mindfulmesses - Tumblr blog

mindfulmesses · 25 days ago

Text

i had a sneaky feeling i should check tumblr before going to bed and thank god i did 😏

Welcome home, Mrs. America pt. 3

part -> one | two | three

NOTES: finally!!! It’s here!! Sorry this took me so long, I wanted it perfect and life’s been craaaazy. I hope it was worth the wait!

TW: Ben being Ben (like highkey), lots of flirting, some smut in the second half, grinding in the car, semi-public sex (there’s a driver), dirty talk, breeding kink, clitoral stimulation. lmk if I missed any!

They wanted puff. Volume. Something massive and tulle-covered that would photograph like a fairytale. You’d taken one look at the frothy monstrosity being carried toward you and said flatly: “No.”

That’s when it started.

“It's too much,” you said firmly, arms crossed over your chest. “I look like I’m about to take flight.”

The stylist—an older woman with a permanent sneer and talons for nails—sighed loud enough for the sound tech to wince. “It’s bridal, sweetheart. It’s supposed to be dramatic.”

“This isn’t Dynasty,” you bit back, staring at the mirror. “I just want the fingertip-length veil. The one with the lace trim.”

“Which one?” she drawled, a mean, sharp smile on her face. “The one that looks like a doily?”

You opened your mouth—and stopped. Your reflection stared back at you, dressed in a dream: white silk gown, nipped waist, sweetheart neckline. Hair swept up in a soft, glossy twist. The veil they’d pinned into it towered like a mushroom cloud.

You looked like the opening act at a Vegas chapel.

And the worst part? You’d already pushed. Already fought for this dress. They’d wanted something bigger. Flashier. Something to make you look like a glittering paper doll on a Vought poster. You’d stood your ground through weeks of emails and sighs and barely-veiled comments about being “difficult”—and you’d won.

But now they were trying to sneak their way back in through the veil.

“I want to look elegant,” you said quietly. “I want it to be… timeless. Not something they’ll mock in a decade.”

Behind you, the stylist raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You actresses think you know better than the whole department. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been doing this for?”

You turned around. “I don’t think I know better. I know what flatters me. I know the camera. I know what looks like a joke—”

“You know what?” she cut in. “Why don’t you take a breath and remember who’s signing your checks.”

You blinked.

Your throat tightened. You weren’t going to cry. Not over a veil. Not over some old woman who smelled like cat food. But your jaw clenched, and your hand curled hard against the silk at your hip.

And then—

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Ben’s voice—rough, irritated, unmistakable—cut through the set like a gunshot.

The room fell silent.

You turned just as he strode in, already half-out of his jacket. His hair was freshly combed, still drying at the edges, like he’d just come from makeup.

He took one look at your face and stopped cold.

“What’s the matter?”

“She’s having a moment,” the stylist chirped, too fast. “Stage fright, probably. Doesn’t want to wear the veil marketing approved.”

“I do not have stage fright,” you huffed incredulously, crossing your arms firmly.

Ben’s gaze slid to you, then to the towering veil, and his brow ticked up.

“This thing?” he asked, gesturing to the puffed tulle monstrosity. “She doesn’t wanna wear this?”

“No,” you said, quiet but firm. “I don’t.”

“Good,” he said flatly. “Looks like a goddamn parachute. It’s fuckin’ awful.”

The stylist flushed red.

“You said she wanted it simple, right?” Ben added, stepping up behind you, eyes locked on yours. You nodded, quick and shakey, watching his eyes move back over to the costumer. “So give her the simple one.”

He reached for your waist, steadying your balance without asking. His hands spanned the curve of your hips like they were made to rest there. “She looks like a goddamn angel. Let her pick the wings.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Sure it is.” He bent and kissed your shoulder. “Which one do you want, honey?” He tilted his head down, eyes locked on yours once again

“Lace-trimmed, fingertip length,” you mumbled. “They said it was too understated.”

“They can eat shit.” He turned toward the stylist again. “Give her whatever she wants.”

A beat passed. Then the stylist turned on her heel, muttering under her breath.

Ben slid his hands up your waist, all mock-innocent. “You like the dress? They get it right?”

You nodded, still rattled. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t want to look silly.”

“You’re not and you don’t,” he nodded, his eyes raking up the length of your body unabashedly. “You ready for our pictures, Mrs. America?” he teased, lips brushing your temple. “Or do I gotta get you warmed up first?”

They stylist came back with a heavy sigh and an eyeroll that you knew Ben didn’t miss. Adjusting the comb into the back on your perfectly styled hair.

The veil settled just below your fingertips.

Soft, scalloped lace. Subtle. Romantic. It fell over your shoulders in a perfect sweep, catching the studio lights with the barest shimmer. Not poofy. Not ridiculous. Just… right.

Ben had made sure of that. For you.

