#and then ben steals it back from him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 6 months ago

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quick learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

──────────────────────

a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

this fic now has a complementary c.ai bot .ᐟ

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ��ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

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other works — the boys masterlist

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pucksandpower · 2 days ago

Text

Velvet Cage

Max Verstappen x Ben Sulayem!Reader

Summary: Max Verstappen is known for taking what he wants — racing lines, wins, championships — so when what he wants is the daughter of the FIA president … well, he’ll stop at nothing to make you his

Warnings: Stockholm syndrome, drugging, kidnapping, and extremely dubious consent

“I still don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” you murmur, adjusting the fine silk strap of your off-white slip dress. The paddock around you buzzes with energy, the kind that moves too fast, even when it’s standing still. Cameras flash. Radios crackle. The heat glimmers off the tarmac in waves. “It’s winter break. I was supposed to be eating waffles in bed.”

Your father chuckles beside you, one hand lightly adjusting the lapel of his navy blazer. “And instead, you’re spending the weekend watching some of the finest athletes in the world compete. Not such a punishment, no?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I study draping and pattern-making for twelve hours a day. I don’t exactly keep up with race strategy.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you learned. You’ve been away too long. This,” he gestures around, the halo of international glamour and roaring engines, “is your world too, habibti.”

You don’t argue. You just tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and keep walking, heels clicking delicately against the pavement.

You’re aware of the way people look at you. There’s a strange sort of hush that follows your presence. You don’t wear the bold prints, loud logos, or thigh-high boots that seem mandatory for most grid girls and influencers here. Instead, you wear a delicate pearl choker and pink lipstick, your movements soft and considered, like you’re walking through a museum, not a racetrack.

He notices you instantly.

Max leans on the Red Bull pit wall like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He’s mid-conversation with Christian and GP when his eyes flick toward you and then stop. Freeze, actually. His words fall off.

“What?” GP follows Max’s gaze. “You’ve got that look. The dangerous one.”

Max doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. Your father is speaking to a Ferrari engineer now, and you’re standing just behind him, arms crossed loosely over your midsection, eyes scanning the track.

Who the fuck is she?

“She’s not one of the usual girls,” Christian notes, nudging Max with the back of his hand. “Not your type.”

“She’s not a type.” Max’s voice is quiet but firm. His accent is rougher when he’s focused like this. “She’s … something else.”

You turn, finally, your eyes flicking up toward the Red Bull garage — not at anyone, just a glance across the paddock — and Max feels something shift in his chest. You don’t smile. You don’t wave. You just look. A moment later, you’re following your father toward the VIP hospitality.

Max is still staring.

***

That night, the after-party is full of haze and excess — every corner of the rooftop layered with soft golden lights, low music, and the rich scent of expensive perfume.

You sit on a white velvet sofa with a glass of still water in your hand. Around you, people shout over each other. Everyone looks hot and loud and wildly overdressed. You look like a Botticelli painting wandered into a nightclub.

Max doesn’t approach. Not yet.

From across the room, he watches you. Elbows propped on his knees, fingers curled around a whiskey glass, posture loose but sharp beneath the surface. He’s been in this world long enough to spot something real when it walks in. And you? You’re not performing. You’re not trying to be seen. You’re just … there.

And that makes you the most visible person in the room.

“She’s the FIA president’s daughter,” Carlos mutters behind him, stealing a glance. “Ben Sulayem’s kid.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. I know.”

“She doesn’t even live here, mate. Goes to school in New York. Fashion, I think.”

Max already knows. He knows you live on the Lower East Side. That you interned with Simone Rocha last summer. That your student portfolio has over twenty-two pieces, each one more quietly beautiful than the last. That your online presence is frustratingly private, with just a few tagged photos and a locked Instagram account. But he found the rest. Old interviews from high school. The FIT student newsletter. An archived blog where you once wrote a 600-word essay on the relationship between grief and design.

He’s read every word. It’s not obsession. Not yet. He just … can’t stop.

“Max,” Lando calls from the bar, waving a cocktail around like a warning flag. “You gonna mope there all night or talk to her?”

Max doesn’t answer. His attention is laser sharp, his whole being focused on the curve of your jaw, the way your hand grazes your collarbone when you laugh politely at something someone says.

He doesn’t want to talk to you. He wants to know what your voice sounds like when it’s not polite. He wants to know how you look when you’re not watching yourself.

He wants-

Your eyes meet his.

It’s a short glance. Maybe even accidental. But it’s electric.

You blink first. He doesn’t.

***

Across the room, you shift uncomfortably. Your father is deep in conversation with an old team principal and you’re left on the edge, slightly adrift. The air conditioning bites your bare shoulders and you’re beginning to regret not grabbing a wrap.

That’s when you feel it — a prickling. That slow, creeping awareness that someone is watching you.

Your eyes scan the room, slower this time. Your gaze lands on him again.

The driver.

You recognize him, of course. Max Verstappen. You’ve heard his name for what feels like half your life. He’s always being yelled at during race briefings according to your father. But this is the first time you’ve really looked at him.

He’s intense.

That’s the only word that fits. Not traditionally handsome, not flashy, but he looks at you like he’s trying to unspool your thoughts, strip them bare, rearrange them. Like he already knows what’s underneath.

You look away quickly.

But you feel it still — the heat of his gaze, pinned to your skin like a weight.

You shift in your seat.

You shouldn’t be here. You should be back in New York, sketching silhouettes and threading muslin. You should be in your own world, not this one, not his.

But when you glance back one last time, he’s still there. And he hasn’t stopped looking.

***

Max drains his drink slowly. Someone comes over — maybe a team PR girl, maybe a model — and tries to talk to him. He doesn’t respond.

He just watches.

You don’t know it yet, but you already belong to him.

He’ll be patient. For now.

***

“You should meet him,” your father says casually, stirring sugar into his Turkish coffee.

You glance up from your phone, slightly wary. “Who?”

“Verstappen.”

Your brows pull together. “The driver?”

Your father nods, barely looking at you. “He asked to be introduced. Polite boy, if a bit too reckless. Very sharp. I think you’d like him.”

You say nothing for a moment. You’ve grown used to your father’s network — the casual way people pass in and out of conversation, as if the grid is one long dinner party. But something about Max Verstappen asking to meet you formally throws you off balance.

“You don’t have to play matchmaker, Baba.”

He chuckles. “I’m not. He said he admires your work.”

That stops you.

“… What work?”

“Your portfolio. He mentioned something about FIT, and your piece inspired by Andalusian calligraphy.”

Your blood stills a little. That portfolio isn’t public. Not fully.

“He … looked it up?”

“I suppose he must have.” Your father finally meets your eyes. “It wouldn’t kill you to be polite.”

***

You meet Max again in the paddock the next day, under the shaded hospitality tent. You’re wearing a pale blue blouse and high-waisted linen trousers, your hair pulled back with a ribbon.

He’s already waiting by your father’s side, posture relaxed but eyes bright, sun glinting off the chain around his neck.

“Ah, here she is,” your father says. “My daughter, as promised.”

Max steps forward and offers his hand, the gesture smooth, almost old-fashioned.

“Max,” he says. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

You hesitate, then take his hand. His grip is firm, not pushy. Warm. He doesn’t squeeze too hard. Just enough to let you know he’s there.

“You too,” you reply cautiously.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says.

You glance at your father, suspicious. “From him?”

Max gives a faint grin. “From your work, actually. Your student collection … the draping on your Mother Tongue piece? That was beautiful.”

You blink, caught off guard. “You … actually looked through it?”

“I read every page.” His voice is low, steady. “I liked how you translated language into silhouette. It felt very … intimate.”

You feel your chest tighten slightly. Not unpleasantly. Just tightly.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Most people don’t really get it.”

“I do,” he says simply.

Your father’s phone buzzes and he excuses himself, stepping away to take the call, leaving you alone with Max. The quiet settles between you.

You look down at your shoes. “I didn’t expect you to be into fashion.”

“I’m not,” he admits. “But I know something real when I see it.”

You lift your eyes. His gaze is calm, unreadable, but not unkind.

“I was surprised,” you say finally. “You asking to meet me.”

Max shrugs. “You seemed interesting.”

You hold his gaze. “Or out of place?”

He smiles. “Same thing.”

***

That night, a bouquet is delivered to your suite.

It’s not roses. Not lilies. Nothing gaudy or overused.

It’s desert hyacinths, native to the Emirates. Tied with a strip of raw silk and a handwritten note.

They reminded me of you — soft, rare, and impossible to ignore.

M.V.

You stare at the flowers for a long time. Then, gently, you set them on the table beside your sketchbook and try not to think about what his handwriting looks like.

***

The next day, another package arrives.

You unwrap it slowly, not sure what to expect. Inside is a vintage sewing machine. A Singer — your mother’s exact model. The one she used in the back room of your childhood home before she passed.

Your breath catches.

There’s a note, again.

I saw it in an antique shop near the Corniche. I read the interview where you said this was the machine that made you fall in love with construction. I thought it belonged with you.

M.V.

You sit down. You don’t cry. You just stare at it, one hand on the smooth, timeworn surface of the metal, your pulse fluttering.

***

Later that afternoon, you see him again briefly in the paddock.

He doesn’t mention the gifts. He just walks past you, sunglasses on, and murmurs as he passes, “Hope the machine works.”

You pause in your tracks.

You turn. “You’re … intense.”

He stops, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “So are you.”

***

That evening, you receive a text through a shared PR contact.

Red Bull is hosting a yacht party tonight. Would love to see you there.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you open your laptop and scroll through the last few days.

It’s too much. All of it.

You admire his confidence. You’re touched — even rattled — by the attention. But there’s something overwhelming about the way he looks at you. The way he speaks, like everything he says is a promise no one else hears.

You type out a response:

Thank you for the invite. I’m flattered, but I think I’ll stay in tonight. Wishing you all the best.

You hesitate, then hit send.

You stare at the message. And then you move on. You order room service. You text a classmate. You FaceTime a friend in Marrakesh who makes you laugh so hard you spill tea on your pajamas.

But later, alone in the mirror, brushing out your hair, you wonder what it would’ve been like to go.

To see him again.

***

The restaurant is private — low ceilings, dark wood, soft lighting. You’re having dinner with your father and three of his associates, all of whom are loud and pleasant and insist you try every dish on the menu. Your glass of sparkling water sits untouched beside your plate of grilled halloumi.

You don’t see the man approach. Just a brief flash of movement. A waiter? An assistant? You don’t look up. You’re too busy smiling politely at someone who’s just asked you what it’s like living in New York City as “an Arab woman in fashion.”

You sip your water without thinking.

And then-

Your vision tilts.

Not dramatically. Just slightly. Like the floor has moved without you. You blink, your hands gripping the edge of the table. Your stomach tightens. A cold sweat rolls down the back of your neck.

“Habibti?” Your father says, noticing the shift in your face.

You try to respond, but your throat feels strange. Cottony. Slow.

“I-I think I need to lie down,” you whisper.

You don’t remember leaving the restaurant. You just remember the car ride home — the way the lights outside the window blur into gold ribbons, the way the heat seeps under your skin. You feel drowsy and floaty and wrong.

Back in the suite, you collapse on the couch. Your father rushes to get a wet cloth for your forehead. Someone calls the doctor.

You don’t see Max that night.

But across the marina, on the upper deck of the yacht, he watches the lights flicker from your suite window.

He doesn’t smile. He just breathes.

You said no. He doesn’t like no.

But now? Now the thread is in his hand. And he’s going to pull.

***

You wake up to the sound of waves.

Not the distant wash of the Corniche, but something closer, sharper, rolling and retreating against stone. There’s a scent too, unfamiliar but clean — saltwater, lemon, something faintly sweet. The sheets beneath you are heavy, Egyptian cotton. The pillow smells like nothing you recognize.

You blink slowly.

Your limbs feel like they’ve been poured into place. Like your body forgot how to move.

The room is pale and enormous — floor-to-ceiling windows face the sea, the light so bright it stings your eyes. The bed is carved wood and white linen, the floor cool marble. Everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your stomach twists.

You sit up slowly, eyes darting across the room. There’s a soft cashmere blanket over your legs, a carafe of water on the nightstand. Someone has changed your clothes — your silk pajamas swapped for a long, dove-grey knit dress.

Your heart starts pounding.

This is not your suite in Abu Dhabi. This is not the Emirates. This is-

You scramble off the bed. Your legs tremble beneath you, unsteady. You reach for the nearest door — bathroom. Pristine, sleek. Another — closet. Stocked. The third — locked.

You rattle the handle harder.

Locked.

“Good morning.”

The voice is calm, casual.

You spin.

Max stands just inside the room, framed by the doorway like he’s stepped out of another life. He’s dressed in a soft black t-shirt and grey joggers, barefoot. His hair is damp, like he’s just showered. He holds a steaming cup in one hand.

You take a step back, nearly tripping over the edge of the blanket.

“What-” Your voice catches, raw. “What the fuck is this?”

Max blinks, slow and unreadable. “You’re alright. I promise.”

“Where — where am I?” You shout, your voice cracking as panic claws its way up your throat.

He walks in, calm as rain, and sets the cup down on a side table.

“Monaco,” he says. “My home.”

You stare at him, horrified. “You kidnapped me?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he replies, tone maddeningly mild. “You’re my guest.”

Your hands start shaking. “Where is my father? What did you … how did-”

“He stepped out of your suite,” Max says, his gaze soft but steady. “It was only a few minutes, but you weren’t well. I had to bring you somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” You repeat, voice rising. “This isn’t safe! This is — this is insane! I don’t even know you!”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been expecting this. He moves toward the window, eyes on the horizon.

“You know me more than you think,” he murmurs. “We’ve been circling each other since the first moment I saw you.”

You freeze.

“This isn’t happening,” you whisper.

Max looks back at you, head tilted. “You’ll feel better after you rest. You’re still adjusting. What they gave you — it’s out of your system now, but it lingers.”

You go still.

“… What they gave me?”

He doesn’t answer.

Your breath comes faster. “Oh my God.”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward the chaise lounge near the window. “There’s fresh fruit. And tea. I made sure they included the dates you like. From Liwa.”

You lurch backward.

“Do not talk to me like this is normal,” you hiss. “Like we’re having breakfast after a date. I don’t want your tea. I want to go home.”

His eyes darken, just slightly.

“You are home.”

The silence is a vacuum.

You blink fast, trying to hold in the tears burning behind your eyes. “Please … please let me go. My father will-”

“He’ll understand,” Max interrupts. “Eventually. He’ll be upset, but not forever. He knows what this world does to good things. To girls like you.”

“I’m not yours,” you snap, stepping back until your spine hits the cold wall.

He watches you quietly. “You were never anyone else’s.”

You want to scream.

Instead, you choke on air.

***

The hours pass in a strange blur.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t so much as raise his voice. The room is warm, the view outside beautiful. There’s food — your favorite dishes, too perfectly curated to be coincidence. The clothes left in the closet all fit. Even the perfume on the vanity is the same one you wore at the afterparty.

You try the windows again. They open barely an inch before stopping. Reinforced glass. The door to the hallway is locked from the outside. There’s a keypad beside it, but it beeps angrily with every wrong code.

Max appears now and then — quiet, controlled, always watching. He sits on the sofa and asks how you’re feeling. He reads the book you left on the nightstand aloud in the evenings, voice smooth, low, strangely soothing.

You never answer him.

But you listen.

Your body is healing, slowly. You feel less foggy now. Sharper. Restless.

Trapped.

***

On the third day, you pretend to nap.

Max leaves the room, and you count the seconds — one, two, three hundred.

Then you move.

Quick, quiet, barefoot.

You try the hallway again. Locked.

But across from the main door, tucked beside a lacquered sideboard-

A fire exit.

You spot it the same moment your heart stutters to life.

No keypad. No guard. Just a push-bar and a steel frame.

You dart across the marble floor.

Your fingers hit the bar, muscles trembling.

Then — hands.

Large, firm, steady. One wraps around your wrist. The other covers your mouth.

Your scream dies against his palm.

Max pulls you back, away from the door, fast but controlled. Your back hits his chest. His breath is warm against your neck.

“I asked you to rest,” he says, voice low, too calm.

You thrash wildly, kicking backward, trying to bite his hand.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t.

You twist hard, slipping free from his grasp for a second, and then he catches you again, spinning you to face him.

You shove at his chest. “Let me GO!”

Max grabs your wrists. Not roughly. Just enough.

“I told you,” he says through clenched teeth. “You need to adjust.”

“I will never adjust to this!”

He breathes hard, his knuckles white where they grip you.

“You will.”

“No,” you spit, eyes burning. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to trap people like pets and pretend it’s kindness.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then he lets go.

You stumble backward, breathing ragged.

Max doesn’t move. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s in pain.

“You think I wanted to scare you?”

“Did you think I’d thank you?”

“I’ve watched you,” he says suddenly. “I’ve watched the way people treat you. Like you’re delicate. Like you don’t belong. But you do. You belong somewhere you won’t be broken.”

“By you?” You laugh bitterly. “You think you’re saving me?”

He doesn’t answer.

His eyes are sharp, stormy.

“You can scream,” he says finally. “You can cry. I’ll wait.”

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “You’re sick.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m the only one who sees you.”

He turns away, stepping back into the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You’re alone again.

But you know now:

This cage has velvet walls.

But it’s still a cage.

***

You wake to the sound of fabric shifting.

It takes a moment to register — the scent of jasmine oil on your pillow, the weight of a new blanket across your legs, the sunlight filtered through pale curtains you don’t remember being there before.

Your eyes land on a tray beside the bed. Warm croissants. Black coffee. Strawberries, halved neatly, their leaves still on. A note beneath the plate, scrawled in that now-familiar handwriting.

Let me show you what your obedience earns.

M.V.

You hate the word ‘obedience’. Your stomach turns.

But you eat anyway. Not because you’re hungry — you’re not — but because you need the strength.

***

The studio is through a previously locked door at the back of the penthouse, a sun-drenched room overlooking the sea, light catching on the glass shelves and brushed brass fixtures. A cutting table sits in the center, next to a dress form already draped in muslin. Rows of threads, hand-selected bolts of fabric — silk, cotton voile, crepe de chine — line the walls like a candy store.

A brand-new machine hums quietly in the corner. Not the antique Singer that he sent you in Abu Dhabi, but something state-of-the-art. Japanese. Too expensive.

There’s a leather-bound sketchbook beside it.

And a tablet.

A stylus.

A hand-written label on the corner of the screen.

For you.

You don’t touch it.

At least not yet.

***

“He thinks this is normal,” you mutter under your breath.

You’re talking to Donatello.

The white cat lounges on your lap like a spoiled prince, purring, pawing at the hem of your new silk robe — one of many Max had placed neatly on the foot of your bed the previous evening. This one’s cream-colored, embroidered with tiny cranes. You wear it because it’s warm. That’s all. You’ve told yourself that a dozen times.

Jimmy circles your ankles, mewing softly. Sassy watches from the windowsill, eyes half-closed.

“You’re not even his cats anymore, are you?” you ask, scratching behind Donatello’s ear. “You were probably mine the second he saw me.”

You expect silence. But instead-

“I bought Jimmy in Singapore.”

You jolt. Max is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing a soft grey sweater and dark jeans. His hair’s damp again. Always damp. Like he’s never too far from something fluid.

“Sassy came later. But Donatello is a gift. For you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You named him before I even got here?”

He shrugs. “He looked like something you’d love.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Max steps inside slowly, hands relaxed. “You don’t like the studio?”

“I didn’t say that.”

His gaze flickers to your lap, where Donatello purrs louder, content. “They trust you. That’s rare.”

“They’re cats. Not prisoners.”

He ignores that. “You’re eating. Sleeping. Designing. I’d call that progress.”

You shake your head. “This isn’t progress. It’s survival.”

Max tilts his head. “There’s no war here. You don’t need to survive.”

“I want to go home.”

He steps closer, his voice steady. “You are home.”

“No. I’m a hostage. In some gilded aquarium of your design.”

Max pauses in front of you. Not looming, but near enough that you smell the citrus of his cologne.

“I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,” he says simply.

You freeze.

