fast learner you are," he says, his voice dropping to a low, approving purr as he leans in a fraction of an inch closer. His intense gaze drops to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes. "You may speak now."

"My dad won't like this..." you blurt out, swallowing a thick wad of stress-saliva.

The words feel heavy in the air. Being in this compromising position with your father's best friend—a man you have had explicit fantasies about for years, a man whose photos you have secretly masturbated to in the dark of your bedroom—is dizzying. Your heart is hammering so loud against your ribs you're certain he can hear it, the forbidden thrill of the situation making the heat between your thighs completely unbearable.

Jensen doesn't flinch at the mention of your father. Instead, that slow, dangerous smirk creeps back onto his face, his green eyes darkening with absolute intent.

"Oh, doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin. "That's the thrill of it. Now, do as I say... Press those pretty, plump lips on mine. No regrets. No goddamn restraints."

"But, Jens—"

"No fucking 'buts,'" he growls.

Before you can finish your protest, he lets go of your chin, his large hand sliding back to grip a fistful of your hair. He yanks your head back just enough to expose your throat before crashing his lips brutally against yours.

The intensity is immediate. The rough texture of his stubble against your skin creates a sharp, exhilarating contrast to the sudden heat of the moment. As the kiss deepens, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the overwhelming sensation of his presence and the raw energy of his command. The friction and the firm grip on your hair serve as a powerful reminder of his refusal to let you pull away, igniting a spark of anticipation for wherever he intends to take this next.

He doesn't waste any time in the hallway. Keeping his hand firmly tangled in your hair, he walks you backward up the stairs or directly toward his master bedroom. He pushes you onto the bed, looming over you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, whispering, "You wanted to play the damsel in distress, doll? Let's see how you handle the rescue."

Your eyes have blown wide, the man who you've imagined yourself in this predicament with... is now willing to... sink his cock inside that greedy, cock hungry cunt of yours?

Jensen discarded his button-up onto the floor.

His chest was a masterpiece of masculine power, sculpted and defined with a light dusting of dark hair that tapered down over a stomach so firm you could wash clothes on it. Your eyes tracked that trail, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips as it disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. He saw your gaze, that predatory smirk widening as he slowly, deliberately popped the button on his jeans. The sound of his zipper lowering was deafening in the silent room, a metallic promise of what was to come.

He wasn't wearing anything underneath. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, curving up towards his stomach. The sight of it, so real and so much more imposing than your fantasies, made a choked whimper catch in your throat. He was perfectly proportioned, long enough to make you ache with the thought of taking him all, and thick enough that your inner walls clenched in a heady mix of apprehension and pure, unadulterated lust.

"Like what you see, doll?" he rasped, kicking his jeans away. He stood there for a moment, a god of muscle and raw masculinity, letting your eyes feast on him before he moved. He didn't crawl onto the bed; he lowered himself over you with a fluid, predatory grace, caging you in with his arms. His knees nudged your thighs apart, forcing them to open wide for him. The fabric of your dress was bunched up around your hips, and you could feel the intense heat of him radiating against your thin, soaked panties.

"Answer me," he commanded, his voice a low growl right next to your ear.

"Yes," you breathed, the word barely a puff of air. "God, yes."

"Good." He lowered his head, but not to your mouth. His lips latched onto the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. A bruise. A brand. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he worked his way down your throat. He was marking you, claiming you, and every cell in your body screamed in submission. He bit down gently on your collarbone, the sharp sting melting into a wave of pleasure that washed over you.

His hands were not idle. One slid down your side, his rough palm skimming over the curve of your hip before hooking into the flimsy material of your panties. He didn't pull them down. He ripped them. The sharp sound of fabric tearing was followed by the cool air hitting your dripping, swollen flesh. You were completely exposed to him, your most intimate place laid bare and glistening with your need.

"Fuck," he groaned, pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies. He shifted, settling his hips between your thighs, the thick, hard length of his cock resting directly against your slick, bare folds. He didn't enter you. Not yet. He just dragged himself through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal. The blunt head of his cock bumped against your throbbing clit with each pass, making you cry out and arch against him.