Now you were standing under the lights, veil fluttering gently around you, ring glinting on your left hand, and Ben—your husband, in all the ways that mattered—was staring at you like he wanted to take you apart.

He hadn’t looked away from you since they started shooting.

Every time the flash went off, he was either smoothing a hand down your back or brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Every time they told him to “look natural,” he would glance down at your mouth with that filthy little half-smirk like natural meant imagining you laid out before him with not a stitch of clothing in sight.

The photographer called for a profile shot—“Her head tilted back! Chin up! Closer, Soldier Boy, hold her like you mean it!”

“You look like a fuckin’ movie star,” he murmured at your ear, breath hot as his hand skimmed along the small of your back. “One of those old ones. The ones with real class. The ones I used to beat off to in the barracks.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben,” you muttered under your breath.

He laughed, deep and warm and far too pleased with himself. “What? I’m payin’ you a compliment. Is that not allowed nowadays?”

You didn’t answer. You were too focused on staying composed—on smiling just enough, tilting your chin when directed, letting your hand rest over Ben’s chest just so. The camera flashed. Another pose. Another angle. Another dreamy, faux-candid moment immortalized for the American public.

Ben looked like a hero straight off the silver screen—broad and upright, square jaw neatly shaven, hair combed into military neatness. But his hand was on your waist like he owned you. Thumb brushing the side of your breast with every subtle shift. And when the photographer told him to lean in, whisper something sweet into your ear?

“Gonna take you home in this dress,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “Might just hike it up and fuck you in this little getup. Veil and all.”

You swallowed hard. Your smile didn’t falter—but your knees nearly did.

“Could bend you over the fuckin’ vanity,” he kept going, lips barely grazing your ear, “make you stare at yourself in the mirror while I push it in. Watch your tits bounce in all that silk while I fill you up.”

The camera flashed.

You smiled brighter.

“Don’t look so fuckin’ angelic,” he murmured, dropping his mouth along the edge of your jaw like a kiss. “Not when you’re squeezin’ your thighs together like that.”

The shutter clicked. You bit the inside of your lip. Smiled like you weren’t melting.

Your blush deepened—genuine, unmistakable. The photographer made a pleased sound. “That’s it, perfect. She looks smitten. One more just like that.”

You glared at Ben out of the corner of your eye. He just smirked.

“They want candid?” he muttered. “You should be glad I ain’t got my hand between your legs. S’ the most natural fuckin’ thing in the world.”

The next pose was a full embrace—your arms around his neck, his hands low on your back, his body crowding you close. Too close.

The photographer praised your expression. “God, yes. You two have such chemistry—this is gold.”

Ben’s eyes glittered. “They got no idea,” he muttered, hand slipping just slightly lower, thumb brushing over the swell of your ass beneath the silk. “Smile for ‘em, sweetheart. Let the world see how pretty you look for your husband.”

“Ben,” you huffed softly under your breath, smiling despite yourself.

He grinned against your cheek. “C'mon. All this lace and satin and soft skin out on display? You really think I’m gonna stand here and not get hard?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn't noticed, too caught up in trying to keep your knees from buckling every two seconds when he whispered filth in your ear.

“Just a little,” he teased. “Enough to ruin a few shots, maybe. Who cares, they should let the whole world see what you do to me.”

You laughed—an exasperated, breathy thing—and the photographer gasped. “Yes! That! Perfect! One more like that, with the smile.”

Ben gave you an innocent look. “See? I'm helpin’.”

“You can't just—”

“Still wanna watch your pretty little mouth wrap around me first,” he continued under his breath, cutting you off. “Real slow. Let you feel what you do to me. Let you make a fuckin’ mess of that lipstick.”

You nearly stepped on his foot with the heel of your shoe. He laughed again, low and dirty, and pressed his forehead against yours.

The next photo snapped as your eyes fluttered closed, your mouth parted in something close to bliss. You didn’t even hear the shutter that time.

Ben leaned in again, one hand stroking lazily up your spine beneath the veil. He kissed you then—chaste for the camera, but his mouth lingered a second too long.

“Let ‘em all watch,” he whispered, voice raw and reverent. “They don’t know it, sweetheart, but they’re takin’ pictures of exactly what you’re gonna look like when we make our baby. Ain’t that something special?"

You barely managed to keep smiling for the next round of shots.

He posed behind you—hands cradling your hips like he was practicing—and kissed your temple on cue.

You shivered, trying not to show it.

“You wanted timeless?” he murmured, licking the corner of your ear. “You got it. Gonna spend all night fuckin’ my wife like I got nothin’ but time.”

And when the camera caught the two of you like that—your hand resting delicately over his, his body solid behind yours, eyes on you like you were the only thing that mattered—you looked perfect for the role Vought was paying you to play.

Except Ben wasn’t acting anymore.

Not even a little.

The car door shut with a thunk behind you. Before you could even adjust your gown, Ben’s arm was around your waist.