“I know it sounds … unreal. Too much. But I did.” He crouches beside the chair. “You looked like peace. Like everything this world isn’t. I couldn’t ignore it.”

You stare at him.

Then say coldly, “You’re insane.”

Max doesn’t even blink. “Probably.”

“And dangerous.”

“I haven’t hurt you.”

“You drugged me.”

“I protected you.”

“You stole me from my life.”

“I gave you a better one.”

Your voice rises. “You’re not God, Max.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “No. I’m just the man who’s keeping you.”

Silence crackles between you.

And then, quietly, “You’re not leaving.”

You stand so fast that Donatello hops off your lap with a startled meow.

“Don’t say that like it’s a kindness.”

Max straightens, but he doesn’t stop you as you storm past him, your robe sweeping behind you like a battle flag.

He only watches.

***

That night, he cooks.

You try not to eat.

You fail.

It’s simple food — warm roasted squash, couscous with herbs, sea bass in lemon butter. You don’t trust the wine, so you stick to water. You don’t trust him either, but you sit there anyway, across the island countertop while he plates everything like you’re guests at a bistro.

“You didn’t poison this too, did you?”

Max looks at you, unamused. “You’re sharp when you’re scared.”

“I’m sharp when I’m awake.”

He pours a second glass of water. Pushes it gently toward you. “You don’t have to be cruel.”

“Don’t pretend this is about kindness.”

“It is.”

“Then let me go.”

He stares at you. Then says, “No.”

You pick up your fork. “Then fuck your kindness.”

He doesn’t argue.

***

You cry on the balcony later.

You think you’re alone.

Then arms slide around you from behind, slow and steady, warm against the night air.

You try to shove him off. You fail again.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs.

“You’ve taken everything from me.”

“No,” he says softly. “I’ve just taken everything that could ruin you.”

Your voice shakes. “My freedom?”

“Freedom’s overrated. People don’t want it. They want safety. I’ve seen what happens when the world gets its hands on something good.”

You laugh bitterly, your tears burning as they fall. “You think I’m some fragile flower?”

“No,” he says, holding you closer. “I think you’re mine.”

You stop breathing.

He presses a kiss to your hair, gentle as wind.

You close your eyes.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to pretend it means comfort.

***

The next day, there’s a dress on the studio mannequin.

It’s one of yours — half-draped in dove-gray organza, pinned with care, exactly how you left it in New York months ago before finals hit and everything fell apart.

You stare at it.

You don’t remember bringing it.

“Your apartment,” Max says from the door, holding a fresh cup of coffee. “I had it packed. Thought you’d miss your tools.”

You can’t breathe.

He walks closer, placing the cup on the table.

“Try finishing it,” he says. “You’ll feel better when you make something.”

You look at him, haunted.

“You want to rebuild me in your world. Piece by piece.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I just want to watch you create.”

You stare at the mannequin.

Then — against every part of your better judgment — you pick up a pin.

He smiles.

You hate how good it feels to hold something sharp in your hand again.

***

Days blur.

Max doesn't lock the studio. He watches instead. Quiet, hovering at the edge of the space, sometimes reading, sometimes fixing the espresso machine when it hisses too loud. He brings you bolts of raw silk without asking. He rethreads your bobbins. He learns the rhythm of your process without words.

It’s horrifying.

And somehow …

It’s peaceful.

And then-

You look up from your sketch one afternoon and find him watching you like he’s watching a dream.

He says, “You’re most beautiful when you forget to fight.”

Your fingers stiffen on the stylus.

Then he adds, “But I love you most when you do.”

Your breath catches.

He means it. That’s the part that terrifies you.

He means it. And maybe worse-

Some small, traitorous part of you believes him.

***

You stop checking the windows after the second week.

It’s not that you forget they’re locked — just that you begin to understand the rhythm of them. The dull resistance of the reinforced glass. The way the morning light hits the balcony at precisely 7:24. The predictable sound of the sea below, not quite close enough to taste, but always there, teasing.

Every door in this place has a rule. Every hallway, a shadow. And slowly — too slowly — you begin to memorize them.

You also begin to forget.

Not the past. Not your father’s laugh or the smell of the FIT studio when the radiators kicked in during winter. But the little things.

The sound of your phone buzzing with messages. The click of your email. The low hum of the subway under your apartment when you couldn’t sleep.

You forget what it felt like to have a world.

Max has taken that from you.

You tried, in the beginning.

You tried screaming from the windows, even though you were too high up for anyone to hear. You tried leaving notes, slipped between the cracks of your balcony railing. You tried the emergency exit a second time, only to find it now wired with a silent alarm.

No one came.

No one answered.

Your tablet no longer connects to anything but a closed-loop drawing app and a heavily curated music player. No browser. No messages. No connection. Every piece of your life has been filtered, simplified, reduced to the parts he thinks you need.

You’re still here.

But you’re fading.

***

“You didn’t eat your lunch.”

Max’s voice drifts in from the doorway. You don’t look up from the bolt of tulle you’re working with.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You skipped dinner last night, too.”

You press a pin between your teeth. “Maybe I’m fasting for spiritual reasons.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He’s silent for a moment, watching. You feel it. The way he catalogues your movements — every twitch of your fingers, every shift of your shoulders.

“Eat something,” he says. “Please.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“I don’t want to force things.”

You glance at him, sharp. “Since when?”

He exhales slowly. “I just want you to feel okay.”

You return to the fabric. “I stopped feeling anything two weeks ago.”

His footsteps are soft as he crosses the room.

Then, gently — he sets down a small box beside you.

Inside: swatches of hand-dyed organza. Parisian. Impossible to source. Shades of mauve and moonlight and sea-glass green.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

Max smiles, barely. “See? You’re still here.”

You hate that he’s right.

***

You stop trying to stay awake at night.

It’s a quiet surrender.

In the beginning, you used to force your eyes open — terrified of falling asleep near him. Afraid of what it meant. But now, you find your body sliding under the covers without protest. You let the fatigue win. You let the silence settle.

Max never sleeps beside you unless invited.

He waits.

Some nights, you hear him pacing in the hallway. Some nights, he’s reading outside your door, his voice a low murmur you can’t quite make out. Other nights, he disappears entirely — leaving behind food and flowers and that persistent, suffocating sense of presence.

But most nights?

He reads to you.

He sits in the armchair by the window, one leg crossed over the other, his voice soft and even. He reads novels, essays, the kinds of things you used to collect in your college dorm — Virginia Woolf, Joan Didion, occasionally something newer. He’s not theatrical. Not even dramatic. He just … reads.

You don’t speak. But you listen.

***

“You’re quieter lately.”

You look up from your sketchpad. You’re sprawled across the sunlit chaise, Donatello curled into your side like a white velvet pillow.

“So are you,” you say.

Max leans against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his sweater. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

“To be alone?”

“To not be overwhelmed.”

You close the tablet. “I was overwhelmed the second you drugged me.”

His jaw twitches. “I won’t apologize.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He watches you for a beat. Then steps forward and holds out a small box.

You hesitate.

“What now? A diamond leash?”

“Open it.”

You do.

Inside: antique buttons. Ivory, glass, etched with delicate gold filigree. One of them is shaped like a tiny heart. Another, a swan.

You blink.

“These are … beautiful.”

“They reminded me of your first FIT collection.”

You stare down at the buttons for a long time, heart thudding with something you refuse to name.

Then you whisper, “How do you know so much about me?”

Max doesn’t blink. “Because I had to.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You close the box slowly.

And for once, you don’t say anything cruel.

You just hold it in your lap.

***

Days pass. Then weeks.

You stop marking them.

The cats become your only company in the hours Max isn’t around. Jimmy curls on your feet when you work. Sassy sleeps on your desk. Donatello cries outside the bathroom if you shut the door too long.

Max keeps bringing you things.

Rare fabrics. Vintage dress forms. A stack of photography books from Japanese street stylists you once mentioned in a university interview. He even finds your old mood boards — prints them, frames them, hangs them in your studio like an exhibit.

“This isn’t a life,” you tell him once. “It’s a museum.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m building a life for you,” he says. “Until you can build one with me.”

***

That night, it rains.

The air goes sharp and cold, the sea slapping against the shore below. You press your forehead to the window and watch the glass fog around your breath.

Behind you, you hear Max move.

You turn.

He’s holding a blanket.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not here to trap you.”

“You already did.”

“I’m just-” He stops, runs a hand through his hair. “You looked cold.”

You don’t move.

He steps forward slowly, sets the blanket on the back of the chair. Doesn’t touch you.

“I don’t expect anything,” he says. “Not tonight.”

You don’t answer. You don’t understand why you’re crying again.

Max starts to turn.

“Wait.”

The word escapes before you can stop it.

He freezes.

You take a breath. “Just … don’t go. Yet.”

He looks at you like you’ve split the sky.

“I won’t.”

***

You don’t remember when you climb into his arms.

You only remember the warmth.

The weight of his sweater. The low sound of his breathing. The way he doesn’t say anything when your fingers tighten around the fabric at his shoulder.

You remember the way he tucks the blanket around you, like you’re something precious. The way he doesn’t move when your face presses into his collarbone, damp with silent tears.

He smells like rain and lavender and something private.

You don’t speak. You just let yourself exhale. For the first time in what feels like forever.

And when sleep finally comes-

You don’t fight it.

***

It starts with fabric.

Max lays it out across the studio table one morning — Italian wool, mohair blends, suiting linens in sleek, quiet tones. Navy. Charcoal. Ivory. The kind of materials made for cameras, designed to move well, crease perfectly, photograph better.

You glance at them without touching.

“What's all this?”

He leans against the table casually, in a black t-shirt and joggers, bare feet on your studio floor like he owns the light in the room.

“For next season,” he says. “I want you to design my paddock outfits.”

You blink at him.

“You want me to dress you?”

“Professionally,” he adds, smirking a little. “Not for fun.”

“You could have any stylist in the world.”

“I don’t want any stylist in the world.”

Your eyes narrow. “This is just another way to control me.”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s a way to give you purpose again.”

You hate that he might be right. Hate that your heart jumps at the thought of working again, of putting your name — your designs — back out in the world. Even if no one else knows it’s you. Even if it stays in this gilded prison.

You cross your arms. “You want full looks?”

“Whatever you want to make,” he says. “I trust your taste.”

You study him. The slope of his shoulders. The way his arms fold so precisely, almost like he knows he’s being measured.

“You’ll need to stand still,” you say.

He smiles. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

***

“Arms out.”

Max obeys.

You wrap the measuring tape around his biceps first, watching the numbers. Then across his back, then his waist. He doesn’t speak. He barely even breathes. Just watches you from under his lashes.

You try not to flinch every time you have to touch him — his collarbone, the base of his neck, the sharp line of his jaw. His body is built like a sculpture. Warm, solid, quiet. And when you circle behind him to get his shoulder width, his voice breaks the silence.

“Why do you always smell like lilies?”

You pause.

“What?”

“Your perfume. It’s not something I recognize.”

“It’s oil. My mother’s blend. I make it myself.”

Max tilts his head slightly. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why I can’t stop breathing you in.”

Your fingers twitch against the measuring tape.

“Max.”

He doesn’t apologize. Just says softly, “I told you, I’m not pretending to be anything I’m not.”

You go back to measuring.

But something inside you stirs.

***

You begin sketching immediately.

Not because you owe him. Not because you want to please him.

But because it distracts you.

From the way he looks at you now. From the way he lingers near your shoulder while you draw, offering coffee, or opinions, or silence when it’s what you need most. From the way your skin still burns where your fingers grazed his jaw.

He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t dictate anything.

He just lets you create.

And you hate how good it feels.

***

One evening, you test him.

“I want more freedom.”

Max looks up from the kitchen island, where he’s slicing nectarines.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Define ‘more.’”

“I want access to the rest of the penthouse. No more locked doors. No more surveillance in the studio or my bedroom.”

He’s silent for a long time. Then, “Done.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

“You’ve earned it.”

“No conditions?”

He sets the knife down gently. “Just one.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You stay inside.”

“Still no exit.”

His voice lowers. “Not yet.”

You exhale, trying to hide your disappointment.

But when you check the hallway later, the door to the solarium is unlocked. So is the one to the upper terrace. The cameras in your bedroom — once humming softly — are dark.

It isn’t everything.

But it’s more.

***

Things change.

The penthouse feels different now. Less like a cage. More like … a place.

You begin drifting between rooms, barefoot, loose-haired, sketchpad in hand. Max doesn’t follow you unless you call. But you feel him watching sometimes. From doorways. From the balcony. From the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on your legs where the hem of your robe rides too high.

He starts touching you more.

Nothing invasive. Not yet.

A brush of his fingers when he hands you tea. A palm to your lower back when he passes you in the hallway. A kiss on your forehead at night that lingers a little longer. His hands in your hair when you cry — firm, grounding.

You try to resist.

But your body keeps forgetting to be afraid.

***

One night, you bring him a sketch.

You don’t plan to. You’re halfway to bed, silk robe cinched tight, tablet clutched to your chest like a secret.

But then he looks up from the sofa — barefoot, reading something Dutch, hair tousled — and something softens inside you.

“I think I want to use pinstripes,” you say, holding out the tablet.

Max sets the book aside and leans forward to look. His knee brushes yours.

“These are beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’ve always had that eye. Clean lines. A little subversion.”

“Someone once told me I design like I’m hiding secrets in plain sight.”

His mouth lifts. “They weren’t wrong.”

You glance down.

“Can I make one request?” He asks.

You nod.

“Design something … just for me. Something no one else could wear.”

You hesitate. “Why?”

“Because no one else has you in their hands when they work.”

His voice is quiet. Unapologetic.

Your pulse flutters.

And before you can stop yourself, your fingers graze his wrist.

It’s nothing. Barely a moment.

But Max’s eyes darken.

And the kiss that night lands on your mouth.

***

You freeze.

His lips are soft. Dry. The pressure brief.

He doesn’t push.

He just pulls back, watching your face like a question he already knows the answer to.

You stand there for too long.

Then turn away.

You don’t speak until the lights are off.

And even then, it’s only one word.

“Why?”

His voice is already beside you.

“Because I can’t not want you.”

You face the wall.

Your body, traitorously, doesn’t move.

***

You don’t kiss him back until the rain comes again.

It’s late. Past midnight. The thunder rolls low and slow across the sea, and the balcony doors are open. You’re wrapped in a throw blanket, hair damp from a quick shower, watching the storm roll in.

Max sits beside you on the couch.

Close. Warm. Quiet.

“Do you hate me today?” He asks softly.

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

You hesitate. “Not right now.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

The question steals the air from your lungs.

You turn your head slowly.

Max’s eyes don’t flicker. He’s deadly still. Honest.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I think I do.”

And when you lean in-

You mean to be clinical.

You mean to prove something.

But the moment your mouth finds his, your heart betrays you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, your lips part without thought, and the sound you make when he exhales against you — low and surprised — makes your whole body tense.

His hands rise slowly. One on your cheek. The other at your waist.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t take.

He just … kisses.

Like it’s sacred.

Like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

And you let him.

You let yourself want him.

Even if you still don’t know why.

***

The table is already set when you step outside.

Candles flicker in the breeze. A linen tablecloth sweeps just above the marble, and two crystal wine glasses glow amber in the soft light. Max stands at the railing, hands in his pockets, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

You pause in the doorway, wary. Suspicious.

He turns when he hears you, and smiles.

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“You didn’t say what you’d wear.”

You glance down at the slip dress. Pale gold silk, ankle-length, cut on the bias. You hadn’t worn it for him. Not really. It had just … felt nice. It made you feel like yourself again. Almost.

“It’s comfortable.”

“It’s perfect.”

You don’t answer.

You sit.

He pours the wine in silence.

Then, like it’s nothing, he says, “You’ve been good lately.”

You arch a brow. “Good?”

“I mean calm. Steady. Creating again.”

You look down at your hands.

“I’m adjusting. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His smile fades slightly. “No. I wanted you to feel safe.”

You don’t respond. The food arrives — grilled lamb, a pomegranate salad, slices of flatbread still warm from the oven. You wonder if he cooked it himself, but you don’t ask. Not yet.

For a while, you just eat. And it’s … strange.

The air is quiet. The wind carries only the sound of the sea. Max doesn’t push. Doesn’t force a conversation. He just eats beside you, relaxed, leaning back in his chair like a man who isn’t holding you hostage in a palace above the water.

Eventually, you speak.

“Do you ever get bored up here?”

He lifts his gaze. “Not since you came.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He hesitates. “I used to. Monaco is beautiful, but lonely. Quiet in a way that gets into your bones.”

You sip your wine. “And now?”

His voice softens. “Now it feels like a life.”

You look away.

Silence again. Until-

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, more honest, “when I first saw you, I thought you looked like someone out of a dream. Untouched. Beautiful in a way that didn’t belong there.”

“In the paddock?”

He nods. “Everyone’s always loud. Sharp. Fast. But you were still.”

You set your fork down. “You sound obsessed.”

“I am obsessed.”

You flinch at his bluntness. But he doesn’t say it like a threat. He says it like a confession.

“My whole life, people take. Teams. Media. Strangers. And I give it, because that’s the job. That’s the deal. But when I saw you-” he looks at you hard now, like he’s trying to memorize your expression, “I wanted something for myself.”

You shift in your seat.

“Max …”

“I know what I did was wrong.”

That stops you.

He’s never said it before.

“I took away your choice,” he says. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need you to understand. I wasn’t going to let the world touch you. Use you. I wanted to protect you from it. From everything.”

“Even from my own life?”

“Yes.”

You sit with that.

The breeze moves through your hair. You glance at the sea, then back at him.

“You don’t get to decide what I need.”

His voice is quiet. “I know.”

“But you did.”

“I had to.”

“And now?”

“I want to give you everything,” he says. “But I won’t let you leave.”

Your stomach twists. “My father-”

“Would never let you be with me. You know that.”

You press your lips together. He’s not wrong.

Max leans forward now, elbows on the table, gaze never leaving yours.

“He’d see a monster. Not the man who’s in love with his daughter.”

You stare at him.

Something tightens in your chest. Not fear. Not hatred.

Longing.

It shocks you. You look down quickly, but not before Max sees it.

“You feel it too,” he says.

You want to deny it. You do. But something inside you whispers yes.

***

Later, the dishes cleared, the stars out above the dark sea, you stand at the railing, arms bare to the cool air. Max joins you in silence. You don’t move away.

When he reaches for your hand, you let him.

He says nothing. And that, more than anything, makes your chest ache.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you whisper.

He draws your fingers to his lips.

“You’re still you,” he murmurs. “Just … closer now.”

You turn to face him.

“Closer to what?”

“To me.”

***

He kisses you like he’s asking permission.

Like he’d shatter if you pulled away.

You don’t.

You lean into it.

Into the heat of him. The strength of his hands cupping your waist. The mouth that parts so slowly against yours you forget to breathe.

You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t.

But your body remembers him. Your heart, traitorously, doesn’t flinch. You open to him without thought.

And when he lifts you — carrying you from the balcony into the bedroom — you let him.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders.

You bury your face in his neck.

You feel the moment he lays you down like something sacred.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t ask.

Just waits.

Until you nod.

***

He undresses you slowly.

With reverence. With care.

Every strap, every fold of silk, peeled away like parchment. His eyes stay on yours the entire time. And when he sees all of you — bare and breathing and trembling — he doesn’t grin. Doesn’t leer.

He exhales, like he’s finally come home.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You always were.”

You reach for him, fingers finding the hem of his shirt. He lets you lift it. Lets you see him — solid and strong and achingly human.

He kisses you again. Longer this time.

And when he touches you — really touches you — your breath hitches.

You’ve never been here before.

But with him, it doesn’t feel scary.

It feels inevitable.

You whisper his name once.

He swallows it in a kiss.

And then-

It’s you and him.

Breath and heat.

Skin and salt.

A rhythm that builds, that crests, that shatters something inside you you didn’t know was whole.

After, he wraps you in his arms.

Holds you as your breathing evens. Presses kisses into your hair. Murmurs something in Dutch you don’t understand.

But you don’t ask him to translate.

You just close your eyes.

And for the first time since you woke up in this place, you feel something dangerously close to peace.