"Jensen, please," you begged, your voice broken with desperation. You were past caring about rules, past caring about anything but the agonizing emptiness inside you that only he could fill.

"Please what?" he taunted, his voice a dark chuckle as he continued his torturous rhythm, grinding against you. "Tell me what you want, doll. Use your words. Beg for it like I know you can."

He wanted to break you. He wanted to hear you completely undone, begging for the cock you'd fantasized about for years. And god help you, you wanted to give him exactly what he wanted.

"Please," you sobbed, bucking your hips up to meet his, trying to create more friction. "Please, Jensen... fuck me. I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want you to ruin me."

That was all it took. With a guttural groan that vibrated through his entire chest, he shifted his hips. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing against your tight, clenching hole. He didn't ease into you. He slammed into you in one brutal, punishing stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, exquisite pain mixed with blinding pleasure as you stretched to accommodate him. You cried out, your back bowing off the bed as he filled you completely, so deep you could feel him in your stomach. He gave you no time to adjust. He immediately set a ruthless pace, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you again and again. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal, and his deep, guttural grunts filled the room.

He hooked one of your legs over his arm, pushing it higher, opening you up even more for his relentless assault. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. You were nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, a body to be used, and you loved it. Your hands scrabbled at his back, leaving red trails down his skin as he pounded into you, his powerful body driving you into the mattress with each thrust.

"Look at me," he snarled, his hand fisting in your hair again, forcing your head up. Your eyes fluttered open, and you were immediately lost in the intense, feral green of his gaze. "Watch me while I fuck this tight little pussy. Watch me claim what's mine."

His words were your undoing. The coil of tension in your belly snapped, and your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a hurricane. You screamed his name, your body convulsing uncontrollably as waves of pleasure so intense they were almost painful washed over you. Your cunt clenched around him like a vice, milking his cock as he continued to fuck you through your climax.

He let out a harsh curse, his rhythm faltering for just a second as your spasming walls gripped him. "That's it, doll. Come all over my cock. Fucking take it."

He wasn't done with you. As the last tremors of your orgasm subsided, he pulled out of you with a wet sound. Before you could even process the sudden emptiness, he flipped you over onto your stomach with surprising strength. He grabbed your hips, yanking them up until you were on your hands and knees, your face pressed into the expensive bedding. He entered you from behind, even deeper this time, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow.

This position was pure, raw fucking. He drove into you with animalistic intensity, his hips slapping against your ass with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall. You were completely at his mercy, and you could feel another orgasm building, more powerful than the first. He reached around, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit, and began to rub it in tight, hard circles.

"Again," he commanded, his voice strained with his own impending release. "I want to feel you come on my cock again. Now."

His command was absolute. Your body responded instantly, shattering around him a second time. This orgasm was different, deeper, and it seemed to go on forever as he continued to piston into you. With a loud, guttural roar, he finally found his own release. You felt him swell inside you before his hot seed flooded your depths, pulse after pulse of his come marking you from the inside out.

He collapsed on top of you, his heavy body pinning you to the bed, both of you panting and sweating in the aftermath. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined ragged breaths. He was still inside you, a warm, heavy weight that felt strangely comforting. He pressed a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss to the back of your shoulder, a stark contrast to the brutal passion from moments before.

"Mine," he whispered against your skin, a final, possessive declaration.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ The next day ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

The morning light filtering through the massive windows was unforgiving. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest. You shifted, a dull, insistent ache between your thighs serving as a potent reminder of Jensen's brutal, thorough claiming. He was gone, the space beside you in his king-sized bed cold and empty, though the scent of his skin—honey and musk and raw sex—still clung to the sheets, and to you.

You dragged yourself to the shower, the hot water doing little to soothe the delicious soreness. Catching your reflection in the steamy mirror, your breath hitched. A dark, purpling bruise bloomed on the side of your neck, just above your collarbone. Another faint one marked the soft skin of your breast. You ran your fingers over them, a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly. He hadn't been lying. He'd marked you. He'd ruined you.