“C’mere.”

You barely had time to blink before he hauled you across the backseat and into his lap—strong hands guiding you sideways, thighs draped over his, the bulk of your gown spilling between your bodies in a flurry of silk and under skirt.

“Wait, Ben—”

“Hell no, no more waiting. I’ve been fuckin’ patient all day,” he muttered, voice hot against your neck. “Now I want my girl where she belongs.”

His hands gripped your waist, his breath already warm at your ear. “Goddamn, look at you. All soft and sweet and sittin’ pretty in my lap.”

You squirmed, trying to find a comfortable spot, but the second your hips rolled forward, you felt it—him—hot and thick under the material of his pants.

Ben hissed through his teeth. “That’s it,” he said roughly. “That’s what I wanted, sweetheart.”

You whimpered, already dizzy from the weight of his hands on you, the heat of him beneath you, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint linger of hairspray and roses from the shoot.

“We’re in the car—”

“Exactly,” he growled. “'Means I got twenty minutes before I can get you in our bed. And I’m not wastin’ one fuckin’ second.”

“But the driver can probably hear us,” you protested weakly. You weren’t even convincing yourself, let alone Ben.

His hand slid down your back, past the adorned fabric of the bodice, until it gripped your ass through the layers of silk and tulle. He groaned.

“I couldn’t care less, sweetheart. You’re sittin’ here, grindin' on my fuckin’ cock in a wedding dress,” he rasped. “I could die happy right here.”

You laughed breathlessly, but the sound caught in your throat when his hips jerked up beneath you—slow and deliberate. You gasped. “Ben—”

“You feel that?” he murmured, mouth hot against your jaw. “Feel what you do to me?”

You did. He was rock hard beneath you. The pressure unbearable. Perfect.

His hand came around to your front, trailing low, thumb dragging across your stomach like a brand. “Gonna fuckin’ breed you tonight,” he murmured. “Get you home and slide in so deep you’ll still be feelin’ it when we take our anniversary photos.”

You whimpered, and he smiled—dark and filthy.

“But first,” he growled, rutting up again, “I wanna get you good and slick. Drippin' down those pretty little thighs.”

His hand found your hip and guided you down—rocking you forward again, pressing you against the thick line of him until the friction hit just right. You moaned, soft and sweet and breathy.

“Yeah,” he hissed. “Just like that, sweetheart. You ride me nice and slow, we’ll have this gown soaked through before we hit the elevator. Want those panties stickin' good when I peel 'em off."

You bit your lip, thighs trembling as you rolled against him. The silk of your panties dragged over your clit with every motion, and it was maddening. You knew they were probably sheer at this point with how wet you were.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” you breathed.

“Already have,” he muttered. “You’re my fuckin’ wife. We're married, honey. I ain’t ever gonna get over that.”

He kissed you hard—rough and wet, biting your lower lip before licking it soft. His fingers dipped beneath the layers of fabric then—barely—notching just inside your thighs, just enough to graze wet heat and make you whine.

“Shhh,” he cooed, cupping your jaw with his free hand. “Be good. Let me play with my favorite girl a little bit.”

You were melting, hips rocking forward in tiny, helpless little motions. He matched your rhythm with maddening precision, stroking gentle and filthy between your legs, thumb grazing your clit over your panties every few beats.

“I want you worked up, baby,” he whispered. “So wet and needy that when I finally slide in, it’ll feel like you were made for me.”

You buried your face in his neck, panting, undone.

“And then,” he added, voice a deep, tender rumble, “I’m gonna fill you up. Just like I promised. Nice and deep. Right where our baby’s gonna grow.”

You let out a choked sound—half whimper, half plea—and Ben groaned like he was in pain.

“Fuck, that really does it for me. You sittin’ here like this, so sweet and needy—can’t fuckin’ take it.”

You trembled in his lap, thighs shaking. He pulled your face back to his, kissing you deep—tongue slow and claiming, hands greedy, desperate, reverent.

“I love you like this,” he groaned. “All dressed up and grindin’ on your husband in the back of a fuckin’ car like it’s prom night.”

The car slowed.

Ben looked up, breathing hard

He adjusted you in his lap gently, then reached down and pulled your panties the rest of the way off, slipping them into his pocket with a smirk. “Drenched,” he muttered. “Just from ridin’ me. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

You blinked, dazed.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Time to take my wife to bed and make good on my vows.”