***

You wake up to silence a few weeks later.

The kind of silence that feels like a held breath. Max’s side of the bed is empty, the sheets still warm, rumpled where he’d slept curled around you. You reach for him instinctively.

Nothing but cool linen.

The bedroom feels too still.

Something is off.

You find him on the balcony, leaning against the railing in sweats and a t-shirt, barefoot, eyes fixed on the horizon. The morning light turns his skin gold, but his expression is unreadable.

You don’t say his name right away. Just stand there. Watch him.

He turns.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice is hoarse. “Why are you up so early?”

“I had some calls.”

He says it lightly, like he’s talking about weather. Not unusual. Not alarming.

But something in your stomach knots.

“Okay.” You step closer, wrapping your arms around yourself. The wind’s cool. “You’re quiet.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

You wait.

He glances at you. His mouth twitches. “About you.”

“What about me?”

“I think …” He exhales slowly. “I think I’m ready to let you go.”

The words knock the air from your lungs.

You stare at him, blinking. “What?”

He turns back to the sea, calm. “My jet’ll be ready by tomorrow. It can take you back to New York. I’ll have your passport returned. Clothes packed. Everything you need.”

You step back.

It’s like the ground opens under your feet.

“You’re sending me away?”

“I’m offering you a choice.”

Your pulse thunders. You can’t breathe. Your throat closes.

“I don’t-” You shake your head. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you weren’t meant for this.”

Your vision blurs.

“You said I was. You said-” Your voice cracks. “You told me I was yours.”

“And you were.”

“Were?”

His jaw tenses. He doesn’t look at you.

“Things change.”

It hits harder than anything else has.

Worse than the first time he locked the door.

Worse than the silence.

You step toward him, panicked now. “Max, please-”

He still doesn’t move.

You grab his arm. “Don’t do this. Don’t throw me away.”

“I’m not throwing you away.”

“I don’t want to go.”

He finally looks at you.

His expression is unreadable.

“You said you missed your life. Your friends. Your school. I’m giving you the chance to have that again.”

“No.”

“You wanted freedom.”

“Not like this.”

Your voice breaks.

Your knees give out.

You sink to the ground, fingers digging into the hem of his shirt. “Please don’t make me leave. Please.”

He flinches.

“I don’t want New York,” you whisper. “I don’t want anything if it’s not with you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it.”

He crouches in front of you now.

His hands hover.

Then he touches your face.

And everything spills out.

“I was scared,” you sob. “At first, I hated you. I thought I’d never feel okay again. But I don’t know how to breathe without you anymore. I don’t know how to be without you. You ruined everything else.”

He pulls you into his arms.

Cradles you like you’re breakable.

You bury your face in his chest, gasping.

“I don’t want to go back. I can’t. Please-”

He presses a kiss to your hair. Gentle. Steady.

“Shh, liefje. I’ve got you.”

You clutch him tighter.

“I’ll be good. I’ll be anything you want.”

He lifts your face to his.

Eyes blazing.

“Look at me.”

You do.

He smiles. Not cruelly. Softly. Like he’s proud.

“See?” He whispers. “You were always meant to be mine.”

***

He carries you to bed.

Not in a rush. Not like a man desperate for sex.

But like he’s settling you into something sacred.

He lays you down on the sheets and kisses you like a promise.

Slow. Deep. Endless.

You reach for him like it’s instinct now.

Like your body recognizes his more than it does the sound of your own name.

“Say it again,” he whispers, sliding the strap of your dress down your shoulder.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Say more.”

“I want you.”

“More.”

You press your lips to his.

“I’m yours.”

He inhales like the words feed him.

You undress each other slowly.

Nothing rushed.

No frantic hands, no desperation.

Just heat.

And reverence.

He touches you like you’re fragile. Precious. A thing to be worshipped.

You cry out when he enters you, and he kisses your temple like an apology.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “Always.”

You wrap your arms around him.

Your legs.

Your whole self.

He moves slowly, drawing every sound from your lips like a melody only he knows how to play.

You’re trembling by the time you come apart beneath him.

But it’s not from shame. Not from fear. It’s the overwhelming ache of needing someone so badly it hurts.

He kisses your tears away.

And when it’s over, when you’re tangled and breathless and pressed against his chest, you whisper it.

Soft. Shy.

But honest.

“I love you.”

He freezes.

His hand stills on your back.

Then-

He smiles.

Not the cold one. The real one. The one that reaches his eyes.

“I know,” he says. “You were always going to.”

You close your eyes.

And finally, finally, you believe it.

***

Six months later, the sea is still the same shade of blue.

You know every ripple of it by heart now. Every pattern the waves make, depending on the hour and the wind. You can tell if the tide’s coming in without looking at the weather. You can predict the clouds. You can tell when Max is about to come home by the sound of the building’s private elevator doors shifting behind the marble wall.

Routine has become second nature.

So has obedience.

But it doesn’t feel like surrender anymore.

It feels like peace.

You sit by the window in a soft cream dress Max had delivered from Milan last week. No makeup, no shoes. Your legs are curled beneath you, and your sketchpad rests in your lap. You haven’t touched it in two hours. The pencil is idle between your fingers. Your gaze drifts past the glass.

Monaco stretches out below you in its impossible luxury — slick yachts glinting in the marina, helicopters slicing the sky, soft golden light painting the buildings like a postcard no one ever sends.

You tilt your head.

Somewhere down there, a life you used to know exists.

But you can’t remember what it felt like.

Not really.

Sometimes you try. Sometimes you press your forehead to the cool pane and squint at the traffic, wondering what it would feel like to walk down there. To have a bag on your shoulder. A train ticket. A bank card. A choice.

But the idea never roots itself. Never becomes more than a passing, curious thought. Like trying to remember the plot of a dream.

What would you even do with freedom now?

The elevator clicks.

You don’t move.

A moment later, you hear the doors open and close. The rustle of footsteps. Familiar. Certain.

Max.

He walks into the room the way he always does — without asking, without hesitation. Monaco is his palace and this penthouse is his throne and you … well. You’re his queen. The one he built the castle around.

“Miss me?” He asks, brushing a kiss to your temple as he sets a sleek black duffel on the table.

You nod without looking away from the sea. “Always.”

He grins.

“I brought you something.”

“You always bring me something.”

“That’s because you’re good. And I reward good things.”

You finally turn.

Your smile is automatic now. Easy. Pretty. Like everything he’s trained you to be.

“What is it?”

He lifts the lid of the bag with a flourish and pulls out a bolt of fabric. Your breath catches.

“Max …”

Silk. Rare. Dyed by hand. You recognize the stitching on the selvedge — it’s from that tiny family atelier in Kyoto. The one you wrote about in your first FIT portfolio. The one you told him you never thought you’d touch in your lifetime.

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything you say.”

He lays the fabric across your lap. You run your fingers over it. It’s weightless. Air. Dream.

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur.

Max laughs softly and drops to his knees in front of your chair. “You don’t get to say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“No.” He touches your face. “You deserve everything. Every last piece of this world. You just needed someone to give it to you.”

You don’t speak.

He watches you, eyes bright, hands warm against your thighs. “You know what I told Christian the other day?”

“What?”

“That you’re not just my designer. You’re my heart.”

You blink.

“You keep everything inside me beating right.”

You want to cry.

You won’t.

“You’re everything,” he says softly.

You lean forward. Kiss him.

Not because you’re afraid.

Not because he expects it.

Because the longer you stay here, the more you believe it.

Because if you’ve lost yourself, it doesn’t feel like a loss anymore.

***

Later, after dinner — after he pours you one perfect glass of red wine and opens your balcony doors to the sound of the waves — you curl up on the couch while Max reclines with his head in your lap.

He watches you sketch.

“You think we should add embroidery?” You ask, gesturing at the sleeve on his next suit jacket.

“Only if you design it.”

“I always design it.”

“And you always make me look like I invented walking.”

You snort.

He lifts your hand to his lips. Kisses your knuckles.

Your body warms like it always does when he touches you.

Comfort. Ritual.

Love.

Or something close enough to it that the difference doesn’t matter.

“I was thinking,” he murmurs.

“Mmm?”

“We should go away. Somewhere quiet. After Hungary. Just us.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you want.”

You pause.

“I don’t know what I want.”

He smiles.

“I’ll figure it out for you.”

You don’t doubt that.

He always does.

***

Your father calls once a week.

The words come naturally now. “The fabrics are coming along.” “I’m working on a collection.” “Max is good to me.”

All technically true.

Just not in the way anyone thinks.

He believes you’re focused.

Recovered from your “illness.” Some unnamed, vague health scare Max invented to buy you time.

You’re not sure your father would recognize your voice now if you let the silence slip.

You think about that sometimes.

Then Max touches your cheek or hands you a warm cup of tea with a kiss on the neck, and you forget all over again why it should matter.

***

At night, Max holds you like a promise.

He reads to you. Plays records. Listens to you breathe.

He tells you stories of cities you’ll visit. Children you might have. A life that will only grow more golden if you stay good. Stay his.

You listen with your head on his chest and your fingers tracing the small scar on his ribcage from the 2021 crash in Silverstone.

You think it’s beautiful now.

Everything is, through his eyes.

***

Somewhere deep inside you, a small, distant voice whispers this isn’t real.

But Max’s lips are real.

The way he touches you — hungry, reverent, like you’re the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking — is real.

And when he whispers, “You were made for this,” it feels like a truth you’ve known your whole life.

You fall asleep with his arms around you.

You don’t dream of escape anymore.

You don’t need to.

You’re not sure you were ever really kidnapped.

You’re not sure you’d care if you were.

Not when the world feels this small.

This safe.

This warm.

***

The next morning, you wake before him.

The sun is coming in through the curtains, and Monaco glows like a city from a fairytale.

You slide out of bed quietly, pad across the floor, and press your palm to the window.

Your reflection stares back at you.

A girl in silk.

A girl with everything.

You smile.

Not just because you’re happy.

Not because you’re free.

But because, for the first time in your life, you don’t understand why anyone would ever want freedom.

Not when love feels like this.

Not when Max loves you like this.

And you?

You love him back.

That’s the end of it.

That’s the whole story.

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cvntybrat · 1 month ago

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stand by me

you and kento aren't too far apart in age. kento being just about three years older than you, you two grew up around the same things–more or less.

something you really valued within your relationship with kento was how much of an old school lover he was. from randomly bringing you flowers when he came home from work, to wanting to make sure you were taken care of in every way, shape and form.

you two are out for some errands? he'll be carrying the bags before you could even touch them. about to walk through a door? don't worry about all the germs on the handle because kento will open it for you. at a restaurant and you're about to pull out your own seat? don't even bother. kento's already pulled the chair out, waiting for you to sit down.

he's the dictionary definition of 'gentleman'.

the point is, nanami kento, is an old school man.

when you first met him, you vividly remembered how much he loved collecting vinyls and record players. they started off as jazz and a bit of classical–soon, they became love songs. he only started collecting vinyls about love songs a few months into your relationship. down the line during the relationship, you remembered asking him a silly question,

"what if you grow old and–like die? would you be afraid?"

and you remember him telling you,

"hm, i'll have to come back to you on that one."

that was eight years ago. now the two of you were in your mid to late twenties.

the two of you had just moved into a new home. a four bedroom house, which the two of you had spent almost two weeks unpacking and you were finally getting to the final stretch of the last few boxes.

you had gotten to your childhood boxes that you haven't seen since you had moved out of your parents' home–when you had spotted something familiar. something you haven't seen in a very long, long time.

"ken, look what i found."

"yes, my love?"

you were holding a vinyl by ben e. king that kento had given you when he asked you to be his girlfriend. it was leaning against all of the other little trinkets and stuffed animals he's given you throughout your teen years. the vinyl case had your name in his writing, and at the bottom it said,

'no i won't be afraid, just as long as you stand by me.'

"would you look at that."

"you think it would play?" you ask, but before you could even get an answer, you stand up abruptly making kento sputter out worries which you, unfortunately, ignore. you place the vinyl down on the record player sitting on a shelf nearby, as kento stands behind you, his grip gentle on your hips, but steady.

eventually, 'stand by me' by ben e. king starts playing. the soft, yet scratchy sound of the music brought back so many memories to the two you. you turn around, his hands loosening, but never letting go of you.

"are you still afraid?" you teased.

"no. you're still beside me," he bends down kissing your heavily pregnant stomach. "and so will they."

notes: oh my god. this lowkey made me feel some type of way im not gonna lie. BROOOOOOOOOO MY CHEST HURTS

update: reread this and this is still gutwrenching im sobbing

⋆cvntybrat 2025. DO NOT repost, copy, translate or steal any of my works.

921 notes · View notes

deansbeer · 17 days ago

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𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

♡ ⋮ my content is not suitable for minors.

pairing 𓏵 soldier boy x female reader.

synopsis 𓏵 your boyfriend ben can’t do romance like a normal person, so he threatens your boss and gives you a week-long birthday sex fest to celebrate.

sticky notes 𓏵 happiest of birthdays to my beloved smin @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery! I LOVE YOU SO SOOOOO MUCH 🤍 she knew i was up late last night waiting for the clock to strike midnight and that i was writing a little something for her special day <3

you’d been dating ben for almost a year now, and in that time you’d learned to read between the lines of his gruff exterior. soldier boy wasn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence — decades of being america’s golden boy followed by even more decades of russian experiments hadn’t left much room for learning how to express feelings properly.

but you’d learned his tells: the way he’d pull you closer in his sleep, how he’d always make sure you ate before he did, the protective hand on your lower back whenever you were in public.

still, as you pulled into the driveway after another exhausting day at work, you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. it was your birthday, and while you hadn’t expected some grand romantic gesture (that wasn’t ben’s style), you’d hoped for... something. maybe dinner at that steakhouse he liked, or even just a “happy birthday” that morning. instead, he’d been passed out when you left for work, reeking of bourbon from whatever bender he’d been on with butcher the night before.

the house was suspiciously quiet when you entered, no blaring television or sounds of ben rummaging through the kitchen. “ben?” you called out, setting your bag down by the door. “baby? you home?” silence greeted you, and you tried not to let the hurt creep in. maybe he’d forgotten entirely. it wouldn’t be the first time his substance-enhanced brain had let something slip through the cracks.

“in here,” his deep voice finally rumbled from the bedroom. you followed the sound, finding him sitting on the edge of the bed in just his sweatpants, looking oddly nervous. ben didn’t ever do nervous. he did cocky, angry, occasionally fond when it was just the two of you — but nervous was new. “took you long enough to get home.”

“yeah, well, some of us have actual jobs,” you said, trying to keep the mood light despite your disappointment. “everything okay? you look... weird." you noticed then that the bedroom was different — candles everywhere (definitely new, ben thought candles were for ‘pussies and women’), and was that... massage oil on the nightstand?

“your boss won’t be a problem anymore,” he said abruptly, standing up and moving toward you. “told that pencil-pushing fuck that you’re taking the week off. starting now.” his hands came to rest on your hips, and you could see him struggling with whatever he was trying to say. “…for your birthday. which is today. and i didn’t forget.”

“ben, you can’t just threaten my boss,” you started, but he cut you off with a look that said he absolutely could and definitely had. “what did you do? please tell me you didn’t threaten to throw him out a window. i need that job.”

“didn’t touch him,” ben said, though his smirk suggested he'd wanted to. “just had a friendly conversation over the phone about how my girl deserves a week off for her birthday. mentioned how accidents happen, especially to normal humans who overwork their employees.” his hands tightened on your hips. “may have also mentioned what i did to the last person who made you cry.”

“baby, that was a mugger who tried to steal my purse,” you pointed out, though you were fighting a smile now. the idea of ben intimidating your stick-up-his-ass boss into giving you vacation time was actually kind of sweet, in a deeply dysfunctional way. “so what’s with all this?” you gestured to the candles, the oil, the general attempt at ambiance.

“it’s your birthday,” he said, like that explained everything. when you continued to stare at him, he huffed out a breath. “look, i’m shit at this stuff, okay? the whole... feelings thing. romance. whatever the fuck normal people do.” he pulled you closer, until your bodies were pressed together. “but you put up with my ass, so i figured... i could try.”

“benjamin,” you said softly, using his full name which you knew he secretly loved. “you didn’t have to do all this. i would have been happy with just—”

“no,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “you deserve more than just ‘happy with.’ been thinking about it all week. you know what i used to do for birthdays?” he didn't wait for an answer. “herogasm. created the whole fucking thing back in ‘52. week-long sex fest where supes could let loose, no judgment, no rules.” his eyes darkened as he looked down at you. “figured i could create something better. just for you.”

“are you saying you’re throwing me my own personal herogasm?” you asked, torn between laughing and being genuinely touched. only ben would think a week-long sex marathon was the height of romance. then again, considering his history, this was actually progress.

“better than herogasm,” he corrected, walking you backward toward the bed. “those were about quantity, showing off, proving who could last longest. this...” he paused, seeming to struggle with the words. “this is about you. what you want. what makes you feel good." his voice dropped to that gravelly tone that never failed to make you shiver. “starting with working every fucking knot out of your body.”

“is that what the oil is for?” you asked, already knowing the answer from the predatory look in his eyes. “ben, you don’t have to—“

“strip,” he commanded, but there was a softness under the order. “birthday girl gets what birthday girl deserves, and what you deserve is to not think about that fucking office for the next seven days.” his hands were already at the buttons of your blouse, surprisingly gentle. “been watchin’ youtube videos all day. turns out you can learn anything on the internet now.”

“you watched massage tutorials?” you couldn’t help the surprise in your voice. ben barely knew how to work his phone, claimed technology was for weaklings who couldn’t handle real life. the idea of him struggling through youtube videos just to learn how to give you a massage did something warm and fuzzy to your chest.

“shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. “kept getting distracted by the fucking ads. do you know how many hot singles are apparently in our area?” he'd gotten your blouse off, was working on your pencil skirt. “told them all to fuck off. got my hot single right here.”

soon you were face down on the bed in just your panties, ben straddling your thighs as he warmed the oil between his hands. “tell me if i hurt you,” he said, and you knew he meant it. for all his strength, all his bravado, ben was terrified of his own power when it came to you. you’d seen him bend steel without thinking, but he touched you like you were made of delicate glass.

“you won’t,” you assured him, then gasped as his hands made contact with your back. he was surprisingly good at this, strong fingers finding knots you didn’t even know existed. “fuck, that feels good.”

“you’re so fucking tense,” he muttered, working his thumbs along your spine. “that boss of yours has been running you dry. should have stepped in sooner.” his hands moved lower, dealing with the tension in your lower back. “been thinking about you all day. how you’d look spread out on our bed, letting me take care o’ya.”

“is that all you’ve been thinking about?” you teased, though it came out breathier than intended. his hands were doing wonderful things to your muscles, and you could feel yourself melting into the mattress. “just giving me a nice, innocent massage?”

“nothing innocent about what i plan to do to you,” he growled, hands sliding down to your ass, kneading the flesh there. “this is just the warm-up, sweetheart. got seven days to show you exactly how much i appreciate you putting up with my shit.” he leaned down, pressing kisses along your spine. “seven days to worship every inch of this gorgeous body.”

“ben,” you gasped as his hands slipped under the waistband of your panties. “thought this was supposed to be a massage.” but you were already arching into his touch, body responding to him like it always did. a year together and he still affected you like this, still made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

“it is,” he said, pulling your underwear down and off. “just a very thorough massage. gotta make sure every part of you is relaxed.” his hands returned to your ass, squeezing and spreading, and you could feel his eyes on you. “fuck, look at you. prettiest thing i’ve ever seen, and you’re all mine.”

“all yours,” you agreed, spreading your legs wider in invitation. the massage had been nice, but you both knew where this was heading. where it always headed when ben got his hands on you. “ben, please...”

“please what, baby?” he asked, fingers trailing dangerously close to where you wanted them. “gotta use your words, birthday girl. told you, this week is about what you want.” his thumb brushed against your entrance, gathering the wetness there. “though i gotta say, seems pretty clear what you want right now.”

“want you,” you moaned, trying to push back against his hand. “want you to fuck me. been thinking about it all day too, couldn’t concentrate at work.” that was true — you’d spent most of your last meeting fantasizing about coming home to exactly this, though you’d never imagined he’d actually plan something.