By the time the first car crunching up the gravel driveway announced the arrival of your friends, you were dressed in a high-collared silk top and your favorite jeans, a forced bright smile plastered on your face. Jensen was downstairs, looking infuriatingly composed in dark wash jeans and a simple black Henley that did nothing to hide his powerful frame. He caught your eye as you descended the stairs, a flicker of something hot and possessive in his gaze before he masked it with a neutral, friendly expression.

"Happy birthday, doll," he said, his voice a low rumble that was still capable of making your knees weak. He handed you a flute of champagne, his fingers brushing against yours. "Try not to break anything."

The front door flew open and in poured your best friends, a whirlwind of gifts, loud laughter, and excited shrieks.

"Bitch, you're 21!" Cindy cried, tackling you in a hug that made you wince. She was the wild one, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, and she missed nothing. She pulled back, her eyes narrowing as she scanned you from head to toe. "Whoa, you look... tired. Did you not sleep? And what's with the turtleneck in August?"

"I'm fine!" you said, a little too quickly. "Just excited. And it's not a turtleneck, it's a cowl neck. It's chic."

Kendra, the observant, sweet one, hugged you gently. "You do look a little flushed, sweetie. Are you feeling okay? You're not getting sick, are you? Not on your birthday."

"I'm perfectly fine," you insisted, taking a large gulp of champagne.

Cassie, the quietest of the three, just gave you a small, knowing smile. She didn't say anything, but her eyes lingered on the hand you kept subconsciously touching the side of your neck.

The party was in full swing. Music thumped from the state-of-the-art sound system, laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and alcohol flowed freely. Jensen kept his distance, mostly, but you were acutely aware of him at all times. He'd lean against a wall, sipping a whiskey, his gaze occasionally finding yours across the room. It was a heavy, possessive look that made your skin feel tight and your breath catch. It was a silent reminder of his rules, of the night before, of the fact that he could have you again whenever he wanted.

You were trying to tell Kendra about the caterer when Cindy sidled up next to you, nudging you with her elbow.

"Okay, spill," she demanded, her voice low and conspiratorial. "What the hell is going on with you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Rich over there?"

"Nothing!" you hissed, your eyes darting to where Jensen was talking to your father by the fireplace. "He's just... monitoring. Like he said he would."

Cindy snorted. "Bullshit. He's looking at you like you're the last piece of cake at a weight watchers meeting. And you keep blushing every time he looks at you. Plus," she added, her eyes dropping to your neck, "you're wearing a fucking scarf indoors. I know that look. That's the 'I got dicked down so good I can barely walk straight' look."

"Cindy!" you gasped, your face flaming. "Shut up!"

Kendra joined you, her brow furrowed with concern. "She's kind of right, you know. You seem... jumpy. And you keep wincing when you move too fast. Did you pull something?"

Before you could formulate a lie that wouldn't sound completely pathetic, Jensen was there. He moved with that unnerving, silent grace, suddenly just there in your personal space.

"Ladies," he said, his deep voice smooth as velvet. "Everything alright over here? The birthday girl needs another drink."

He held out a fresh glass of champagne to you, his eyes locked on yours. As you took it, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, intimate gesture that no one else would notice but that sent a jolt straight through you. He leaned in, his lips close to your ear, his voice barely a whisper.

"Having fun, doll? Or are you thinking about last night?" He paused, letting the words sink in. "Because I am. I keep thinking about how pretty you looked all spread out for me, taking my cock."

You choked on your champagne, sputtering as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. Jensen's hand came up to rest on your lower back, a gesture of feigned concern that was really a display of ownership. He rubbed slow, firm circles right above the curve of your ass, and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at your friends. "Guess she's a lightweight after all."

Cindy's eyes were wide, her gaze flicking between you and Jensen's hand on your back. Kendra looked confused and worried. And Cassie... Cassie just watched you both with an expression of dawning, horrified realization.

Jensen gave your back one final, proprietary pat before stepping away, rejoining your father as if nothing had happened. You stood there, trembling, your friends staring at you.

"Okay," Cindy said slowly, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. "What the fuck was that? That was not 'monitoring.' That was... territorial."

"He was just being nice," you whispered weakly, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.

"Nice?" Kendra repeated, her eyes wide. "He looked at you like... like he was going to eat you. And you're shaking. Honey, what did he do?"