ENDNOTE: mwahaha, ending on a cliff hanger ✨ I’d apologize but I’m not sorry. part 4 is already pretty written out so it should (and I really do mean it this time) be out soon. Love yall <3

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity @never-brooks @ladykitana90 @mindfulmesses @paristheonewhoreads @prettywhenipanic THIS SERIES @smoke-and-tunes @muhahaha303 @agustdpeach @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @exzidss @spoiledcarmen @mimiimmii @theblackcherries @little-diable @yeehawgiddyup13 @bigsadforsmut @imstillgarbage @mbjackie @shhh423 @f1wh0recom @fox-saturn

let me know (and please specify) if you’d like to be added to my general taglist or just for this series 🤍 (if you don’t you’re going on my general one <3)

#YESSSSSS #we’ve been fed #soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy x reader #digital diary

412 notes · View notes

mindfulmesses · 1 month ago

Text

FUCKING MASTERPIECE IM TELLING YOU! exactly what i was looking for im obsessed with this. please keep em coming this is amazing 🫶🫶🫶🫶

Welcome home, Mrs. America pt. 2

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

Part 1 -> 2

NOTES: here she is!! Part 2!!! I’m astounded by how this took off and I’m sorry this took so long <3 Enjoy it my loves 🤍

TW: pr relationship/marriage, she’s a lil awkward around him in some spots, drug usage, “traditional” husband ben, possessive language, breeding kink/comments, oral (f receiving), description of sexual acts, lots of use of husband/wife, he’s kind of doting lowkey, one comment about her needing to eat more. Let me know if I need to add any!

… 2 days later …

The house smelled like bacon and weed.

You hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, blinking into the morning light like maybe you’d stumbled onto the set of something you weren’t supposed to see. It was just past nine, and the kitchen already sounded alive—something sizzling, something low playing from an old speaker, and a man’s voice humming along a beat behind, off-key and unapologetic.

You figured Ben would be gone again—another early meeting, another PR stunt, another day where your husband existed more on headlines than in hallways. He hadn't even come back until almost 10:00 PM the night before.

Ben stood at the stove, barefoot and bare-chested, hair wild, a pair of low-slung pajama pants riding dangerously low on his hips. He had one hand around a spatula and the other wrapped around a mug, which you’d bet wasn’t filled with anything a normal person would drink at 9 am on a Wednesday. A lit joint dangled from his mouth. There was some kind of white powder already dusted across the marble counter.

So… definitely not gone.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps and gave you a look that felt like it dragged teeth down your spine—slow and biting.

“Well, well,” he muttered, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Thanks for finally gracing me with your presence, Mrs. America.”

You blinked, still groggy. “Good morning to you too.”

He turned back to the pan like he hadn’t just delivered a line meant to sting. “Made you breakfast.”

You stared.

He said it like that was normal.

“I—thanks,” you offered cautiously, stepping further into the kitchen. You were still in your robe, hair half-damp and skin clean and soft and smelling like the expensive soap from the marble tub upstairs. The idea of a bath, and prolonging the journey out into the apartment, had been too tempting. You could feel his eyes drag over you.

He slid a plate across the counter toward you—eggs, bacon, toast blackened on one side—and didn’t even look at you when he said if. “Eat. You’re too goddamn skinny. No more skippin' meals, not on my watch.”

You choked on a laugh. “I eat.”

“Not enough.” He brought the joint to his lips again, taking a long drag before dropping his hand again. “I like a little meat on my girls.”

“Your girls?” you echoed, lifting an eyebrow as you moved to sit.

“Yeah,” he said plainly. “Ass, tits, thighs—I like somethin’ I can grab on.”

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He just poured you a cup of coffee—the real kind, thick and black and strong smelling— and slid it across to you like it was a peace offering.

“Just sayin’,” he added after a beat, “I wouldn’t mind seein’ a little softness on those hips. Can't have you eatin' like a little bird once you're knocked up either.”

Your cheeks burned hot.

“Ben,” you warned, but there was no bite to it. You were smiling.

He leaned against the counter, watching you like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. When you picked up the fork—slowly, a little self-conscious now—he let out a pleased hum.

“There she is,” he said. “That’s my girl. Good appetite, bare feet in my kitchen… fuck, sweetheart. You’re a vision.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping it would tamp down the blush still going strong on your cheeks–it didn’t. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m romantic,” he countered, deadpan. “Old-school.”

“You’re high.”

He laughed then—low and rich and golden, head tipping back slightly. “Also true.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. It was all absurd. Surreal. But somehow… oddly sweet.

Ben finished his joint, stubbed it out on a chipped ashtray, then stretched like a cat—arms over his head, abs flexing, pants riding low enough to show the start of that sharp V of muscle.

You looked away too fast and took a sip of coffee.

He caught it. Of course he did.

“Well,” he said casually, his voice a low drawl, “I’m gonna go shower.”

You looked up, a small polite smile already present. “Okay.”

And then, slow and deliberate:

“Feel free to join me.”

Your eyes widened just slightly. He smiled. Lazy and pleased.

“Or just come sit and keep me company,” he said, voice dipping low. “I don’t mind an audience. You can even keep the robe on if you want. Or don’t. Dealer’s choice.”

You laughed—quiet, startled, but real.

Ben winked, “see? I’m gettin’ there. You’re startin’ to smile when I flirt with you.”