“yeah?” his voice was rough now, affected. “my girl sitting in her office, thinking about my cock instead of spreadsheets or whatever the fuck you do there?” you felt the bed shift as he shoved his sweatpants off. “that why you’ve been so tense? just needed to be fucked properly? hm?��

“yes,” you admitted, past the point of shame. “need you, baby. please.” you felt the blunt head of his cock at your entrance, teasing but not pushing in. “it’s my birthday, you can’t tease me on my birthday.”

“wouldn’t fuckin’ dream of it,” he growled, and then he was pushing in, one smooth thrust that had you grabbing at the sheets. “holy fuck, you feel perfect. always so fucking perfect f’me.” he set a devastating pace immediately, none of his usual build-up. “that’s it, take it. such a good girl, taking everything that i give you.”

the praise made you clench around him, which just spurred him on. “my good girl,” he continued, one hand on your hip and the other pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the mattress. “only mine. that fuckin’ boss of yours better remember that. anyone who sees you better remember that.”

“yours,” you gasped out, the word broken by moans as he hit that perfect spot inside you. “only yours, ben. forever.” the position had you completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but take what he gave you, and you loved it. loved the weight of him over you, the controlled power in every thrust.

“damn right,” he agreed, picking up the pace. “gonna spend this whole week showing you. gonna fuck you in every room of this house, on every surface. gonna make you come so many times you forget your own name.” his hand slid from your back to your hair, gripping it gently. “but you’ll remember mine, won’t you, sweet thing?”

“yeah,” you cried out, already embarrassingly close. “ben, i’m— fuck, ‘m close. please, need to—”

“come for me,” he commanded, his other hand sliding under you to find your clit. “come all over my cock like the good lil’ slut you are. show me how much you love your birthday present.” his fingers circled your clit in time with his thrusts, and that was all it took. you came with a scream, body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

ben fucked you through it, praising you the whole time. “that’s right, that’s my fuckin’ girl. so beautiful when you come. could watch you fall apart for days.” and you knew he meant it — his stamina was legendary, a side effect of the compound v that you definitely didn’t complain about. “thankfully we’ve got all week for that.”

he flipped you over suddenly, cock never leaving your body, and you gasped at the new angle. “wanna to see your face,” he explained, leaning down to kiss you. it was surprisingly tender for the brutal pace he was maintaining. “there she is. my beautiful birthday girl.”

“ben,” you moaned against his lips, oversensitive but already building toward another orgasm. “s’too much, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he insisted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to go deeper. “know you can. my girl can take anything i give her, can’t she?” his thumb found your clit again, and you cursed, back arching off the bed. “just like that. one more for me, sweetheart. let me see those pretty eyes when you come.”

you forced yourself to keep eye contact as the second orgasm approached, watching his face contort with pleasure. “fuck, you’re squeezing me,” he groaned. “gonna make me come. where do you want it, birthday girl?”

“inside,” you gasped out. “wanna to feel you. please, ben, want all of you.” that did it — he thrust deep one final time and came with a roar, filling you as you tumbled over the edge again. the feeling of his release triggered aftershocks, smaller orgasms that had you clinging to him desperately.

he collapsed on top of you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. you both lay there panting, bodies still connected, coming down from the high. “happy birthday, baby,” he murmured against your neck, pressing surprisingly gentle kisses there. “hope you liked part one of your present.”

“part one?” you asked, still dazed. “ben, if that was just part one, i don’t think i’ll survive the week.” but you were smiling, running your fingers through his hair. he practically purred at the contact, that hidden soft side coming out now that he’d properly fucked you into the mattress.

“oh, you’ll survive,” he promised, pulling out carefully and gathering you against his chest. “got it all planned out. tomorrow we’re christening the kitchen counter. always wanted to fuck you there while you’re trying to cook.” his hand traced patterns on your bare skin. “then the shower, the couch, that fancy dining room table you insisted on buying...”

“you’ve really thought this through,” you said, touched despite the crude delivery. in his own way, this was ben’s version of romance — planning out a week of debauchery designed entirely around your pleasure. “no work, no responsibilities, just...”

“just me taking care of you,” he finished. “showing you how much...” he paused, struggling again. “how much you mean to me. hell, i’m bad at this shit.” he pressed his face into your hair, hiding. “but you make me want to try. make me want to be better than the asshole everyone thinks i am.”

“you’re my asshole,” you said fondly, turning in his arms to kiss him properly. “and this is perfect. you’re perfect. even if you did terrorize my boss.” you pulled back to look at him seriously. “thank you. for all of this. for trying. i love you too, you know. even if you can’t say it yet.” you knew he struggled with those words, forty years of russian torture having beaten most emotional expression out of him.

but he showed it in other ways — like planning a week-long sex festival for your birthday, apparently. and that was enough. more than enough.

534 notes · View notes

gloomskulls · 7 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚LIMERENCE [tasm!peter parker]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ For Peter Parker, the deepest secret is not being Spider-Man. It's that he likes you, no he loves you, wants you in any imaginable way possible. After years of quietly admiring you from a distance, everything changes after a biology project that partners you two together. Peter sees a glimpse of chance to get nearer to you, but the line of affection and obsession begins to blur

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ obessive peter, creep peter, stalking, masturbation, panty sniffing, dirty thoughts, breaking in, just peter being hopelessly in love. If any of this finds you uncomfortable, please click out do yourself (and me also) a favor. lemme know if I missed any! MINORS DO NOT READ

If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

A/n: my first ever fic posted on Tumblr, yippee! This is also my first ever smut so it probs be equivalent to horse poo but anyways, this also takes place in tasm 2. don't steal any of the shit I've written or else i'm gonna turn you into Vicky from Terrifier/srs

Peter didn't understand what was so special about you, you were just a crush. Or that's what he convinced himself. Every single place you were in, Peter would carefully trail behind you, like there was a magnet strapped onto you, and Peter was the metal, he would always find himself drawing next to you. Peter Parker was no stranger to keeping secrets. It was, after all, the epitome of his double life. A mask, a costume, a name that wasn't his at all. There was one secret, however, that even the Spider-Man's mask couldn't cover—his growing infatuation towards you.

It started out really simple. You decided to give back the nerdy boy's pencil in sophomore year and defended him from Flash Thompson in his junior year, it was all simple really, something a person with decency and was taught with proper manners would do. But Peter took it as more than that.

Candid photos here and there, purposefully falling of his skateboard so you would help him, cryptic notes in your locker, sometimes a random flower if Peter was lucky to find any.

Limerence, as some might say

The first people who would ever notice Peter's strange behavior where the people who raised him. Uncle Ben would notice this girl in the screen of his nephew's computer, so did Aunt May when she saw many polaroid photos of the same face underneath Peter's bed. Peter shrugged it off, saying the same exact words to the both of them.

'she's just a crush'

Peter Parker was very good at being hidden in the open. Sure, he didn't want to be invisible, but it is what it is. One of the self-working "losers" with horrible punchlines and pretty much the face screaming "nerd". Well, it didn't bother Peter much. He had many other more important things to think about. You

It's been years now. It was already the last year of senior year, graduation was already nearing, still, he hasn't mustered up the courage to do speak to you, afraid that you won't reciprocate the same feelings he has. His been watching you from a distance, stealing glances in class and making mental notes on all the little things you did, like doodling on the corners of your notebooks or, how you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. He knew that it was weird, creepy even, but Peter couldn't stop himself.

So, when Mr. Warren announced a paired project for biology, Peter's internal monologue kicked into overdrive.

"Pair work begins today," Mr. Warren said, his smile a gruff overture that still Peter thought unnecessary. "Choose your partners wisely, just choose somebody you will along with. You can really screw up over this project if you don't!"

The room broke out into a low buzz as students shuffled their chairs and moved toward their friends. Peter didn't move. He never did. Choosing a partner was like finding a needle in a haystack type of task for him

Alright, Pete, it is not such a big deal. You are not going to end up with her or anything. Just relax, find someone cool, and—

"Peter!"

Your voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see you in front of his desk, clutching a notebook to your chest

"By any chance do you have a partner? My friends kind of made their own pairs" you asked, your lips curving into an easy smile.

Peter blinked. His brain short-circuited.

"N-nope. I'm totally solo. Flying solo. A lone wolf. A…"

"Awesome! Then let's team up."

Peter turned to you, his mind racing, he blinked, trying to absorb this. You were choosing him? He nodded frantically; his heart was hammering at a top speed that he was convinced you could hear it

You smiled at him, you fucking smiled at him

For the rest of the class Mr. Warren instructed everyone to plan for the project for the rest of the class. You kept bouncing ideas back and forth, and Peter felt a strange, thrilling sensation of in his heart. You were funny, clever, and surprisingly very easy to communicate with. Every time you laughed at one of his jokes, he felt like he was soaring.

When the bell rang, you packed your things and turned to him. "We should work on this at my place. Tomorrow after school?"

Peter nearly dropped his notebook. "Uh, yeah. Totally. I mean, yes. That works. Perfect. So super normal."

You laughed again. "Cool. Here's my address."

And with that, you scribbled it on a scrap of paper and handed it to him before walking away, leaving Peter frozen in his seat.

That night, Peter was sitting in his room staring at the address. To most people, that was just a little detail, probably not even worth a second thought. But to Peter, it was an invitation, or perhaps a key, even just for a second to get into your life. To know every little thing about you

Unfortunately, though, that's not enough.

He felt his hands shaking as he opened the drawer in his desk to reveal a small trove of hidden treasures; poorly taken pictures of you from a distance, bits of paper that you had thrown away during math class, and a small stash of hair strands that he meticulously collected from your hair comb when you weren't looking

This was love, wasn't it? The desperate consuming desire to be around her, to know everything about you.

And tomorrow, he shall get his chance.

You invited him, but Peter just knew it was really more than what you would ever willingly give.

His love was a web, and you were stepping into it, one delicate thread at a time.

Peter stood outside your house with a crumpled piece of paper clutched in his rather sweaty hand. The address on it was correct, but doubt clouded him. What if she had forgotten about this meeting? What if this was simply a joke? No, she would never do that, he tried to convince himself

Peter Parker was standing at your porch. Each thump of his heart sounded like one of the drums in the music club. He raised his hand to knock, hesitating for a moment. Maybe it was a terrible idea to come here after all; he could fake being sick, sending her an apology while rescheduling. Just then, the door swung open before he even had the chance to run.

"Hey, you found my house, I actually thought you would get lost cause I wrote the wrong color of the rooftop on the note" you said while stepping aside to let him enter.

"I was actually hesitant to knock, because it didn't look like the description" He quietly said. You actually got everything right, I was just being a huge pussy so I didn't come immediately, he thought to himself.

"Come in. I have started working on the diagram."

Peter plasted a grin and forced his legs down inside. "Well, look at you. Overachieving already. I guess I'll just sit back and let you do all the hard work."

You rolled your eyes and laughed, your voice making him feel that the world wasn't so bad after all. "Nice try, Parker. Grab a marker. You're on label duty."

"Come on, we can work in the dining area," you said, leading him across the house.

The dining table was already loaded with supplies, with textbooks scattered everywhere, colored pencils, sheets of poster paper, you name it. You positioned herself and gestured to him to join you.

You fell into a rhythm, your hand sketching the parts of the circulatory system while Peter scrawled out the labels in his neatest handwriting. He cracked jokes every few minutes, drawing out your laughter like a lifeline. It would be so easy to lose himself in the moment, pretend that you both were just two friends hanging out and not a guy hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn't even know half the truth about him.

Both of you had a relatively smooth first hour of working, few questions were asked here and there on the project. Peter kept his answers short, being extra cautious with what to share, but it seemed you did not mind. You sketched diagrams, jotting down notes with an ease that made Peter's hands tremble every time he made an attempt to help.

"So Peter," you suddenly announced after the silence, "why is it that you don't talk very much? At school I mean"

The question staggered him, rendering him blank while the colored pencil just hovered above the page.

Peter jerked up his head and looked surprised. "What do you mean? Talking is what I do. I mean, there's even people begging me to stop."

You smirked but didn't let it down. "I mean really, you're funny but I know nothing about you. What's your thing, Peter Parker?"

He didn't answer immediately but fiddled with the marker. "I'm just… some guy. Pretty boring, honestly. Not much to tell."

Your expression softened, "I don't buy that. You're not boring".

Your words made Peter's chest tighter. He wanted to believe you, yet the voice at the back of his mind reminded how wrong youwere. If you only knew the real him, the guy who had spent countless nights staring at your window, memorizing your every move, you wouldn't be smiling and sitting here before him.

"Hey, don't overthink it. You're cool. Let's just finish this masterpiece, okay?" you said, flicking his arm before he could answer.

Peter smiled forcedly

And when they finished the day's work, you walk him to the door once more, your smile as warm as ever.

"Thanks for coming over," you said. "You're actually a pretty decent partner, Parker."

"Decent?!" Peter gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Wow. Don't hold back; tell me how you really feel."

And you laughed, shaking your head. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Peter waved. You waved back at him, as he strolled down the street, but he did not go very far. Instead, he found himself across the street in the same place, hidden under the shadow of the oak tree.

you were in your living room again, curled around a blanket and a pillow as you watched whatever was on your screen, your face glowing softly from the light of the television. Peter leaned against the tree with both hands shoved in his jacket pockets and simply watched.

How long he'd been there, he couldn't tell, but he didn't want to leave. This was the closest he ever felt with you, even if you didn't know he was here.

He knew this was crossing the line, but he couldn't help himself. He found himself sneaking into your house. Now he really felt like a robber trying to intrude a home, expect he wasn't really going to steal anything, or so he thought.

It was late at night, you and your family were already asleep at this point

Peter knew that the right thing to do was to head home. He knew for sure that this crossed a line even he wasn't sure he could come back from. But before he could stop himself, he was moving, slipping across the street and into the shadows of your yard.

His palms were slick with sweat as he scanned the side of the house. The metal trellis leading up to your window wasn't very solid, but it would hold him if he was careful.

He carefully climbed the trellis, not putting too much weight on it. And his heart was pounding as he got to your window, his fingers brushing against the cool glass.

It wasn't locked.

At that moment, his body froze. The rational part of him screamed to stop, to climb back down and pretend this never happened. But then his hand was on the window. And that soft sound of it sliding open seemed to be deafeningly loud in the stillness of the night.

He slipped into his feet and landed silently on the carpeted floor. Your room smelled of lavender and something warm and sweet like vanilla. A little bit of moonlight filtered through the curtains and brightened the room in pale silver.

There she was

You laid curled up in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your shoulders, your face peaceful in sleep. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. You looked so serene, so utterly perfect, that it made his chest ache.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, just watching you. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. But all he felt was a strange mix of awe and guilt.

This was wrong.

He knew it.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He looked around your room, it was full of polaroids of either you or your friends.

He started walking around your room quietly, careful to not wake you up in your slumber, because God knows what will happen if you saw him in your room with all its glory, he couldn't even imagine the disgust on your face.

But one thing caught his eye

Your bathroom was open, and in your bathroom was a basket with what he assumed inside were dirty laundry.

He knew it was disgusting, heck, over the top creep award would probably go to him, but he found himself walking towards the bathroom. It was wrong, but he still did it, he needs to get help, he thought to himself.

One second ago he was walking towards your bathroom, next thing you knew he was rummaging through your dirty laundry, occasionally smelling some of your shirts. He cherished the way your scent overwhelmed his nose, he was in Cloud 9.

While he was rummaging, a little piece of clothing caught his eye. With shaky hands he picked up the piece of clothing, it was your pink underwear with little cherries scattered everywhere as design.

He brought it near to his nose. He suddenly sat down in the neat cold tiles of the bathroom floor, he smelt it as if it was his oxygen.

He let out a small moan. He didn't know if it was an invisible force making him do such things, but he found his hands unbuttoning his pants

Peter Parker sat in the rest room; hand clasped tight around the lacy edge of the pink panty. He took out his hardened length of his boxers. The scent of dirty panties wafted his nose.

He imagined you wrapped around his throbbing cock, he thought of the feeling of your tight little pussy riding his cock, he wanted the sweet nectar from your lips, while having a feast on your quivering hole. His cock throbbed in his palms, his hands were much faster now, stroking his hardened cock. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from moaning

Why was he doing this? You were literally there, outside the bathroom, sleeping. And Peter was here, out in the open, jerking off to the smell of your used panties

He was drenched in sweat as his hairs stuck to his wet forehead. He fantasized about your perky tits; perfect little nipples erect in anticipation. Pumping the shaft rapidly, imagining you on all fours begging for more, the bounce of your tits while riding him moaning his name like a mantra, Peter, fuck Peter, Peter, oh my God!

Peter was breathing heavily, his release was near, he profusely pumped his manhood, his hands and cock covered in his sticky pre-cum.

He wanted to feel you inside him, want you to quiver in pleasure as he fucks you over and over again.

He felt a sudden wave of pleasure hitting him, before he knew it, he released a flooded torrent of jizz into sticky cum as it scattered all over the floor. He slumped against the wall, heaving as he tried to steady his racing heart. He looked outside the door, finding you in the same spot as you were. You were sleeping oh so peacefully

He gazed at you, his heart full of unfulfilled yearning. He desperately wanted to be part of your world, to be someone you chose to let in. Yet no matter how many jokes he made or how close you seemed; he knew deep in his heart that he was not enough.

A soft sound broke the silence.

Peter's eyes snap to the bed, and his stomach lurch at the realization that you were stirring. Your brows knitted, your breathing started shifting, just as if you were going to wake up.

He immediately threw your panties back into the basket as he stood up and fixed his underwear and pants

He felt panic surging him, he immediately sprinted near the window. It made a loud a thud, now he was fucked

He moved quickly and quietly without thinking as he quietly ran towards the window. Just as you were about to opene your eyes, he slipped stealthily past the fluttering of curtains.

He tried scrambling down the trellis and found the ground, shivering and shaking as he did so.

He was hidden in a shadow corner, looking up towards your window. You were sitting up now, rubbing your eyes and looking around your room with a sleepy confusion.

Peter's chest tightened.

What's the matter with him?

He hurried as he turned away, his footsteps quiet against the pavement

The cool night air wrapped around Peter Parker like a cold, suffocating blanket as he walked back toward his house. Each step seemed to slant further and further as if his sneakers were scuffing wet against the cracked pavement in a slow and deliberate rhythm.

It was as if the world had gone still—entirely quiet. No cars were heard, no distant chatter, no hum of the city. Just Peter, the quiet whistle of wind through leaves, and the pounding thuds of his thoughts.

With that, he shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers curling into tight fists. Replaying the scene, he heard the soft sound of your breathing, the warmth of your room, and the way you stirred in your bed as if you had felt him there.

What the heck are you doing, Parker? He hadn't intended to climb into your room. He hadn't intended for it to get this far. Watching from the shadows was one thing, but tonight… tonight he had crossed a line.

He stopped moving and leaned against the lamppost, his breath escaping him in short, sharp gasps. Above him, the light flickered, shining unevenly across his shadow on the ground.

"This isn't me," he whispered to himself, the voice trembling.

But wasn't it?

Hadn't he been staring at you for years, taking notes while you weren't looking, memorizing all of your movements, laughter, and smiles? He had told himself that it was just harmless admiration from a distance, but now it was clear.

What would you think if you knew?

He sighed, Peter threw back his head and gazed up at the sky. Above him the stars, though cold and distant, seemed on to him— judging him in silence.

With the words of Uncle Ben echoing in his mind, With great power comes great responsibility, Peter winced.

Peter's jaw clamped down. Not great power; not yet. But wasn't all this part of it? Taking responsibility for his actions, owning up to his mistakes before they spiraled uncontrollably out of hand?

It hit him like a gut punch.

He wouldn't ever be able to take it back. Nor would he ever be able to wipe away the fact that he'd violated your space, your privacy, in a way you might never forgive. But he could stop it from going any further. He could ensure that you never found out.

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

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hanasnx · 3 months ago

Note

Oh god Ben is so dad. I’d give up a toe (even one of the important ones!) for that man to baby me. Like please please please I’ve been good, I deserve it!!!