“I’m not—” you started to protest, but you were still smiling.

He grinned, turning toward the hallway with a stretch and a low groan. “I’ll leave the door cracked. Just in case.”

You watched him disappear down the hall, and the heat in your face didn’t fade for a long, long time.

You didn’t follow him. Not then.

But the warmth stayed in your chest all day. The sound of his voice. The lazy charm of his grin.

You stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, heat crawling up your chest. You picked at your toast.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling.

…Later that night…

The hallway was quiet. That rich, echoing kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. It was dark, late, which made it feel even more forbidden despite the fact you lived here. You were grown. Married.

The soft pad of your bare feet against the hardwood barely registered over the rush of your own pulse. You felt warm beneath the silk of your nightgown, skin buzzing like it knew what was waiting behind that door. Your fingers brushed the hem of it once, twice—nervous, uncertain, a little aching.

You weren’t even sure what you were doing.

Just… saying goodnight.

That’s what you told yourself. You were doing what any good wife would do, right?

You paused in the doorway. He’d left it cracked, just like he said he would. Like he’d apparently done every night since you’d gotten here.

Ben was already in bed—shirtless and golden in the low amber light, his body half-shadowed and impossibly still. The glow caught on the ridges of his chest, the broad spread of his shoulders, the rough slope of his jaw. He looked carved—something ancient, massive, unapologetically male—and the sight of him hit you all at once. The reality of him. The way his stomach rose slowly beneath the sheet, the way his arms were folded behind his head like he’d been there a while. Waiting.

It made something hot bloom in your chest, sharp and soft all at once. You weren’t sure if it was desire or nerves or something else entirely—but it was overwhelming. He had his arms property behind his head like he had nowhere better to be—like he’d been waiting there forever, perfectly relaxed, legs stretched wide beneath the thin sheet. He looked half-drunk, maybe a little high, but very, very awake.

Your breath caught.

And when he saw you, something in his face changed. His eyes dragged down your legs, up the hem of that little nightgown—and he smiled. Low. Lazy. Like you’d just proven a point he hadn’t said out loud.

“Well,” he said, voice thick as molasses. “Look who finally came to bed.”

You flushed instantly. “I—I wasn’t—I just came to say goodnight.”

“If this is how you say goodnight,” he said thickly, “I might not survive a real good morning.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to make a joke—but none came to mind. Your throat felt tight. The warmth of him, the way he looked at you, it all caught you off guard.

You hesitated, then said softly, eyes on the floor, “I… just didn’t want to go another night without saying it to your face.” Your voice cracked a little at the end, like you surprised yourself with the words.

Ben stilled, just for a beat. Like something in him softened. His whole expression shifted—heat giving way to something quieter. He looked at you like you’d just offered him a lifeline.

His hand dragged down his chest, scratching along the v of muscle that disappeared beneath the sheets. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll be honest, sweetheart, I’ve been sittin’ in this bed, thinkin’ about you. Palming my cock and tellin’ myself to be patient for three fuckin’ days.”

You blinked.

“Then you come in here all glowin’, smellin’ like flowers, legs out, tits bouncin’ when you walk,” he said, letting his gaze sweep across you like a caress. “like I’m not hard as fuck just from lookin’ at you.”

He sat up, slow and smooth, letting the sheet slide down to his hips. There was nothing hurried in the way he moved — just this heavy, coiled confidence. The kind that said he knew what came next.

And then his voice dropped. “C’mere, baby.”

Something about the way he said it—c’mere—so soft, so sure. Like he wasn’t asking. Like he knew. He looked at you like you were something fragile. Something he’d starve without.

“You been sleepin’ in that guest room like I don’t fuckin’ notice you,” he murmured as you got closer. “Like I ain’t hearin’ your little footsteps when you get up at all hours a’the night. Gave you your space. I let you have it. Wanted y’to, baby.”

You nodded, fidgeting.

His hand reached out—slow, gentle—and hooked around your wrist. He rubbed a thumb against your pulse point, eyes on yours. “But I’ve had just about enough of bein’ polite.”

Your heart thudded.

He stood—all heat and mass and intent—and loomed over you without ever making you feel trapped. Just wanted. Just… his.

Ben leaned in, mouth at your ear, voice so low and warm it made your spine arch.

“I need you in my bed, sweetheart. Need you under me. Need to hear those pretty little sounds I’ve been dreamin’ about since the minute I put that ring on your finger.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You don’t gotta do a goddamn thing,” he whispered, cupping the back of your neck. “Just come lie down and let your husband take care’a you”

You whimpered—barely—and he grinned.

“There she is.”

He kissed your cheek. Just once. Just enough to make your knees soften.

Then he nudged his nose down along your jaw, murmuring, “If you don’t let me take this little nightgown off and see what I’ve been missin’, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

His other hand slid down, fingers grazing the curve of your hip—warm and possessive.