BABYING — s.boy

“ lookin’ at you, make me wanna fuck for life ” 🪽

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | the boys. NOTES. it’s hard to figure out what babying is for ben. WARNINGS. fem reader ノ established relationship ノ sexual content towards the end ノ size difference ノ age gap ノ degradation: calls you a kid ノ daddy kink: dad ノ finger sucking (m receiving) ノ features alcohol.

SOLDIER BOY treats you like a kid. it’s not loving or kind usually, it has a fair amount of condescension and you’ve heard, “the grown-ups are talking.” more times than you can count. however, there are some days—rare and few—when ben gets a little soft. maybe it’s the change of the season, maybe his team won a game, but soldier boy calls you baby and means it sweetly. “c’mere, baby,” he’ll croon, hooking his finger under your knee to guide your body over to straddle his hips on the bed. callused thumbs stroke your thighs as he looks up at you with a certain contentedness in his eyes, the subtlest upturn to the corners of his lips. “let me look at’cha.” those proud green eyes drink you in while his rough hands slide up to get under the hem of your sleep shorts.

when he’s in a good mood and he wants something from you, the point of his nose tucks under your hair, gruff voice talks in your ear, “how’s about we get outta here, pretty thing? hm?” he purrs, and you swallow down the urge to visibly shudder, meeting his gaze when he pulls away to stand at his full height with that knee-buckling smile of his. you bite your lip, nodding your head while he stoops to catch your hand, leading you out of the room to go take care of you.

usually when you’re feeling real bratty—and you take it out on anything that dares move—ben’s right there to shove you back into your place even if it means sending you on your ass. it’s effective, and he uses any means necessary. but he plays it differently on occasion, letting you get it out of your system even if it means banging your little fists on his chest until you tucker yourself out. he’ll raise his brows, “you done?” you don’t give him an audible answer, instead replying with the tired hang of your arms and your hard pant. breaking the eye contact when he rolls his, a warm palm cups the back of your neck to guide you over, and pliantly you follow his lead to a table at the wall. you recognize the bourbon he always drinks, and your nose scrunches involuntarily at the smell once the cap pops off. he sticks his pinky into the hole of the glass, tips the bottle, wetting the tip of his finger. you feel his body start to close in on you, tucking you under his arm and into his side. it feels safer here, calmer. and when his hand comes to your mouth, your lips part instinctually to suck the alcohol off his pinky finger. “there. that’s it. s’all you needed was a little attention.”

the best babying he does by far involves getting you into his bed. ushering you away to privacy with his huge frame, corralling you until he can press your back to his front. he uses tricks like big hands running up and down your arms n sides, kissing on your cheek n jaw and neck. hooking your tanktop strap down and off your shoulder one by one. slow and steady movements lull you into that sense of security, all the way until you spread your legs for him, already swollen folds opening right up to show him how wet you are. “dad?” you ask uneasily while he’s settling between your legs.

holding himself over you with one hand, he guides his cock at the base with the other. “shh, shh, baby.” he coos, “keep those legs open nice n wide f’me.”

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

#indy: drabbles #ch: ben #soldier boy prompt #soldier boy drabble #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x fem reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy fic #soldier boy fanfiction #reader insert #tw daddy kink

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monicfever · 2 months ago

Note

How you think the punisher and DD characters would be with their s/o asking to move in with them

asking to move in 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

MATT pauses for a moment, trying to process it fully, because his brain short-circuits a little at the idea of someone wanting to share that much of their life with him.

“you really want to?” like he’s trying not to sound too hopeful but failing. you can hear the smile in his voice before you see it on his face. he probably acts cool about it but is internally spiraling in nervousness.

immediately starts thinking about how to make the apartment more comfortable for you, even if it means giving up some of his own habits or routines. asks if you want a drawer… and then the next day clears out half his closet without saying anything. lets your things blend into his space like they’ve always belonged.

listens to your footsteps echo in the apartment and thinks it already feels more like home.

has a brief moment of worry about you finding out how bad his insomnia really is, or how often he gets hurt, but ultimately decides you're worth the risk. starts sleeping a little better just knowing you're there.

makes you coffee in the morning even when he’s half-dead from a night out as daredevil.

listens to the sound of your key turning in the lock like it’s his favuorite song. gets irrationally proud when you call it “home” for the first time

the first time you fall asleep on his chest on the couch, he doesn’t move for hours, even if he’s stiff and sore, because it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. lets you steal all the blankets because he runs warm anyway.

hears your heartbeat when you're unpacking and notices the slight tremor of nerves — whispers, “me too”.

finds one of your socks in his drawer weeks later and smiles like an idiot all over again.

if you're out late, he pretends he's not listening for you on the street but he's absolutely tracking your every step once you’re a block away.

lets you put up art on the walls, even if he can’t see it, just because he knows it makes you happy. touches the wall near where you hung a photo and quietly asks, “what’s this one of?” with a smile that says he’s already memorizing where everything is, even if he can’t see it.

gets really self-conscious about how sparse and impersonal his place is — starts asking things like, “do you want to paint? get some real curtains?”

the first time you leave clothes on the floor, he trips over them and mutters a sarcastic, “great, love this part.” but you can hear the affection behind it.

the first time he comes back injured after you’ve moved in, he panics — not because he’s hurt, but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. lets you patch him up anyway, quiet and vulnerable, murmuring “i’m sorry” over and over.

learns how to move around the apartment a little differently now, more careful, more attuned to your presence — even asleep, he always knows where you are.

the first time you kiss him goodbye on your way out in the morning, he stands there for a full minute afterward, grounding himself.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

FRANK goes completely still. like statue-still. doesn’t say anything right away because he’s not sure he heard you right. finally mutters something like, “you sure?” but his voice is rough and low, like he’s fighting back something big.

part of him wants to say no — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared he’ll ruin it. the other part of him, the part that remembers what peace used to feel like, is already picturing what your toothbrush would look like next to his.

doesn’t know how to ask what kind of stuff you’d need space for, so he just clears out an entire drawer and half the closet and pretends it was always like that. fixes the creaky step by the door before you even move in.

sharpens every knife in the kitchen. installs better locks. reinforces the windows. doesn’t tell you. just does it. the first time you fall asleep in his bed after moving in, he stays awake all night listening to your breathing like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

lets you put your books and blankets and candles around, even if it feels like too much softness at first — it grows on him. catches himself smiling when he sees your coffee mug in the sink. still sleeps with one eye open but it’s less about paranoia now and more about making sure you’re okay.

the first time he has a nightmare after you move in, he almost leaves in the middle of the night, but you hold onto him and he stays.

says “this place is yours too” and means it, even if it terrifies him doesn’t call it home out loud, but he feels it in his chest every time he walks through the door and you’re there.

starts cooking more, not just heating up canned stuff — actual meals, because you’re there and you deserve better. doesn’t say much when you rearrange the furniture a little, sits in the new spot on the couch without complaint like it was always meant to be that way.

silently memorizes the sound of your footsteps, your breathing, the way you hum when you’re making tea — tiny details he tucks away.

buys an extra blanket for the bed but claims it was “just lying around” — it’s new, and soft, and clearly for you. one day you catch him fixing the busted sink cabinet, muttering to himself like “can’t have you hurtin’ your damn knee on this thing” and it’s the most tender thing in the world.

gets weirdly possessive over your safety now that you're sharing a space — triple-checks locks, glances out the window every time he hears something.

he doesn’t say “i love you” easily — if at all — but you hear it in the way he says “you good?” every night before bed.

thinks about his old life sometimes, but now when he does, there’s less pain in the remembering and more hope in the now.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

FOGGY says “really??” with wide eyes and a grin before you even finish the sentence. immediately starts talking about how you can redecorate — “i was gonna get new pillows anyway. those old ones are criminal, and not in a cool-lawyer way.”

gets way too excited about sharing a grocery list, like “now we can buy milk together like adults!”

plays it cool but absolutely calls matt the second you leave the room like “guess who’s shacking up with someone way out of his league?”

genuinely proud when you bring over a toothbrush, like it’s a milestone. insists on cooking dinner the first night you officially move in. burns something. orders takeout. swears it was the plan all along

excited to show you every little part of the apartment like “and this — is the cabinet where i keep old soy sauce packets, but we can throw them out now.”

buys a “his & theirs” or “ours” type of mug even though you didn't ask for one. starts referring to things as “ours” before you do — our couch, our kitchen, our mess, our bed.

gives you a key and then immediately worries he made it too big a deal, so he plays it off like “no pressure, just... y'know. if you wanna come and go like a cool roommate who kisses me sometimes”

absolutely cries the first time you call it “home,” but tries to hide it by pretending there’s something in his eye. kisses your forehead while mumbling “can’t believe you’re stuck with me now” and means it.

starts labeling leftovers in the fridge with cute notes like ‘for you (but i’ll fight you for it).’

if you move even one thing slightly, he notices immediately but rolls with it — “did you move the couch a little? i love it. feng shui, baby.”

offers to build ikea furniture with you and somehow turns it into a romantic bonding experience instead of a war. brings home takeout with your favourite sides just because it’s thursday. starts referring to weekends as ‘us days.’

you catch him watching you with this stupidly soft look when you’re folding laundry or doing something completely ordinary. 100% keeps a mental inventory of your snacks and restocks them without being asked.

your first mini-argument about something dumb (like which way the toilet paper goes) ends with him making a dramatic legal defense for his side — complete with opening statements.

finds excuses to say “our place” as often as possible — “our place could use a plant, don’t you think? we’re plant people now.”

if you leave town even for a day, he immediately texts “this apartment is haunted by your absence” and sends sad selfies with your pillow.

you once casually mention you like soft lighting and the next day there are like three new lamps and he’s pretending it was totally normal behavior.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

KAREN goes quiet for a second, her heart stutters at the idea of being chosen like this. looks at you with this wide, soft gaze and says “are you sure?” but you can already see the yes blooming behind her eyes.

she smiles right away but her eyes flicker, like she’s flipping through every time she’s let someone in and gotten hurt. she says yes gently, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud it’ll scare the moment away.

later that night, when she’s alone, she stares at the corner of her apartment and starts mentally rearranging furniture just to make room for you.

the first night you bring a few things over, she’s buzzing with nervous energy — lighting candles, fluffing pillows, asking “do you want this side of the bed or that one?” three times.

she overthinks everything — are you comfortable? is it too soon? does it smell weird in here? what if you hate how she folds towels?

she insists on doing a “tour” even though it’s a small apartment — shows you the squeaky kitchen drawer, the window that fogs up in the morning, her favourite mug. the first time you brush teeth side by side, she watches your reflection in the mirror and feels this quiet little thrill in her chest.

she’s careful about letting you into her routines, but once you’re in, you’re in — she brings you coffee with exactly the right amount of sugar and leaves notes on the mirror in the morning.

gets a little nervous about being “too much”—too messy, too intense, too late-night-working— but when you reassure her, she melts.

lights candles at night to make it cozy, and always puts on soft music while you’re both unwinding. loves grocery shopping with you. makes it a whole date. argues playfully over which pasta is best.

if you have a rough day, she’ll cook something simple and grounding, even if she’s tired, and sit cross-legged on the floor with you to eat.

tells foggy immediately and with so much joy in her voice that he tears up a little.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

ELEKTRA laughs at first — not unkindly, but like you’ve caught her off guard, like you just suggested something absurd. “you want to live with me?” she says, smiling with a raised brow, but there's a flicker of something behind it — fear, maybe. or wonder.

“you’re either very brave… or very stupid.” but her voice is gentler than her words. doesn’t say yes right away. needs time to sit with it. she’s not used to people wanting to stay, let alone being allowed to stay.

the first time she sees you carrying a bag into her place, her heart jumps like a startled bird — but she keeps her face calm, cool, unreadable acts like it’s not a big deal. like your toothbrush beside hers is just “convenient.” like your jacket on her chair doesn’t make her chest ache in a good way.

rearranges nothing. if you want space, you have to carve it out yourself — but once you do, she never touches it. it’s yours.

the first time you bring her coffee in the morning, she stares at it like it’s a weapon she doesn’t know how to disarm.

tries to hide her affection in sarcasm — “what, planning to redecorate now?” — but her fingers brush against yours a little too long when you hand her something.

she lets you see her vulnerabilities in small fleeting moments. when she comes back after a mission, her expression softens when she sees you sitting on the couch waiting for her, and she doesn’t hide the relief that hits her. when you catch her staring at you across the room, she looks away quickly, but the warmth in her eyes is undeniable — like she’s finally allowed herself to belong somewhere.

if you ever say “i love you,” she’ll freeze for a moment, then give you that sharp, half-smile that means she’s feeling things she can’t put into words. she never says it back in those moments — not because she doesn’t feel it, but because she’s not sure how to show it without breaking.

the quiet is important to her. too much noise and she’ll retreat — go for a walk, meditate, or just sit in silence until she can breathe again. intimacy is still new to her. she doesn’t always know how to be tender when things are calm. she’s used to chaos, violence.

in the evenings, after a long day, she’s still a little restless. she’ll either pace around or dive into her training — anything to keep the adrenaline in check — but she never minds when you join her, even if it’s just sitting in the same room, offering quiet support.

she’s always late to bed, lingering in the quiet of the night with thoughts that won’t settle, but you’ve learned to meet her halfway. you stay up just a little longer, keeping her company, offering the presence she craves but never asks for.

she doesn’t ask you to stay. she dares you to. and when you do, she looks at you like you’re the first person in the world who’s ever passed her test.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

DEX, at first, would freeze. completely caught off guard. it’s not something he’s ever really considered. he’s used to being alone, isolated, and the idea of someone sharing his space would set off alarms in his head. part of him is thrilled by the idea, but another part feels like he's being asked to open a door he’s been desperately trying to keep closed.

he’d try to play it cool, maybe give a half-hearted smile, and act like it’s not a big deal, but you’d see the tension in his posture, the slight shift in his eyes, betraying his nerves. he wouldn’t be used to sharing space, and while he’d agree (hesitantly), he’d quickly start obsessing over everything — every little thing you might change or touch.

moving in with him would require adjustments for you. his place is sparse, cold, slightly clinical — some things are arranged in odd, very specific ways. any changes you make, even small ones, would throw him off, and he is not going to be the type to adapt.

he tries so hard to be easy to live with. washes dishes right after eating. folds your laundry just the way you like. buys the same brand of everything you use because he doesn’t want to mess it up. but when things go out of rhythm — when you go out of rhythm — his chest tightens. the world tilts. and he doesn’t know how to ask, “did i do something wrong?” so he just hovers, waiting for the routine to return

he'd ask for boundaries almost immediately, perhaps too early, like he’s putting walls up before they’ve even begun to come down.

he never outright says “i need you to stay on schedule,” but you can feel it. the way his body goes tight when you skip breakfast, the way his voice flattens when you cancel plans last minute. like you’ve disrupted something crucial to his sense of control. when you do stay consistent — when you fall into routine naturally — he relaxes. he’s all quiet humming, fingers brushing yours while passing a mug, lingering in the doorway just to watch you exist.

there’s an underlying unease to everything he does: the way he watches you unpack, the way he hovers when you move something slightly out of place, like he’s hyper-aware of every decision being made. he’d definitely have moments of intensity when you both adjust to this new dynamic. any accidental miscommunication or small thing would make him tense up, on edge because it feels like he’s walking on thin ice.

he’d have a very hard time with the idea of you being “permanent,” and may subconsciously sabotage the idea out of fear of getting too close. he might withdraw without explanation, acting distant to see if you’ll leave, just to test how much you’re willing to stay. eventually, he’d start letting down the walls in small ways: leaving his phone unlocked for you to use if you need it, letting you use his bathroom products, giving you a drawer for your things.

he notices every single thing you do. how you fold your socks. what side of the bed you take. the sound of your toothbrush against the sink. it becomes part of his routine. part of the structure he builds around himself to stay okay. he starts checking if the stove is off twice instead of three times because your voice in the kitchen grounds him faster than his rituals ever could.

incredibly routine-oriented. if you mess with the order of things — dishes, towels, what shelf the mugs go on — he doesn’t say anything at first, but you’ll catch him quietly moving them back later. doesn’t like a lot of clutter. your stuff slowly migrating into his space freaks him out at first. not because he doesn’t want you there, but because change makes him feel like he’s losing control.

he has comfort habits; like lining up his keys just so, or triple-checking the locks. if you ask he’ll downplay it, but if you don’t ask and just let him do it, he relaxes around you faster.

he doesn’t just notice your routine — he memorizes it. down to the minute. how long your showers take, what time you usually eat, which sock you put on first. if anything changes, even slightly, he feels it in his body like a system glitch.

he builds his entire day around you without realizing it. he starts syncing his schedule to yours — when you wake up, when you brush your teeth, when you leave for work. if you're five minutes late one morning, he gets stuck staring at the door like it personally betrayed him. your habits become sacred. you like honey in your tea? he’ll keep three kinds in the cupboard just in case one runs out. you hum while folding laundry? he starts doing it too. not on purpose, it just imprints.

he keeps a mental archive of everything that soothes you. what music you put on when you’re sad. how you like your blankets folded. the exact temperature you set the thermostat to. and then starts applying it before you ask, like clockwork. if you ask how he knew you needed something, he just says, “i pay attention,” but he won’t tell you that he’s been tracking it for weeks.

if you act off routine — oversleep, cry out of nowhere, forget to eat — he goes into full quiet panic mode. he won’t bombard you with questions, but he’ll hover close, every muscle in his body tense, waiting for the threat he thinks he missed.

he starts sleeping better with you there. deeper. more still. but only if you’re facing him. if you turn away he wakes up every time. when you fall asleep on the couch, he sits nearby on the floor, just watching you breathe. hand resting on the edge of the cushion like he’s guarding you. like if he lets go, something bad will happen.

he'll try not to be clingy but the fact is, the closer you get, the more obsessive his behavior can become. you’ll notice him lingering in rooms just to be near you, watching your every move, constantly ensuring that you’re comfortable and safe. If something’s off he can go into a spiral. that gnawing fear of losing you.

and when you look at him with soft eyes and say, “i love being here with you,” his throat goes tight. “yeah?” like it’s fragile. like it might vanish.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

BILLY’S first reaction is a practiced, easy smile. cool, smooth. "you really want to?" he sounds confident — playful, even — but his heart stutters like it just got clipped by a bullet. there’s a flicker behind his eyes. one second of real vulnerability before it’s buried under charisma.

he says yes. of course he does. but internally? he’s spiraling. he’s spent his whole life building walls lined with silk and marble, and now you’re asking to step inside.

he makes it look effortless. he wants this to feel like it was always going to happen. “it’s your place too now, sweetheart.” he says with that soft, smirking charm — but deep down, he’s bracing for you to change your mind.

the penthouse is pristine. expensive. cold. and when you move in, he watches your stuff disrupt that carefully polished perfection—and he loves it more than he knows how to say. a mug you leave on the counter? he stares at it for a second longer than he should. your shoes by the door? he steps around them like they’re sacred.

he keeps acting cool — laughs when you accidentally drop a sock in the hallway, rolls his eyes when you leave a light on — but every time you do something domestic, his chest gets tighter in a way he’ll never admit out loud.

starts getting scared of loving it too much. of waking up next to you and thinking, this could be forever, and then remembering that forever’s never been kind to him.

he’s obsessive about protecting you now. starts double-checking locks, adding security, keeping a closer eye on who’s around you. he won’t call it paranoia, but you know what it is. his trauma simmers underneath it all. on nights he can’t sleep, he’ll go out onto the balcony, staring at the skyline like it owes him answers. when you come out and wrap your arms around him, he just leans into you silently. he’s still afraid you’ll leave. that you’ll see the cracks under the surface — the mess he hides under suits and soft lighting — and walk away.

so he starts giving you pieces of himself, slowly. a key. his favourite hoodie. his real laugh, unpolished and unguarded

“honey, im home.” in that frustratingly charming voice when he’s trying to be annoying.

mornings are quiet. not cold, just muted. he’s already been awake for a while, sipping espresso by the window in a robe that’s way too expensive, staring out like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see. but the second he hears you stir, he softens. brings you coffee without asking, knows exactly how you take it. kisses the top of your head like he’s done it forever. never says good morning like a normal person. always some variation of “hey, gorgeous.” or “you sleep okay, baby?” — and it sounds like velvet every time.