“Come to bed, baby,” he coaxed, guiding you backwards. “Let me get my hands on my wife.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Let him guide you back toward the mattress.

And Ben—he let out a breath like it hurt to wait even another second.

“‘Bout goddamn time,” he murmured, pulling you close. “It’s bedtime, sweetheart. And I’m not lettin’ you outta this bed until I make you mine.”

He laid you back on the mattress like you were made of glass. Like you were something he’d prayed for and never expected to touch.

Ben stood above you for a second, just looking—all muscle and menace and awe, like he couldn’t believe his luck. His jaw twitched like he was holding something back. Words, maybe, or just the need to devour you whole. His eyes dragged over you with a slow, searing hunger, cataloging every inch like he meant to memorize it. Not just lust—possession. Reverence. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this exact moment and couldn’t stop staring just to make sure it was real. heavy-lidded and golden in the lamplight, chest rising slow and hungry like he was trying to take you in with every breath. His hand dragged through his hair, tousling it even more, and he let out a thick, low groan.

And then, slowly, reverently, he climbed onto the bed. His knees bracketed your hips. His arms came down beside your shoulders. His weight sank into the mattress like inevitability.

“I got a wife,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “I got a fuckin’ wife. And she looks like this.”

You flushed. Your hands slid up his arms, unthinking. His skin was hot and tight over muscle, flexing under your fingers.

“I didn’t know if you’d want—” you started, voice small, but he cut you off with a sound just shy of angry.

“Sweetheart,” he growled, lowering to your neck, “if you think I’d let you, my brand spankin’ new wife, come in here, all soft and shy in that fuckin’ slip, legs out, smellin’ like lavender, and not lay you out like dessert? You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

He kissed your collarbone. Your shoulder. His hands skimmed up your thighs, big palms rough and reverent. He pushed your nightgown up slow—slow—baring inch after inch like he was peeling open something sacred.

“Oh, baby,” he crooned, voice thick. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be sweet all over.”

You gasped as his thumbs brushed the crease where thigh met hip, and he smiled—starving and satisfied.

“You shy now, sweetheart?” he murmured. “Gettin’ quiet on me? That’s alright. I can talk enough for both of us.”

His fingers slid higher, catching the waistband of your panties. He let out a laugh—soft and filthy.

“Fuck. You’re soaked, honey. And I haven’t even touched you proper yet.”

You whimpered, hips shifting—and that was all it took.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, sliding down your body, kissing your stomach on the way. “You’re gonna let me have a taste, yeah?”

He settled between your legs like he was made for it.

“I gotta know what my wife tastes like,” he muttered, lips dragging over the inside of your thigh. “Gotta feel you fall apart on my tongue. Gonna ruin you for anybody else even thinkin’ about tryin’.”

Your hands flew to his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he pulled your panties down and tossed them aside. “Please, Ben-”

“I’ll be so good to you, baby,” he promised, kissing the seam of your cunt. “Swear to God. I’ll take my fuckin’ time. Gonna make you cum like it’s my fuckin’ job—‘cause it is, isn’t it?”

He looked up, pupils blown, lips parted.

“I’m your husband. This is what I do.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, deep. His tongue pushed inside you slow and deliberate before he dragged it up and latched onto your clit, sucking like he meant to pull the sound right out of your throat.

“Ben—” you gasped, hips jerking.

He groaned like it hurt to go slow. Like your voice was enough to wreck him completely.

You whimpered again, overwhelmed, and he licked you harder—tongue flattening, swirling, filthy and adoring.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured against you. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You were panting now, fingers still buried in his hair, hips starting to roll—grinding up into his mouth like you couldn’t help it. Your thighs trembled around his head. The silk of your nightgown clung to your skin, damp with sweat and bunched around your ribs.

Ben moaned like it pained him. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, broad palms rough and steady, anchoring you in place like he felt you slipping. But one hand broke away, dragging up—slow and sure—fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh, then sliding under your nightgown, pressing flat to your belly.

He groaned when he found it—warm and soft beneath his palm.

You gasped—sharp, breathless—and his mouth went sloppier after that. More frantic. More needy. His tongue licked deep, slow strokes up through your folds, groaning like he was trying to get drunk off your taste.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold on, baby. Let me have it.”

Your whole body arched. His mouth moved with you, relentless. His tongue circled your clit, then sucked it between his lips—firm, focused, obscene. You choked out his name.

“Ben—!”

He groaned—hard—his voice breaking against you like gravel. His fingers flexed against your thighs, keeping you spread.

“That’s right,” he growled. “Say it again. Wanna hear my name comin’ outta your mouth while I’ve got my tongue buried in your fuckin’ cunt.”

You whined, overwhelmed. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Your body was stretched tight, trembling on the edge. “Ben, I—I can’t—”

He lifted his head just enough to speak, voice rough and utterly gone.

“You can,” he rasped. “You will. Gonna cum for me, baby. Right on my fuckin’ face. You hear me?”

His hand returned to your belly, firm and grounding. Holding you down like he could keep you tethered to the earth.

“I’m gonna do this every fuckin’ night if you let me,” he said, voice like a vow. “Put you to bed with my mouth on you. Remind you what it means to be mine.”

You sobbed—helpless. You were already there, seconds away. Already unraveling.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “All shaky, tears in your eyes, drippin’ down my chin. You’re gonna soak me, aren’t you? Gonna cum like the sweet little housewife they promised me.”

Your hips bucked. You nodded—wild and frantic. “Please—”

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, licking his lips like he was high on your taste. “Don’t beg. You don’t have’ta beg me for nothin’.”

Then his mouth was back on you, unrelenting. Tongue swirling, lips wrapped around your clit, groaning every time you cried out. The pressure built sharp and hot, your legs trembling so hard it felt like your bones would break—

And then you were cumming.

Hard.

Your cry broke the air, sharp and wet. Your hips jerked once, twice—then you were shaking, thighs locked around his shoulders, gasping for air as he licked you through every quake. Your fingers slipped from his hair, grabbing at the sheets, his arms, anything.

Ben didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your body went limp, melting into the mattress in a boneless sprawl.

Only then did he finally pull back.

And fuck, he looked wrecked.

His face was glistening with you. His beard was soaked. His lips were red, his jaw tense, his chest rising hard like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice ragged and full of reverence. “You’ve got a perfect fuckin’ pussy for eatin’, honey.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your thighs were trembling. You couldn’t move—you didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, boneless and wide open, and let him look at you like that forever.

Ben crawled up over you, huge and burning, and settled between your legs like he meant to live there. His cock pressed against your inner thigh, thick and straining under the soft fabric of his pajama pants. You whimpered when you felt it.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Don’t do that. Don’t make that sound. You do that again, I’m not gonna be a fuckin’ gentleman.”

He lowered his body, crowding you in, bracing himself on his elbows so his weight kissed every inch of your skin. The heat of him was everywhere. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your kiss-bruised lips.

“You let me have that pretty little pussy like I earned it,” he whispered, filthy and fond. “Like you wanted it. You did, didn’t you?”

You nodded, breathless.

His eyes flashed. He grinned—lazy, dangerous.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “God, you were so fuckin’ soft on my tongue. I could’ve stayed there all night. Could’ve made you cum again and again until you were cryin’ and shakin’ all over for me.”

You whimpered again. Your hips shifted up, helpless, trying to chase friction.

Ben moaned—a deep, gravelly sound that rattled in his chest—and pushed down against you in return, grinding his cock against the soaked heat of your core, only his pants separating him from sliding in.

“You feel that?” he hissed. “That’s what you do to me. I’m leakin’ for you, baby. My fuckin’ balls hurt. You got me so worked up I’m seein’ stars.”

Your hand reached for him—shaky, needy—and found the hard line of him through the fabric. You gave one small squeeze.

He growled—an animal sound—and caught your wrist fast, pinning it to the mattress above your head.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not tonight. You touch me again, and I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll pin you down and fuck you like we’re tryin’ to break the bed.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. His voice shook.

“You don’t get it, baby. I’ve been imaginin’ this. Every night. Lyin’ in that bed, jerkin’ off like a fuckin’ teenager, thinkin’ about what it’d be like the first time I fuck you.”

He swallowed hard, like he hated himself for putting a stop to it. “And it’s not this. It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. And it sure as hell isn’t me losin’ it the second I get between your thighs.

“Ben,” you breathed, dazed and trembling.

He kissed your neck—open-mouthed and hot, dragging his tongue up to your jaw.

“I wanna fuck you so bad it’s makin’ me stupid,” he murmured, mouth brushing the corner of your lips, “but when i do, I’m gonna take my time. Need to do it right.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you, all flushed and wrecked, mouth swollen, chest heaving.

“I’m not just gonna slide in and call it done. No, sweetheart. I’m gonna show you what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Night after night. Fistin’ my cock to the thought of you.”

His hand curled over your waist—firm and slow—and dragged down, tracing the shape of your body like he owned it.

“First thing I’m gonna do?” His breath hit your ear, hot enough to burn. “Get you on your knees. Right in front of me. Let you see what you do to me up close. Let you wrap those pretty little hands around it. Let you kiss it. Lick it. Get it wet.”

You whimpered, and his hips rolled against yours—slow and unhurried—but you could feel the thick press of his cock through his pants, heavy and hot and twitching with need.

“Let me see your mouth stretch around it,” he rasped. “Let me feel that tongue, soft and wet, gettin’ it ready. Wanna watch you choke on it a little, baby. Just a little. Hear you gag when it hits the back of your throat.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it cost him something to keep it gentle.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just ‘cause I wanna see what it looks like. You, on your knees, makin’ a mess for me.”