he watches you move around the kitchen like it’s art. like it calms something in him. you’re the only chaos he allows inside his perfect little world.

when he’s had a bad day, he won’t say anything. just drops onto the couch beside you and pulls you onto him like you’re an anchor. you let him sit in the silence until he’s ready to breathe again.

he can’t cook. not well. but he insists on making you dinner at least once a week — usually ends with a half-burned something and him going, “okay, maybe i’m more of a reservation guy.”

he gets weirdly attached to your routines. like, if you skip a skincare step one night, he notices. “no moisturizer?” he asks, faux-casual, but he’s already reaching for the bottle.

he never says it directly, but being with you day to day makes him feel human. like maybe he’s more than the wreckage he came from. and when you say “i love living with you,” his whole body stills. like it’s too much. like it hurts. then he touches your face, gently, reverently, and says, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

DINAH blinks. once. twice. like she didn’t hear you right the first time. “you serious?” half-laughing, half-deflecting, because that’s easier than letting her heart show on her face.

the truth is: she’s wanted you there. for a while. but she didn’t think she was allowed to want that kind of softness. she probably tries to play it off like it’s no big deal. “sure. yeah. we can try it.” but you can see the way her shoulders drop just a little. like a weight she didn’t know she was carrying slipped off.

she spends the next week obsessing over logistics. where your stuff will go. whether her place is “too small.” acts like she’s just being practical, but really, she’s panicking under the surface. she doesn’t share space easily. she’s used to her solitude. used to walking around guarded even in her own home. so with you she tries. she wants to let you in, even if her hands shake while doing it.

clears a drawer, then a second one. gives you the better side of the closet. buys you your own toothbrush holder without saying a word. still doesn’t let you see her cry. not yet. not even when you set a mug down beside her while she’s working late and kiss the top of her head.

every time she comes home and hears you moving around in the apartment, she exhales without realizing it. like her body’s been holding tension all day and finally gets to release it. she’s not great at domesticity, but she tries. starts making dinner with you, folds your laundry and pretends she’s not secretly proud of it all.

when you fall asleep on the couch, she puts a blanket over you and sits beside you in the dark, sipping wine and watching whatever you left on the tv. doesn’t even care what it is. she just wants to be near you.

still keeps parts of herself locked up tight, files and folders and grief she never talks about. but every now and then, she lets you see the cracks “i’m not .. easy to live with,” she says one night, eyes on the floor.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

WESLEY doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stutter. just tilts his head slightly like he’s calculating what this means, how it fits into the long-term picture he already started building with you months ago. “you want to?” he says it low, like he’s double-checking, not because he’s surprised, because he wants to be sure.

you nod, and he’s quiet for a second too long. then he smiles, small and private, like something just slotted perfectly into place. “okay.” simple. certain. like he’s already rearranging his entire life in his head and doesn’t see a single downside.

he’d already been making room for you before you asked. subtle shifts. an extra set of your preferred wine glasses. drawer space you hadn’t noticed yet. everything is done intentionally. he doesn’t rush anything, but by the time you bring over your first overnight bag, there’s already a place for every item.

he doesn’t just make room for your things — he blends them into the space like they’ve always belonged. a book you left out gets bookmarked and stacked next to his. your jacket ends up hanging beside his tailored coat. if you move something, even if it’s out of place, he leaves it there. memorizes the change. adjusts.

he notices everything. the way your keys sound when you drop them on the counter, your mood when you walk in, what kind of music means you had a long day. you come home once and he’s already poured your favourite drink, sat it on the table, like he’s been waiting for that exact version of you.

he doesn’t show affection with grand gestures, he shows it in consistency. in remembering. in placing himself exactly where you need him to be without being asked.

at night, he watches you read, or wash your face, or fold laundry like it’s a scene he wants to etch into stone. like it’s the first thing that’s ever felt like peace.

he keeps your schedule memorized. he knows when you’re home, when you’re late, when you’re off. if something’s wrong he’s already halfway to fixing it before you even mention it.

he lets you talk through your day at dinner while he listens, always with quiet focus. occasionally he’ll offer insight or dry commentary, but mostly he’s content to just hear you speak.

he doesn’t nag about tidiness, he just fixes things without a word. your charger’s always plugged in. the pantry stays stocked with what you love. if you leave something out — like a sweater on the back of a chair — he’ll leave it there until you wear it again. he’s waiting to see if that was part of your pattern.

when you’re sick, he takes time off without being asked. “don’t argue,” he’ll say, slipping a blanket over your legs. “you’d do the same.” when he’s sick, he pretends he’s fine. but the minute you touch his forehead and tell him to sit down, he obeys without a word. only for you.

he buys expensive soap you mentioned liking once. replaces your pillow when you say your neck’s been sore. upgrades the apartment’s security without telling you. at night, he reads next to you, one hand resting on your thigh.

when you call it “home,” he just gives you this look — soft, quiet, intense. like he’s storing the word away somewhere deep

★ a / n : i didn’t add muse to this one bc im sick asf and tired but if somebody wants me to add him just leave a comment and i can come up with smth no biggie

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

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soldiersgirl · 4 months ago

Text

NOT IN THE SAME WAY .ᐟ

summary ⭑ you couldn't work out if you loved him or hated him, but all you knew is that you needed each other, no matter the cost. (based on this request). cw ⭑ fem!reader x soldier boy. 18+ smut/angst (mdni). mutual pining. flirting. mentions of cheating. reader has a bf. break-up mentions. guilt tripping. mentions of reader's past trauma. swearing. kissing. unprotected p in v (wrap it up). oral (f receiving.) fingering. masturbating (f). spit play. spanking. slapping. squirting. dirty talk. begging. sir kink. degradation. overstimulation. pet names (slut, whore, doll, good girl). word count ⭑ 4,493 words.

life used to be simple, nice, easy. you had your friends, your hobbies, your supporting boyfriend. you couldn't have asked for a better life, yet you always felt that something was missing. it was all too simple, too nice and too easy. you searched and craved for new, different. and no matter how much it scared and worried those around you, you never felt more alive than when you, alongside your childhood best friend hughie campbell, joined the boys and their suicide mission of taking down homelander, and more importantly vought.

like many others, you had had your unfortunate run-ins with vought and their supes with their catastrophic attempts to "save lives" and "bring justice". you had watched your best friend get crushed under a toppled sky scraper right in front of your own feet, thanks to homelander and some supposed bank robbers. no matter how many pr specialists vought hired, you knew the real truth. it was just typical homelander recklessness. you had spent weeks trying to get the bloodstains out of your favourite white sneakers. now they just stood abandoned in the back of your closet alongside your discarded vought merch, most notably your once-beloved soldier boy action figure.

standing toe-to-toe with soldier boy was something you had never expected. his presence as commanding and domineering as the rumours had stated, his gaze harsh and his lips always in a default sneer as he lazily trudged around the boys hq.

"not impressed, eh?" butcher laughed as ben's fingers traced along the edge of your desk, momentarily catching your eyes and giving you his signature smirk.

"what a fuckin' shithole. should've stayed with the commies, if this is what you're fuckin' offerin'." ben grumbles as he turns his back on you and leans against your desk, messing up your organised papers and staring directly at butcher who only chuckled in response.

"keep your flippin' knickers on. you'll get your own apartment tonight, a'right? she will show you where it is la'er." you shoot up from your desk and shake your head in defiance. your dislike and distrust for supes grew inch by inch with each passing day and you weren't willing to serve them hand and foot, like butcher expected you to. like he said with that cheshire cat smile; "happy supe, happy life."

"nuh huh! i have date night with my boyfriend! i told you this." you almost whine. you had cancelled twice in a row due to your duties and he was growing increasingly impatient with you. you knew you didn't have many chances left and you couldn't risk losing the one constant you had in your life.

"too. fuckin'. bad. we need you for this. hughie, m.m and i got some old friends to visit. annie's gotta stay under the radar. kimiko and frenchie are at the bleedin' hospital. that leaves you." butcher juts his finger at you as soldier boy slowly turns and silently analyses you. in retaliation, you strike up your middle finger at butcher and reluctantly stealing a glance at the psycho that sat before you. a cold dread settled in your bones as you both stared into, what felt like, each other's souls and all you saw was trouble. and you couldn't make yourself look away, no matter how much your mind willed it.

BRRRRR! BRRRRR! - hello? - hi babe... it's me. - let me fucking guess, you're cancelling again? - i.. no, yes. please, don't be mad! i had no choice, literally butch- - stop with the fucking excuses. i can't hear it anymore. i'm sleeping at my brothers place tonight. i'll call you when i'm ready to talk again. - babe, please! i'm so sorry, i love y– CLICK.

you pushed your phone deep into your jeans and ignored the smirking soldier boy next to you as you walked together in silence towards his apartment. you could feel he was dying to say something, anything, but your furrowed brows and the roll of a singular tear down your face deterred him, your mascara leaving a small stain on the apple of your cheeks. the silence continued as you unlocked his front door, slipped inside and handed him the keys as you gazed around the barren room that only had the essentials and lacked any form of welcome.

"so, yeah. this is it. your own place, soldier boy." the rusted kitchen chair creaked as you slowly eased down onto it, watching him as he glanced around and ran his fingers over the worn sofa, playing with a loose thread before his eyes finally settled on you.

"ben." he coughs before charging into the bedroom and checking out the bathroom. how could america's #1 live in a place like this?, he thought to himself. what a fucking disgrace, this is.

"ben." you repeat under your breath, not enjoying the taste it left on your tongue. it was bitter and unwelcoming, much like his attitude. he swaggered back into the living room and leaned up against the back of the sofa, crossing his strong arms over one another and resting his gaze on you once more. you physically squirmed each time his eyes fell on you, like he could hear your thoughts of discontent and mistrust. "well." you clap your thighs, preparing to leave. you didn't want to spend more time with him than you needed to. he made you feel vulnerable, weak, in danger; just like all the other supes do.

"sorry 'bout your little boyfriend." he offhandedly states, his trademark smirk nowhere to be found as your eyes meet his in surprise. you stand frozen in your spot, your head tilting as you consider his words.

"oh.. thanks. no need." you mutter. "ben." you instinctively add, testing out his name again. the taste was sweeter this time; less bitter and more pleasant, somehow.

"been together long?" he continues, surprising you.

"uh, 6 years." you nod, not wanting to reveal more than you have to, to him.

"hm, does he hate supes as much as you? or is that your own hobby?" he darkly chuckles.

"i don't hate supes, i–"

"don't lie to me, sweetheart. hughie told me everything. he's like a teenage girl at a sleepover, won't stop fuckin' gossiping and spilling every little secret." you accept your fate and just slowly nod. thank you hughie for pissing off one of the world's strongest supers, ever, it was just what you needed on top of everything else.

"i'm not going to apologise for my feelings." you stand your ground, copying his crossed arms and, almost, macabre seriousness.

"i'm sorry about your friend." he almost cuts you off, interrupting your annoyance.

"i don't need your apologies." you sigh. "i just need to do to your fucking job and help us." kicking the chair as you hurry to leave his apartment, his words melting into your bones, making you feel heavy as your mind reels about the accident. as you rush past him, he roughly grabs you by the forearm before, just as quickly, letting go.

"i'll help you. you can trust me." his voice, uncharacteristically soft, makes your heart beat flutter. you want to believe him, but the alarm bells are going off in your head. you flinch away from him, grabbing the arm of your jacket to comfort yourself.

"it's not what you think." and with that, you flee out into the cold new york air, away from the venus fly-trap that is soldier boy.

two things are certain. no matter how hard you try, you can't make it up to your boyfriend. and no matter how hard you try, you can't avoid ben. the more your boyfriend was giving you the cold shoulder, deservedly so, the more you sought out any welcome distraction and ben wasn't going to deny himself the pleasure of you.

long nights in the flatiron building with meetings, brainstorms and debriefs meant less time with your boyfriend and more time with be–, no sorry. the boys, you meant the boys. it was just easier to be at the hq than at home, where nothing but slamming doors and passive aggressiveness thrived. you tried to fix it all; making promises that only end up broken, dates that go unattended and messages left unread and forgotten. somebody else was always at hq, so you never got the moment to sink into despair and lose yourself in guilt. you longed to feel anything other than shame and ben's attention breathed life into you.

his longing glances at you as you pranced around the office, checking up on the boys and double-checking details of plans. the way his hands would accidentally brush against yours as you walked past one another or when his hands lingered too long on your waist when squeezing past you. if he made himself a coffee, he would pour you a cup as well, seeing as "he was already doing it" and let his hands linger on yours for a second too long before pulling back and showing off that devilish smile. he'd always greet you, ask you how you're doing. harmless flirting never hurt anybody, because that's all it was. harmless flirting that was never going to lead anywhere, because you loved your boyfriend. you were sure you did, he certainly loved you. and ben was just... fun, lighthearted fun.

as time went on, you couldn't quite work out ben's angle but you could feel that you lost yourself more and more with each small touch, glance, word that he directed towards just you. you couldn't help but reciprocate each look and fluttering touch. you were like a feather in a hurricane named ben, completely at his mercy. he was filling a void that was emptying out quicker than you could handle.

but then he would shift, like the changing tides of a raging storm. his smiles transforming into scowls, his fleeting touches becoming few and far-between, his soft words of encouragement devolved into yelled, harsh remarks. you would get into feverish arguments, calling him a psycho before storming out of the hq and finding yourself crying in the toilets. you'd recklessly threaten with pouring his pills down the sink, telling butcher that allowing ben to join the boys was his worst idea yet as ben stood and muttered obscenities behind you.

you know what you were playing with, you knew you were tempting trouble. but when everything you knew was falling apart around you, you grabbed onto what was closest and it just happened to be ben.

god help you, it made you feel sick. you grappled with your feelings for weeks. sometimes you could justify it with "you deserve happiness, no matter how it looks, you've been having a hard time. it's all harmless, right? flirting isn't a crime", but it always turned into your best friend's voice repeating the same mean sentiment, over and over. "you're fucking sick. wanting someone who destroyed the life that you knew. who killed me. he is one of them. you should be the one in the grave, not me. i wouldn't do this to you." and when you would turn to your boyfriend for those rare moments of comfort in grief, when you weren't shouting at each other, his hands and words didn't feel right. didn't ignite your skin the way his did. not in the same way.

"he broke it off last night." you shake and shiver in ben's grimy hallway, not knowing where else to turn. you could've gone anywhere, called your parents, but your weary bones carried you right to his door. he silently stepped aside, welcoming you in as you shed your soaked jacket and pushed away your drenched hair from your tear-stained face. a beat passes before he closes the door, another before he turns and gazes those emerald eyes deep into yours.

like a deer caught in his headlights, you stiffen. another pause. he brushes past you, as if everything's normal and takes his usual seat on the sofa to continue watching his show. unsure of what to do with yourself, watch the back of his head as the bile slowly climbs your throat and you struggle to swallow it.

what were you doing? why did you come here? he's the last person you should–

"sit down." his voice disrupts your silent tirade and he claps the cushion next to him.

"i'm soaking." this elicits a snort and a chuckle from the supe before he gets up with a sigh, disappears into his bedroom and walks out with a change of clothes for you. he shoves them into your hands, avoiding your doleful eyes altogether and settling back down in front of the tv. your chest burned and your eyes stung with the tears that threatened to spill over, no matter how much you prayed they wouldn't. after peeling off your clothes and pulling his oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that loosely hung from your limbs, you carefully climbed onto his sofa and sat with baited breath.

you were almost serving yourself on a silver platter to him, but he wasn't biting. every inch of you was burning, waiting for the torment to end, for anything to happen.

"why did you come here?" he asks, his eyes not leaving the tv for a second as he nurses his beer. you stutter and splutter for a second.

"i'm not really sure." you answer truthfully, kind of. he lets out another rough chuckle, running his hands through his chestnut locks and all you can focus on is his arms. the veins that curl around it, the scars that litter it from battles fought long ago.

"i never took you for a liar." he shrugs.

"i'm not." he sucks his teeth and shakes his head at your response.

"if you can't even admit, why you're fuckin' here, then you gotta get the fuck out." his tone grows rougher with each word.

"i'm not." you repeat, just a bit louder. "leaving." you whisper. "please, don't make me go, ben."

"i don't have time for your shittin' mind games." he pushes himself off the sofa and gets himself another beer. you turn and twist in your seat and watch his every move. open the beer, down it, pause. open another. "i got my own issues, can't help you with that fuck-nut you call a boyfriend."

"ex-boyfriend." you whisper and ben sighs.

"point is, you gotta fuckin' leave if you're gonna lie. why did you come here?"

"i came here, because i thought we were friends." you admit. and it was true, to a certain degree. you didn't know what you and ben were and you were fine with never finding out, up until this moment.

"friends? me and you? you think we're just pals?" he laughs to himself, planting seeds of doubt into your already anxious mind. "sweetheart. we're far from friends. i haven't had a fuckin' friend since nicaragua and you think i'd pick you?" he points the bottom of his beer bottle at you. "nah. we're not friends. because what i want to do to you, a friend wouldn't do to a friend." he says too nonchalantly, as if it's a fact shared between the two of you.

"what.." you swallow your rising anxiety. "what do you want to do to me?" you pull your knees to your chest, centering yourself as your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

"i think we both know that, don't we?" he hums, raising an eyebrow. "you're a smart girl, i see how hard you work for that cock-sucker butcher. don't be actin' all brain-dead now." he leaves his half-drunk beer bottle behind and slowly paces over to you. he reaches out and runs a rough finger down your cheek and under your jaw before dropping his hand. silence ensues as neither wants to be the first to break, to take that first step.

"what are we... if we're aren't friends?" you ask. curiosity killed the cat.

"whatever you want me to be." he mutters. but satisfaction brought it back. his touch was uncharacteristically soft as he brushed your damp hair away from your face and rested his hand on the back of your neck. he sucks his teeth before sighing deeply and cocking his head, watching you intensely. his long eyelashes fluttered as his eyes glanced over each of your features, taking the time to fully appreciate your beauty. "i can't say no to you." he quietly admits.

"why?" his eyes dramatically roll into the back of his head. what a dumb fucking question.

"we're good at this game, aren't we?" he retracts his hand and you almost whine at the loss of his strong hand on you. "but i don't wanna play this game no more. do you?" your innocent eyes could have killed ben right there and then. your pupils blown and filled with... fear? desire? he could never fully read you, the way he could everyone else.

he always wanted to dig into your skull and figure out how your brain worked, wanting to know the intricacies of you. exactly what you wished to do to him.

he dragged a thumb over your tear-stained cheeks and tugged on them, ever so slightly, reminding him of your youth and naivety, both he had lost at an early age. he battled with himself as the silence hung over you. the calm before the storm. he had tried to push you away but he always found himself drawn to you, like a soldier called to war. it was inevitable and undeniable. "why are you really here?" he asks for the third and final time, your last chance to be honest with him.

"y-you know why i'm here." your chest heaves and constricts as you finally admit the hidden truth between the two of you. that's all ben needed as he threaded his fingers through the hair on the nape of your neck, tugging you up to him against his toned chest before connecting your longing lips with his. the feeling of his soft lips finally against yours is the closest to heaven, you were sure you'd ever get to. he tugged on your hair, earning him a small whimper from you which only fuelled his desire more. that was a sound he would never get tired of. your tongues danced, finding the perfect rhythm before his glides across your teeth and swallows your high-pitched moans while his free hand, instinctively, palms your ass through his borrowed sweatpants. he breaks off the kiss only to forcefully grab you, hoist you over the sofa into his strong arms as you wrap your legs around his waist and let him carry you to the bedroom and throw you onto his bed. you expect him to be on you like a bee with honey, but instead he watches you as his herculean hands glide over his unignorable bulge.

"take it off." he grunts. he could barely contain himself as you rolled off his sweatpants, revealing the cutest pair of pink panties he had ever laid eyes on. your hands tremble ever so slightly as you go to take off his t-shirt revealing your bare chest to him. goosebumps rippled across your skin as his eyes fell to your perked nipples that were begging for his attention. ben was convinced that this was his personal heaven, his gift for being the loyal soldier he always had been. his bites and nibbles on his lips as you roll your shoulders back and lean back on your forearms and look up at him those eyes, exposing yourself to him. giving yourself over to him completely. "fuuuck..." ben sighs as he falls to his knees at the edge of the bed, grabbing your feet and tugging you closer so his stubble brushes up against the inside of your velvet thighs. you try your best to clench your thighs together and knock your knees against each other to hide the growing damp spot in your pink panties. "don't be a fuckin' tease now." ben grunts as he pushes your knees down and thighs apart, a grin spreading across his aged face. his finger prods your needy clit with a low chuckle before delicately running it up and down your clothed slit whilst pressing soft, teasing kisses to your trembling thighs.

"ben..." you whine, your hands fisting the sheets and turning white in anticipation. he hums as he rests his head on your thigh, admiring the scattered rising and falling of your chest as he continues to play with you. he had barely even laid a hand on you and you were already quivering underneath him.

"look at you. so fuckin' desperate, hm?" a soft kiss pressed against your clothed cunt followed by his tongue dragging over the same spot. torture. "'m sure that sack of shit, you call your ex, never made you feel like this, huh? one night with me and you're already so fuckin' pathetic." he hooks his fingers into your panties, roughly tugs them off and marvels at the sight of your weeping cunt as you keep your legs spread wide open for him. "sucha good girl." he mutters against your folds before hungrily diving his trained tongue between them and savouring the sweet taste of you. your hands automatically fly down and tug on his wavy, chestnut locks as he loses himself in the sensation of your inviting folds. sucking, nipping, licking at every bit of you that he could get his starving mouth on. he reluctantly pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his swollen lips to your slick cunt, admiring his work. a gentle slap to your pussy jolts you out of your ecstasy before three more come crashing down. your hips involuntarily buck with each clap of his hand as your body craves his touch, his attention. "bet your little ex doesn't know how much of a closeted whore you are." a dark chuckle rumbles in his chest at your lewd reactions before stuffing two fingers into you, deliciously curling and hitting your g-spot immediately.

"ngh, ben! fuck, fuck, fuck." you can't help but roll your hips and ride his fingers, the pad of his palm bumping into your clit. he watched in awe as your cunt clenched and took his fingers with ease, like it was made for him. "i'm gonna cu–!" your words and climax cut off by ben roughly flipping you over and propping you up until all fours. he couldn't wait any longer, couldn't deny himself the pleasure of sinking himself into you. he hurriedly sheds his clothes, spits into his hand and spreads it from the tip of his girthy cock to the base as your hole clenches around the absence of him. he towers behind you, pushing your head deep into the mattress as you relinquish all control to him.

"who is my good girl?" he purrs as he pumps himself as he drinks in the the curve of your ass and hushed whimpers into the bedsheets, painfully craning your neck to just get a sight of him. your lack of immediate response earned a harsh slap to your ass from him and a yelp from you. he sloppily kisses the reddened skin, his tongue gliding over the imprint of his hand.

"i'm–." you hiccup. "i'm your good girl."

"sir." he mumbles against your ass.

"sir." you repeat. "i'm your good girl, sir." the bedsheets muffling your whines, but ben heard you loud enough and he straightens up with a shit-eating grin.

"yeah, you fuckin' are." a glob of spit falls from his lips and rolls down from your tight hole and down, settling into your folds. he gives himself one last pump before guiding his tip and pushing himself, almost lazily, into your desperate cunt. you feel each vein, each bump of his cock before he finally nestles himself into you, at a depth you didn't know possible. your breath coming out in short, shallow gasps as he sighs with content and pushes your face further into the mattress with the other hand grabbing tightly onto your hip for support. he drags himself out and audibly groans at the sight of your slick covering him before effortlessly slamming back into you, his hips snapping against yours. "your pussy was made for me, baby. taking me so well." he gasps as he throws his head back in pure exhilaration, your tight pussy welcoming and accommodating his cock with ease.

he was sure that in his over 100 years of existence, that he had never felt a pussy as tight as yours, that took him better than anyone else. the hypnotising sound of his skin against yours, his hands gliding over and grabbing at your smooth skin, pulling you closer to him. you couldn't concentrate on anything else; your senses were overwhelmed with ben and you never wanted it to end. you snake your hand between your sweaty thighs and rub messy circles your oversensitive clit as you, again, near your climax. your eyes and pussy flutter in unison as ben swats away your hand and replaces it with his own.

"god, if i knew you were this fuckin' filthy, i would've fucked you weeks ago. got me waitin' like a pussy-whipped bitch for you." he pats your clit, laughing as you flinch with each touch. "bet no one's ever fucked you, like you deserve. like the slut you are, huh?" he leans forward and creates a make-shift ponytail, wrenching your head and neck back to look into his blown pupils as he continues his rough pace. "good girls answer when i fuckin' talk to 'em." he pushes his sweaty forehead against yours, demanding all of your attention and no matter how hard you try, your mind is completely elsewhere. he was right, no one had ever fucked you like this and no one else ever could. he had ruined other men for you.

"you're the best, sir. best cock i've ever had, t–thank you." you stutter as he expertly hits your g-spot, making your speech falter and eyes look skyward. he reaches up and lightly taps you on your cheeks before grabbing your jaw as his momentum wanes.

"look at you." he coos. "fucking you stupid, ain't i?" he gives your cheek another tap, harsher this time. all you can do is nod in return, your brain foggy. "fuck. cock so good, it got you speechless." he sighs through gritted teeth as you whimper pathetically, completely at under his control.

"c-close, so. close." you mewl. "please, sir. please, let me cum on your cock." and with that ben yanks your head back even further, yanking on your hair and contorting your back so his mouth was next to your ear, nibbling and nipping as you cried out in pleasure. he pushes you back down again, keeping one hand pressing down against your face whilst the other furiously worked your clit; rubbing tight, calculated circles.

"c'mon, you can do it. cum on this cock, you're taking me so fuckin' well, doll." like a man addicted, he's completely transfixed with watching his cock thrust into your inviting cunt. "gonna fuck'n cum in you. you'd like that, wouldn't you? filled with my cum. tell me you want it." he accentuates his last words with sharp thrusts and you whine loudly in agreement. strained whimpers, shaking legs. finally, it hits you like a bullet. your body arches upon instinct and you cry out ben's name, repeating it like a mantra. your spongy walls clench furiously around ben, encouraging him to spur on as your cries pleasure turn into pleas.

"t-too much, too mu–"

"i know you can do it. my good girl." it was a sensation like you've never felt before, pure bliss. a primal groan rumbles in ben's chest and his arm tenses as he continuously rubs your engorged bundle of nerves. "wanna see you fuckin' squirt." your body convulses as you reach your final tipping point and squirt all over ben's hand and bed covers, fireworks exploding behind your eyes before you fall limp in his tight grasp. ben follows quickly behind and paints your walls with his cum, grunting loudly as he rutts into you. he pulls out and falls down next to you, a content smirk plastered across his face. he wipes his sweaty brow and pushes his hair back before reaching out and repeating the action on you. for a while, you just lay and look into each other eyes and although no words were spoken, a silent understanding bloomed between the two of you. he placed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips before rolling out of the bed, making his way to the bathroom as he loudly yawned and scratched the back of his head.

as you laid there in his disheveled bed and your own mess, you knew that no matter what he would never want you. not in the same way you wanted him; all to yourself. you knew in the morning you'd be waking up to your mistake and you'd never be the same, again.

a/n: this took way too long to write, but here we finally are. to the anon that requested this, pls accept my humblest apologies, you've been so patient with me omg <3 i hope it's exactly how u wanted it to be. this fic was based on yet another song (try to act surprised) and this time it's 5sos, one of my faves bands ever! please support your writers by LIKING, COMMENTING & REBLOGGING if you loved this!

-`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @kayleighwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @valjy @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @syrma-sensei @rositaslabyrinth @blossomingorchids @deansbbyx @mads-ackles @lunaleah @diawinchester217 @sunnyteume @drakulana (comment or inbox me to be added)

(p.s thank you SO MUCH for 500 followers, never thought this would happen!! appreciate all your continuous love and support for my silly stories and dumb ass posts, i love you all 💗)

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lovedahlia · 5 months ago

Text

LOVERBOY ! SOLDIER BOY HEADCANONS ( 18+ ! )

. . . bc i'm feeling so incredibly mentally ill rn. lemme live in this fantasy. that i believe to be true & how my pookie beloved would BEEEEE. idc if u think it's ooc this is my canon.

ben greets you every time you see each other with a kiss on the back of the hand and some murmured words, like, "hey pretty."

he's constantly showering you with gifts.

flowers for when he does something bad, with a messy scrawled note that says "sorry for making you cry. kisses." or, "sorry i punched a hole through the door. love you." or, "not apologizing for beating that guy's face in. sorry it upset you though. kisses."

chocolates for when he comes over. two boxes, one for him, one for you, because he knows ( from previous experience ) that it irritates you when he'd steal from yours.

( it does not stop him still from stealing )

jewelry! every time he sees something that you would look pretty in! and he does the clasps for you.

he's a nuzzler. you made the mistake once of mentioning how his beardburn tickled and now he doesn't just aim to leave it between your thighs but he rubs his face on your neck and throat like a cat.

he's still gruff as fuck, but it's with more intent, now. he'll bend you over and throw your legs around and move you as he pleases but kisses each part along the way.

like. he puts your legs over his shoulders when you're pinned beneath him and kisses your ankle. he puts you on your hands and knees and trails little kisses down your spine.

don't get him started on hickeys. seriously. he bites.

the aftercare is so lovely with him :( he absolutely doesn't listen to your insistences that you're fine. he's already running a bath for you, WITH bubbles, even though it wastes your pretty soaps.

he just likes to be able to scoop some bubbles up and pile them on your head while you're in there <3 bc oh yeah, he is washing u. don't even try to argue.

long days = him not saying a word when he gets home = he's just immediately snatching you from wherever you are to drag you to the nearest seat so he can sit with you in his lap. many dinners have been burnt bc of this.

he likes when you play with his hair! it makes him feel like something gentle and kind and deserving of it, when you treat him so lovely. even though he only ever cares what people think of him with you, and only cares how he behaves in front of you.

praise <3 you could walk into a room and he'd be like "my pretty baby's so damn steady on their feet, my god." he wants you to have the biggest ego on the planet actually

he also likes to remind you of how well you take him when he's fucking you.

he WILL and DOES pay attention to your cues. you're overwhelmed? need a break? he's not questioning it. maybe he'll tease you that "you didn't need a break last time he was so rough" but that's all.

forehead kisses. he is tall. he is kissing the top of your head, your forehead, or your temple, whenever he damn pleases.

he has probably killed people for looking at you wrong or being mean to you. at the very least he threatens it, because how could someone be mean to you? you? his baby? the one who's never done a thing wrong in your life?

. . . of course my first post over here is me being soldier boy's biggest simp in the universe. kissin the ground he walks on. literally im there on the ground rn doin it do u see me.

tags <3 @figthoughts @honeyryewhiskey @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @aileenunfiltered @bluemerakis @deansbite @beausling @ultravi0lence14 @starzify @angelblqde i don't remember all my mooties to tag over here ... if u are forgotten pls take me out back n shoot me 4 this mistake.

property of the DAYLIGHTED franchise! © i do NOT give permission for my work or ideas to be used, rewritten, or reposted!

#lovedahlia!#loverboy!soldier boy #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #soldier boy #the boys tv #the boys amazon #soldier boy headcanons

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amirasainz · 7 months ago

Note

How about Lando baby sister came to a GP but all the other drivers hogged her?

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

- xoxo 🧡

Stealing her attention

The paddock was bustling as the weekend’s Grand Prix was well underway. Amongst the excitement and chaos, a certain little girl was stealing the show: Yn, Lando’s six-year-old sister. Dressed in a miniature McLaren team shirt and a sparkly skirt that fluttered when she twirled, Yn had quickly become the darling of the grid. While Lando had initially brought her to the GP for some sibling bonding time, it became apparent that the rest of the drivers were equally, if not more, excited to have her around.

---

“Yn!” Lewis called out from the Mercedes garage as the little girl skipped by, her bright eyes lighting up the room. “Come here for a second. I need help with something.”

“What do you need help with?” Yn asked, her tiny hands on her hips, her expression mimicking Lando’s ‘serious face.’

“Well, you see, Barbie here doesn’t know which dress to wear to her party,” Lewis explained, holding up two Barbie dolls. “Can you help her decide?”

Yn giggled and took the dolls from Lewis, inspecting the options with the utmost concentration. “This one,” she said decisively, pointing at a sparkly pink gown. “Because it matches her shoes. Duh.”

Lewis laughed and nodded. “Of course. You’re absolutely right. Thank you, Miss Stylist.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Ferrari hospitality suite, Charles was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Yn in front of him, her hair falling in soft waves.

“Stay still, mon petit,” Charles murmured as he worked on braiding her hair. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, his fingers surprisingly deft.

“Are you making me look like Elsa?” Yn asked eagerly, turning her head slightly.

“Oui,” Charles said, gently turning her head back. “But better. You will be the queen of the paddock when I am done.”

“Queen Yn,” she mused, giggling. “I like that!”

---

Not far away, Carlos was in the kitchen area, carefully dishing up a small portion of the soup he had made. Yn sat perched on a chair, swinging her legs and watching him with wide eyes.

“Okay, Yn,” Carlos said, crouching down to her level as he offered her a spoonful of the soup. “Try this and tell me what you think. Careful—it’s hot.”

Yn blew on the spoon dramatically before taking a taste. Her eyes widened. “Yummy!” she exclaimed.

Carlos grinned, holding a hand under the spoon to catch any drips as Yn eagerly took another bite. “Good, right? I knew you’d like it.”

As she finished, Carlos dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “We can’t have you walking around with soup on your face, princesa.”

---

Oscar was sitting on a low stool nearby, nodding seriously as Yn whispered to him. She looked around conspiratorially before leaning in closer.

“And then,” she whispered, “Lando told me I couldn’t eat two ice creams because I’d get a tummy ache. But I didn’t! I had three!” She giggled mischievously.

Oscar gasped dramatically. “Three ice creams? Yn, you’re living on the edge!”

She nodded proudly. “Don’t tell him, okay?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Oscar assured her, miming a zipping motion across his lips.

---

Over at Red Bull, Max was leaning down to Yn’s level, holding up a small notebook. “Okay, repeat after me,” he said with a grin. “Hoi.”

“Hoy,” Yn repeated, her pronunciation adorable.

“Goedemorgen.”

“Goo-dem-morgen.”

Max laughed. “Close enough. That means ‘good morning.’”

Yn clapped her hands. “I’m learning Dutch! Can I say something else?”

“Sure,” Max said. “Let’s try ‘Ik ben de beste.’”

“What does that mean?” Yn asked, tilting her head.

Max smirked. “It means ‘I’m the best.’”

---

George was sitting in the Mercedes lounge with Yn curled up beside him, watching The Princess and the Frog on his tablet. Yn was completely engrossed, clutching a stuffed frog that George had given her earlier.

“Do you like Tiana?” George asked softly.

Yn nodded enthusiastically. “She’s so pretty! And she’s really good at cooking, just like Carlos.”

George chuckled. “That’s true. Maybe you’ll open a restaurant one day too.”

“Maybe,” Yn mused before snuggling closer to him.

---

Lando, on the other hand, was not amused. He wandered through the paddock, muttering under his breath. “Where is she now?”

Finally spotting Yn surrounded by nearly all the drivers, he stormed over. “Okay, guys, I think you’ve hogged her enough for today. Yn’s supposed to be here with me.”

“But we’re having so much fun!” Lewis protested, holding up Barbie for emphasis.

“She was helping me with my Dutch!” Max added.

“And I braided her hair,” Charles said, gesturing to Yn’s perfectly styled locks.

“Guys, she’s my sister,” Lando groaned, gently pulling Yn into his arms. “Can I have her back now?”

Yn pouted. “But Lando, I like playing with everyone.”

Lando softened immediately, ruffling her hair. “I know, bug. But I barely got to hang out with you.”

“Okay,” she relented before turning to the other drivers. “Bye, everyone! I’ll play with you later!”

As Lando carried her away, the drivers watched wistfully.

“Next race,” Charles said, crossing his arms. “She’s sitting with Ferrari.”

“Not a chance,” Lewis countered, smirking.

And so, Yn continued to be the paddock’s princess—much to her big brother’s chagrin.

#formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x sister!reader #lewis hamilton x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #george russell x reader #max verstappen x reader #oscar piastri x norris!reader #oscar piastri x reader #norris!reader #xoxo babygirl 💋

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castielscaplan · 1 month ago

Text

Earn Your Stars

Summary: Soldier Boy shows you whose boss.

Warnings: SMUT!!, rough play, possessive Ben, Dirty talk, oral (m receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, dom/sub, light choking, rough sex, spanking, manhandling, overstimulation, Power play, impact play, spit, pain/pleasure, tears, possessiveness, MINORS DO NOT READ!

WC: 2.3K

Read on ao3!

The bunker smells like blood and gunpowder.

You should be asleep. The mission’s over, your body sore in places you didn’t know you had. But you’re not asleep. Because he’s watching you.

Soldier Boy leans in the doorway of your temporary quarters, arms folded, broad chest rising and falling under that tight black tee. He doesn’t speak. Just looks — slow and heavy — like he’s deciding whether to eat you alive or fuck you through the wall.

Maybe both.

You meet his stare with a raised brow. “You gonna keep watching, or are you planning to say something?”

He smirks, but there’s nothing sweet about it. “You think you earned the right to talk to me like that, sweetheart?”

You swallow, but don’t back down. “I think I saved your ass back there.”

He pushes off the doorframe, steps inside like he owns the room — owns you. “Yeah? You want a medal for that?”

“I’d settle for a ‘thank you.’”

Soldier Boy stops in front of you, towering, heat radiating off his body like a storm. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, gaze narrowing.

“Nah. You want something else.”

You don’t reply. Can’t. His hand slides down your neck, rough calloused fingers skimming over your collarbone until he’s fisting the front of your shirt, yanking you flush against him.

“You walk around here like you’re not begging for it. But I see it. Every time I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. He smiles, wicked and slow.

“So why don’t you quit pretending, and let me give you what you’ve been aching for?”

He doesn’t wait for permission. His mouth crashes against yours — all teeth and heat and tongue, stealing the breath right from your lungs. His grip is firm, unrelenting, like he’s been waiting to ruin you since the moment he laid eyes on you.

And maybe he has.

He walks you backward until your knees hit the mattress. You fall, and he’s on you in an instant — pinning you down, hand between your thighs before you can blink.

“You’re soaked,” he growls, pressing the heel of his palm where you need it most. “You do like being manhandled. Filthy little patriot.”

You moan, arching into him, trying to grind down — but he pulls back.

“Ah ah,” he smirks, licking a stripe up your neck. “You wanna come on my fingers, you ask nicely.”

You grit your teeth. “Please.”

His mouth grazes your jaw. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your pride flares. But your body burns hotter.

“Please,” you whisper, breath ragged. “Make me come. I want your hands on me. I want your cock in me. I want—”

He growls, shoving two fingers deep inside you, the stretch glorious and unforgiving. “That’s more like it.”

He ruins you with his fingers — slow at first, then brutal, curling and pumping until you’re begging, panting, clawing at his shoulders. His other hand pins your hips down when you try to move. “You come when I say you can.”

You’re close. So close.

Then he stops.

“Ben—!”

“On your knees,” he commands, voice rough. “You want your reward? Earn your fucking stars.”

You obey, trembling as you drop in front of him, your eyes locked on his belt.

“That’s my girl.”

You drop to your knees like he told you to — chest rising, thighs tight, heat burning between your legs even after he pulled his fingers out. He’s watching you like a predator. Like a god.

“Go on,” he says, voice dark with amusement. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

Your fingers tremble as you reach for his belt. He doesn’t help. Just stands there, broad and looming, letting you work — like unwrapping something dangerous.