His mouth brushed yours again, light and almost reverent.

“And then,” he said, pulling back enough to look you in the eyes, “I’m gonna lay you down. Just like this. On your back. In our bed.”

He cupped the side of your face, thumbing your cheek like you were fragile.

“I’m not gonna rush it. Not gonna throw you over and fuck you ‘til you cry—not the first time.”

He was hovering above you, mouth brushing your cheek, his weight braced in his arms so you could feel the heat of him without being crushed. His hips pressed down, slow and heavy, grinding just enough to remind you how hard he still was—how close.

“I’m not just gonna tear into you like I haven’t been dreamin’ about it for weeks. No. You’re gonna be right here, drippin’ onto the sheets, legs spread, all soft and open for me.”

His hand trailed down your side, reverent. Possessive. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

“I’m gonna kiss you while I do it,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “real slow. Gonna hold your hips still while I slide in, inch by fuckin’ inch, watch your face the whole time, just to see how it hits you.”

He let his palm drag across your belly again, low and firm, the heat of it seeping into your skin like a brand.

“I’m gonna fill you so slow, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Stretch this pussy out around me ‘til you’re takin’ all of it. And when I bottom out, when I’m buried so deep you feel me in your throat? I’m stayin’ there.”

You gasped, helpless.

He pressed his hips forward again—just enough for you to feel the weight of his cock against your soaked core, thick and ready and restrained.

“And when I cum?” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m not finishin’ on your tits or your ass or your tongue. I’m not makin’ a mess.”

His hand slid lower. Flattened over your belly, just above your mound. He moaned, deep in his chest. “Right here,” he murmured. “Gonna make you soft, baby. Knock you up so good they’ll see it in your fuckin’ eyes.”

You whimpered. Your legs shifted, opening a little wider without even meaning to. The way he said it, soft and sure, like a promise, made your whole body ache. You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you like he was watching the sun rise. “You’re gonna let me. Gonna take it. Gonna wrap those pretty legs around my waist and hold me there while I fuck it in.”

His other hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“I wanna see your face when it happens,” he murmured. “When I knock you up. Wanna watch you fall apart under me while I make you mine for real. Gonna love on you through every fuckin’ second while I fill this pretty little pussy up ‘til there’s nothin’ left to give. Gonna watch it take.”

You moaned, half-choked, already shaking.

“You’re gonna beg me to stay inside, aren’t you?”

He pressed his hips forward again, just enough to make you gasp.

“Gonna cry when I pull out, even though you’re already stuffed so full it’s runnin’ down your thighs.”

You made a desperate, needy sound in your throat, and Ben kissed it away—dragging his mouth over your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“I’m gonna tell you how perfect you are the whole time, too,” he whispered. “Gonna fuck you slow, deep, let you feel every drop I give you. Let you moan into my mouth while I give you a fuckin’ family.”

He kissed your belly then—open-mouthed and wet. Reverent.

“This is where our baby’s gonna grow,” he whispered, lips pressed low against your skin. “Right here. Gonna keep you full all the fuckin’ time. Let everybody see who you belong to.”

Then he looked up at you, eyes dark and full of fire.

“They made you my wife,” he said, voice like thunder under silk. “But I’m gonna make you a mother.”

He kissed your lips again, deep and slow, then pulled the covers over you both without leaving your body. He gathered you close, your thigh over his, your chest against his chest, your breath tangled up in his.

“No more sleepin’ in that guest room,” he said roughly. “You sleep here. With me. In our bed. Every night.”

He nuzzled your temple, voice lower now—almost tender.

“I ain’t spendin’ another night reachin’ for you and findin’ cold fuckin’ sheets.”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, overwhelmed. His arms tightened around you.

“Fuckin’ knew it the second I saw you,” he whispered against your temple. “You were meant to be mine.”

And then softer, right against your ear—so low it was barely a breath: “And the next time you get in our bed, sweetheart? The nightgown hits the floor first.”

He kissed you deep after that—tongue sweeping, filthy and reverent, like he was sealing a vow—and you knew, with every fiber of your being, that he meant every single word.

A/N I’d love to hear some ideas or things you’d want to see! I truly had so much anxiety while writing this and getting ready to post since pt. 1 garnered such a following so hope I lived up to that! And if I don’t just dooooon’t tell me. It went through so many evolutions to get here and I’d love to here your thoughts or things you might like to see with this series

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity THIS SERIES @smoke-and-tunes @muhahaha303 @agustdpeach @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @exzidss @spoiledcarmen @mimiimmii @theblackcherries @mindfulmesses

let me know if you’d like to be added/moved/removed 🤍 Please specify if you mean for just this series or my general taglist! If you don’t, you’re going on the general one <3

#digital diary #soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #ben the boys #soldier boy the boys #soldier boy smut #the boys smut

628 notes · View notes