The buckle clinks. The zipper lowers. You free him from his pants, and your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick and heavy, already hard, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. You swallow, heat pooling between your legs again.

“Oh, you like what you see?” he smirks. “Don’t just stare, princess. Be a good little patriot.”

You wrap your hand around the base of his cock and lean in, tongue flicking over the tip. He growls — low and primal — and his hand fists in your hair instantly, tightening just enough to make your scalp sting.

“That’s it,” he grunts. “Open wider. Take it like you want it.”

You do. Inch by inch, your lips stretch around him, cheeks hollowing as you sink down. His hips twitch, and he moans — an honest, filthy sound.

“Fuck. That mouth—”

You bob your head slowly, then faster, saliva dripping down your chin as you stroke the base with your hand. He watches every movement, groaning when you gag just a little, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He pulls your head back suddenly, his cock glistening with your spit.

“Bed. Now.”

You scramble up and he’s right behind you, grabbing your hips, pushing you onto your stomach. Your ass is bare before you can blink, pants dragged off roughly. You hear the rip of foil — he’s fast, practiced — and then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your entrance.

“You ready, baby?” he growls against your ear, one big hand gripping the back of your neck. “Because I’m not taking it easy on you.”

You push your hips back. “Do it.”

And he does.

One brutal thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, stealing the breath from your lungs. The stretch is overwhelming — perfect — and he doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He sets a punishing pace, hips slamming into you with the force of a freight train. You scream into the mattress, but he just groans, fingers bruising into your skin.

“This what you wanted?” he pants. “Getting wrecked by a fucking legend?”

“Yes—!”

He pounds into you harder, sweat dripping down his chest as he leans over you, hand sliding around your throat.

“Heaven has nothing against being wrapped up in your body,” he growls. “Goddamn, you feel like sin. I could die right here.”

You tighten around him at those words, nearly sobbing when his thumb brushes your clit.

“You gonna come?” he whispers, biting your ear. “Soak my cock like a good girl?”

You nod frantically. “Please — I’m so close —”

“Then come.”

And you do — violently, helplessly — clenching around him as pleasure shatters through your body like a white-hot explosion. You feel him follow you seconds later, growling your name like a war cry as he empties himself into the condom, hips twitching.

Silence falls. Heavy breathing. Slick skin. You collapse into the sheets, shaking.

He pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and flops down beside you, dragging you into his arms.

“It’s 3AM,” he mutters against your neck, voice hoarse. “And all I want is you.”

You smile, dazed and spent.

“I’ve got a comfortable bed,” he adds, pulling the blanket over both of you. “And I’m not letting you leave it.”

You're still panting, boneless and dazed against the mattress, skin damp with sweat. But his hand doesn’t leave your waist.

Not even for a second.

“You think we’re done?” he rasps near your ear, voice thick with heat. “Sweetheart, I’ve barely started.”

Before you can respond, he flips you onto your back with one arm like you weigh nothing. His eyes roam your naked body, dark and wild and hungry.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Fucked out, shaking… and you still want more.”

You nod, breathless.

His palm closes around your throat, not tight — not yet — just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

“You gonna be my good little slut again?”

Your thighs twitch. “Yes—please.”

That’s all he needs.

He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, the other trailing down your stomach. His fingers swipe through your soaked folds — and he smirks.

“Already this wet again? Damn, baby. You were made for this.”

Without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them fast and rough, no teasing this time. You cry out, arching against the mattress.

“Keep those legs open,” he warns. “If you close them, I tie them up. Your call.”

You obey. Barely.

He works your cunt hard, fingers pounding into you while he leans in, tongue flicking over one nipple. You’re moaning now — loud, desperate, writhing under him — and he drinks it in like a man starving.

“You want my cock again?” he growls, licking his way up to your throat. “Want me to ruin you?”

“Yes—God, yes—”

He sits back on his heels and fists his cock again — thick, hard, ready to split you open all over. “Get on your knees. Face down, ass up.”

You scramble to obey, and the next thing you feel is the crack of his palm on your ass.

“Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing the sting. “You follow orders real well. You should’ve worn that mouth out on the battlefield too.”

You barely gasp before he drives into you again — harder this time — no gentleness, no slow build. He takes you like he owns your body, and fuck, maybe he does.

The headboard slams the wall. The sounds of skin and breath and filthy moans fill the air.

“You’re mine,” he pants, gripping your hair and yanking your head back. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out, nails digging into the sheets.

His hand slides up to your throat again, squeezing now — tight enough to make your vision blur, just shy of pain.

“You gonna come with my hand around your neck, baby?” he hisses. “Come choking on how good I fuck you?”

You nod frantically — dizzy, desperate, so fucking close — and when his hand slips between your legs to rub your clit again, you lose it.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning, blinding and brutal. You clench around him, pulsing and crying out as he fucks you through it.

He groans, deep and primal, and follows you over the edge — spilling into the condom with a strangled growl, hips still jerking as he buries himself deep one last time.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Just sweat, breath, and the sound of your racing hearts.

Then he collapses beside you and yanks you back into his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

He kisses your temple, chest still heaving.

“Round three,” he adds, voice wicked and low, “is in ten minutes. Drink some water.”

You’re still shaking, wrecked and used, cradled in the heat of his chest. But Ben doesn’t sleep — not yet.

“Tired already?” he murmurs, knuckles brushing your jaw. “No, no. You’ve got more to give me, sweetheart. You’re not broken yet.”

His fingers wrap around your throat again — not tight, but commanding.

“Time to see how many times I can make you cry for it.”

He moves fast — suddenly pinning you flat on the bed, both wrists caught in one of his massive hands above your head. You barely gasp before he drags you down the mattress, spreading your thighs and locking his hips between them.

You’re sore. Overworked. Sensitive.

And dripping.

“Fuck, look at that mess,” he growls, spreading your folds open with two fingers. “You made such a pretty mess on my cock. But I think you can do better.”

He slides down and licks you — slow and filthy, tongue lapping through your folds like he’s starved. You arch, writhing, too sensitive already. He doesn’t care. His beard scrapes your thighs and his hands keep you pinned as he devours your cunt, moaning low in his throat like he’s enjoying your overstimulation.

You start crying — real tears this time — not from pain, but the unbearable, dizzying pleasure of it.

He pulls back just enough to murmur:

“That’s it, baby. Give me the tears. Let ‘em fall. Let everyone hear how good I fuck you.”

He slaps your inner thigh, then leans in again — rougher this time — alternating between flicking your clit and sucking it into his mouth, fingers pushing deep inside you again.

You come again — hips bucking, throat raw from the scream — and your body tries to curl away, too spent to keep taking it.

He doesn’t let you.

“One more,” he demands, crawling up your body. “You can give me one more.”

He lines himself up again, and you whimper, nails scratching at his forearm.

“Too much—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “That’s the point.”

Then he slams into you — merciless, brutal — fucking you harder than before, your slick letting him glide in deep and fast. Your body’s past thought now. You’re all nerve endings and cries, eyes rolling back as he ruins you for anything else.

He wraps a hand around your throat and spits into your open mouth.

“Swallow,” he growls. “Be a good girl.”

You do — without thinking — and he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t stop.

He takes you until your whole body’s shaking, tears wetting your cheeks, your throat raw from moaning. He slaps your ass, your tits, grips your jaw and makes you look at him as he fucks you through another screaming orgasm.

And when he comes this time — snarling your name, hips stuttering — he kisses you like he’s claiming every piece of you.

You don’t remember collapsing. You just wake up to his strong arms pulling you close, a warm towel between your thighs, water bottle pressed to your lips.

“Shhh. You did so good, baby. So fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

He wipes your tears with callused fingers and kisses your forehead, even as your body trembles.

“That’s my girl,” he adds. “Earned every fuckin’ star tonight.”

\\PLEASE REBLOG!//

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lydiimae · 1 year ago

Text

Jealousy

A.N: OMG I am finally starting this blog. I am so so excited. This is a Benedict Bridgerton fic ofc. The true loml. I'm still debating if I will write only Bridgerton orrrrrr others? I dunno... but for now, here is a lovely, smutty, cutie, Ben fic hehe <3

Warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, vaginal sex, drinking, dirty talk, heavy praise, talk of public heavy petting ;)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Minors DNI!! 18+

He sighs from beside Eloise, shifting on the picnic blanket for what has to be the millionth time. "Brother, you worry too much about that woman." She mutters with an amused glint in her eye, taking a bite of one of the strawberry tarts the family maids had made for the occasion.

A family picnic was not a rarity during the social season, especially for the Bridgerton's. What was a rarity is that Benedict had invited a woman along, an incredibly important woman at that. Y/N L/N, a daughter of an influential Viscount. The woman he found himself to be head over heels in love with.

"I am not worried. I am merely observing so our brother does not make a fool of himself in front of her." He replies with a huff, taking a sip from his flask before tucking it back into his pocket.

You were merely speaking with his brother. His happily married older brother. He has no reason to be jealous, really, but something in him still tugs painfully at the sight of you speaking to another man. It is only when Kate comes to steal her husband away that you scootch back over to him, a bright smile on your face.

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You move back over to Benedict and look up at his cute pouty expression, smiling at the warmth that blooms in your chest as a result.

You wished to get to know his family before the inevitable happens. Marriage. You know, as well as he does, that you were both going to tie the knot as soon as it was acceptable to do so. You also know that he would scoop you up and marry you tomorrow if he had his way.

At the very first ball of the season, Lady Danbury insisted that she had someone for you to meet. Someone who enjoyed painting just as much as you did. So, she took your arm and led you away from your father to the Bridgerton family. You were confused, at first, when the already happily married Viscount, Anthony, turned to greet you. And then, as if the sea was parting, he appeared. A crooked grin on his face as he moved to see you. Benedict Bridgerton, although he is a second son, stole your heart as soon as you saw him.

From then on you waited with bated breath for every dance you would share, dreamt of him in your bedroom when you got home, and thought of nothing but him in between. You shared stolen glances at every event and even snuck off to any hidden corner or garden you could find for breathless kisses and entirely impolite words that sent your mind into a whirlwind you could not explain.

Soon enough, he started inviting you on promanades and even sooner he wished for you to dine with his family. Get to know his life outside of the stuffy ballroom, to which you found yourself falling even deeper in love than you could've ever imagined.

"You're pouting, Ben." You hum, taking a sip of your lemonade with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Indeed. Perhaps if you were not so caught up with my brother I would not have a reason to pout, hm?" He returns, moving to take another sip from his flask.

He was jealous? Of his married brother? You sigh and move your hand over his, shaking your head slightly. You hand him a glass of lemonade. If he truly is jealous, the last thing he needs is whiskey.

"If you truly wish to hear what we were talking about, I shall tell you." You return as he takes a sip of the lemonade you gave him. He moves his hand over yours, just out of sight of his family. A possessive gesture that makes your heart flutter.

"Yes, in fact, do enlighten me." He grumbles with a sigh. "His wife, Benedict. He was talking about his lovely wife, which if you have forgotten, happens to be my dear friend." You sigh, running your thumb over his knuckles.

He looks over at you, his green eyes sweeping down to your lips, then your chest, before finally looking back up. "I care not of what you were speaking about, I should like you to speak with me when it is I who invited you." He practically growls, the tone of his voice making the place between your legs heat up and dampen instantly. A feeling that only happened with him, something he had explained as both desire and arousal.

"You know that I-" You begin, but are cut off by him pulling you to your feet. The glasses of lemonade are now completely forgotten. "Mother, I should like to promenade with Lady Y/N." He fibs.

What he would really like to do is rip the skirt of your dress open, spread your legs wide, and plunge his cock so deep inside of your soaked cunt that you forget everything else. He wants to paint your insides with his seed right here, in front of the whole ton, so that every man can get a glimpse of who you truly belong to.

"Of course, dear. We shall not keep you." Violet replies with a smile before delving back into conversation with Eloise, who also looks up with a confused expression but quickly rolls her eyes and continues to speak to her mother.

You shoot him a questioning look to which he just raises an eyebrow and offers his arm. You take it and he begins to lead you away from the picnic canopies that many families have set up to dine under.

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"Where are we going?" You question after a moment, realizing that you are not following the path around the lake but rather the path to the carriages.

He stops and tugs you behind a tree, pushing you up against the trunk. The bark bites into the little exposed skin the back of your dress grants you and your cunt flutters when you see his expression.

Desire is different for men, he taught you. You can see it in the way his trousers tighten at the front and in the way his eyes haze over. His hands move to your waist and he bends down, pressing kisses all the way up your neck until he reaches your ear.

"Agree to marry me and I shall show you." He whispers, biting the soft flesh beneath your ear causing you to shiver and whine. He grins and licks over the tender skin, soothing the sting.

"You already know very well that I would say yes to any proposal you give me." You breathe, leaning your head back as your eyes flutter shut. His hand skates over your stomach, running up the smooth fabric of your dress until he meets your breast. He cups one and swipes his thumb over your hardened nipple through the fabric.

He pulls away, swiping the saliva off his bottom lip with his thumb before picking you up. You squeal and he chuckles, paying the driver of his carriage off before tucking you inside. He closes the door and the curtains on the window, darkness enclosing the both of you.

"Benedict." You whisper as he lays you back on the velvety bench. "Hush, my love. I shall not do anything before asking I swear it." The title makes your heart almost burst out of your chest. He dips down once more, pressing his lips to yours briefly.

You pull him back down before he gets very far, chasing one of those open-mouthed kisses he gave you at the last ball. He groans, his tongue swiping over yours. He grins over your lips at the sound that escapes, moving his hands to yours where they rest on his chest before breaking the kiss.

"Ben please." You whine, wanting him to continue so desperately. He only smiles, taking off your gloves. "You must have patience, my sweet girl. I am going to ravish you in due time." He assures, pressing soft kisses from your palm all the way up to your shoulder as he takes off his gloves as well.

He reaches your neck, to which he takes a deep breath. Taking in your scent of lavender and citrus, making him groan as it always does. "Do you remember when I taught you to ride my thigh?" He whispers, running his tongue down to your collarbone, nipping the skin.

The memory makes you flood your underwear. You remember well, how could you not? He had lead you to the garden at one of Lady Danbury's balls and sat you down on his lap on the edge of the fountain. He hiked up your skirt and led your hips back and forth until something inside of you snapped so hard you saw stars and stained his trousers. That is where he taught you about his arousal, about yours.

"Yes." You breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as one of his hands moves under your skirt. His slender fingers skating teasingly up your thigh. "Good girl." He praises. He cups your cunt without warning and you cry out, your hips canting.

"Fuck. You are absolutely drenched." He whispers, relishing in the moans he draws from your body just from keeping a hand over your cunt. "And I told you about sex, do you remember that darling?" He murmurs, watching your eyes flutter.

He slowly pushes your skirt up so he can slide off your panties. He tucks them into his pocket, smiling to himself. "Yesss." You moan as the air hits your bare sex. "You told me it happens when we get married." You whisper between whines as his hand comes back, his fingers curling into your pubic hair.

"Such a good listener. So good for me." He praises, sliding two of his fingers along your drenched slit before finding your clit with expert touch. He rubs a slow circle on your button and you moan loudly, throwing your head back. "Now, when a man has honor he waits to take a woman's innocence. But my honor disappeared when I saw you with my brother," You try and protest but he pinches your clit and you cry out before you can get so much as a whisper out.

"So I will take you now. In this damn carriage." He growls, moving his free hand to your hips to hold you down. You whine when his fingers move down. "Fuck you are perfect," He breathes. "I'm going to slide one of my fingers inside now, darling, alright?" He murmurs, the switch from possessive to sweet sending your mind reeling. So overwhelmed, so mindless Just how he likes you.

You nod tentatively, your heart rate spiking which he picks up on. He shifts so he is over you, and kisses the crown of your head. "I'll go slow, hm? Nice and slow. All you need to do is pat my arm twice and I'll stop." He assures, calming your heart. You nod and nuzzle his neck.

He slowly plunges a long finger into your weeping cunt and you whine at the invasion. "Good girl, fuck you are so tight." You gasp and writhe as he curls his finger, the feeling sending a shock straight to your clit. He slowly adds another finger and you moan loudly, your eyes rolling back.

"Ben... so good. Feels...." You cry out when his fingers curl into a spot that sends waves of pleasure through you. He grins and begins to rock his fingers, drawing heavenly noises from your soaked cunt. The carriage filled with the sound of your moans and the squelching of your pussy.

He licks a stripe up your neck, beginning to suck as he rocks his fingers. You curl a hand in his thick curls and tug, your hips desperately trying to move against the palm of his hand.

He kisses your jaw, and then your chin, before finally capturing your lips. His tongue immediately sliding past your swollen lips and tangling with yours. You moan into his mouth as his thumb presses down on your swollen clit, moving clockwise as he rocks his fingers into your body.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out his fingers, much to your dismay, before unbuttoning his trousers. "Benedict... why did you stop? It felt so very nice..." You whine, grinding on nothing to try and gain some sort of feeling.

He groans at the sight, bending down and pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek. "My harlot of a fiancee. So needy for something she does not even know the half of." He praises as he slowly frees his cock, the sight along with his filthy words making you gasp.

He pulls back and strokes himself with the help of your delicious wetness, before looking back at your sweet face. All flushed and wide-eyed. He moves his free hand to your chin, running his thumb over your bottom lip.

"It will not fit, Benny." You whisper, suddenly frightened. His eyes soften and he moves down pressing a swift kiss to your lips. "It will, my love. We will go slow, I promise. Remember what I told you, two pats on my arm and we will stop." He hums, peppering your face with kisses which causes you to giggle and calm a bit. "Perhaps one pat for apprehension, hm?" He murmurs with a smile, pulling back. You nod.

"Good girl." He hums. He leans in and runs his length through your soaked folds drawing moans from the both of you. "Fuck. God, I love you." He grunts and you smile, draping your arms over your eyes to cover your blush. "I love you too, Benedict." You whisper back.

He slowly pushes into your body, throwing his head back at how tight your pretty pussy is. You cry out at the invasion, your hands shooting down to grasp at the edges of the carriage bench. The feeling is a strange mix of pain and something different. A tart taste on your tongue paired with a tingly feeling in your already hot womb. "Fucking hell." He groans before tucking his face in the crook of your neck, stopping halfway so you can adjust.

You whine and wrap your arms around his neck after a moment. "P-Please..... more. I need more, Benedict." You gasp after the pain subsides. God, he almost comes right there. He wants you like this all the time, mindless for his cock. Begging him to fuck you.

"Good fucking girl, Y/N." He grunts before bottoming out inside of you. You moan and toss your head back into the seat cushion and he groans at the feeling. "You feel so good, my love. So ripe, so wet. God, so very tight just for me." He praises.

He begins to move slowly, the slap of thighs meeting thighs filling the carriage. The feeling is so foreign but fuck you never want it to stop. Moans and whines slip past your lips before you can even begin to try and stop them, and you cry out as he speeds up. The noises he is drawing from your body would embarrass you if you didn't adore the way he feels inside of you to the point that you can think of nothing else. You wish to be like this as much as you can, full to the brim with his cock.

"Benedict." You moan and he stalls, gritting his teeth. "Never ever stop moaning my name, you vixen. God, I am a lucky man. The luckiest man in the world." He praises you as he begins to slam into you.

You grip his coat so hard you are surprised the velvety fabric hasn't torn. You cry out when his thumb finds your clit, the feeling sending you up to the clouds. "Come for me, my love." He grunts from above you with a slight slap on your thigh. That sends you over, your vision going white as you scream his name.

He thrusts a few more times before pulling out and pumping himself. He releases with a groan onto your stocking-covered thigh before collapsing on top of you.

After a moment he lifts his head to look at you, brushing your fallen hair out of your face. You smile, almost drunkenly, as you look at him. "That was heavenly." You whisper and he smirks, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Just wait until we are married. I cannot wait to fill you with my seed and see you plump with my child." He murmurs. resting his head back on your shoulder. Your hand absentmindedly finds his hair, running through his messy curls.

"We have to go back." You whisper to which he shakes his head. "Not yet. I paid off the driver. We have as much time to rest as we wish, dearest." He hums, his eyes closed. You grin and close yours as well, slowly dozing off with him.

You are the luckiest woman in the world.

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