#ben hardy x fem!reader

[michelle-is-writing]

Protector, Warren Worthington iii

Word Count: 4.5k~

I had been best friends with Warren ever since I met him.

Throughout our years in school, Warren and I had always stuck by each other's side. We hung out together, ate lunch with each other, and nearly forgot about all those people around us who would point out his wings to hurt him. It was like we were in our own little world, and in a way, we were.

We met in the second grade while our class was in the library. While looking for a book, I found Warren, huddled up behind a bookshelf in the elementary school library. He was red in the face and crying as he held his knees close to him. Instantly, I noticed his wings, of course - how could I not?

However, this didn't stop me from going up and asking him what was wrong. I can still remember the way his curls bounced against his scalp as he turned his attention away from his lap and up to me, quickly wiping away his tears to cover up his emotions. Despite being so young, he knew how to expertly do this as he pretended that nothing was wrong and he wasn't crying merely thirty seconds ago.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting beside him. I saw him tense up, his back straightening up as he laid his legs out in front of him instead of hugging them to his chest.

"Nothing," He instantly answered me, once again, pretending as if everything wasn't as it seemed.

Instead of saying anything more, I let the boldness I had as an eight-year-old takeover and pulled him into my arms, his figure becoming even tenser. Although, he didn't pull away, and instead, just stayed in that position until I spoke up.

"The kids are mean to me too," I told him, his breath catching in his throat. "And they shouldn't be because you seem pretty cool," I explained with a smile as he turned his eyes up to look at me again. "No one else here has wings, and they're really pretty."

From then on, we were practically inseparable. We weren't seen without each other, and despite bullies picking on us, we didn't let their words bother us. Even as we got older, nothing changed, and in spite of living in an expensive house with nearly triple the amount of space that my house was, Warren chose to stay at my place most nights. His parents didn't care about what he did, and my parents were more than happy to have him over.

When we reached high school, our friendship turned into an actual relationship between two lovebirds (no pun intended). Now we really were inseparable.

However, this changed one night when he went out to grab something from the store. I was sick, and needed medicine; so, being the thoughtful boyfriend he was, he decided he would go out and get some. I guess we underestimated how much mutants were hated in the area as Warren never came back.

Now it's been three months since he disappeared.

Every night since, I went searching for him, only to return to some hotel or hostel without him. I don't know what came over me tonight though. For all my life, I've always been told to avoid putting myself in dangerous settings, and yet, all of those lessons were cast away as I heard people screaming and hollering down an empty and dark alleyway while in Munich. My searching had taken me far away from home, but I wasn't going to stop until I found Warren.

Following the sounds of excitement and fury, I found a hidden door that led to what seemed to be a fighting ring. People surround the caged area, but I push through them, ignoring their waving arms with money held high. I stop at the metal fence separating the people from the ring, only to gasp in horror as my eyes fall over the white, fluffy wings I've loved for many years.

"Warren..." I hear his name being whispered through my lips, tears forming in my eyes as I look at his hurt and pained figure. Fighting for his life against another mutant, he spits blood from his mouth as he wipes away the blood forming on the cut across his cheek. The tattered t-shirt he wears, the same thing he wore the night he disappeared, barely hangs onto his shoulders by a few strips of fabric, the band emblem on the front no longer being recognizable. His arms have fresh bruises forming all along the skin while fading bruises covers the visible parts of torso. How the hell did he get here?

Too shocked to move, I watch as Warren throws a punch at the other mutant, only to hit the fence in front of him, the silver eliciting sparks as soon as Warren touches it. "Shit!" He yells while the blue mutant seemingly teleports to different parts of the cage, only to receive the same treatment as Warren did. Hearing his voice after so long makes me nearly choke on the air in my throat, the tears now falling freely. Seeing Warren makes me want to rip through the fence and save him, but seeing that the metal fence is electric, I can't simply do that.

Blinking the oncoming tears away, I glance in every corner of the underground hideaway and try to find something that might resemble a control panel. It isn't until I see a switch box on what seems to be a surveying floor that I begin running to it, successfully climbing up the steps to the higher level and stopping in front of it. Gazing back to the fighting ring, I see Warren shouting at the dodging mutant while people standing around the cage yell out vile words of hate and absolute greed.

"Warren!" I shout his name as loud as I can, placing my hand on the handle to the electrical switch. Instantly, his head darts toward the voice calling his name, every inch of his being relaxing once he sees me. I smile at him before nodding, his eyes following my hand as it begins pushing the handle downward. Just before the electricity goes out, I see Warren's dirty wings perk up just as the entire underground arena goes pitch black.

In the darkness, the people's screams die down while the clinging sound of the fence being ripped apart follows it. Mere seconds pass before I familiar arms wrap around me and tug me close to their body, Warren's wings flapping rapidly as he lifts us into the air and to the hidden door I entered through. Once we're outside, we quickly run as far as we can before stopping in another alley, far away from the other one.

As soon as we stop, Warren wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to him, his lips immediately attaching to mine in a fervent and much-needed kiss. His hand on my waist never falters in its hold on me, and instead, it squeezes the flesh there as if he were testing if I was real or not.

"I'm here," I tell him, sliding my hands down his face as endless tears fall from his cheeks and onto my hands. Staring into his tear-filled eyes, I can't help but cry tears of happiness as well. "I'm right here."

Nodding, Warren folds his wings behind him, slightly wincing at the pain of them conforming against his back. "Fucking hell," He mutters, placing his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. A few seconds pass of him just holding me before he kisses me once more. "I've missed you so fucking much."

Our sweet reunion is cut short by a black vehicle slamming on their brakes at the end of the alleyway. "Warren," I say his name, concerned at the sight in front of us. Warren turns around, only for his wings to burst out again, shielding me from seeing anything. Peeking under one of the long feathers, I see two men leave the vehicle before one of them points at Warren.

"That's him!" The man yells, "Get him!"

In an instant, Warren swings around and wraps his arms and wings around me, protecting me from the flurry of oncoming bullets. What appears to be eight shots sounds throughout the alley before the same car speeds off again as Warren begins to topple over. Was he shot?

Trying to catch him before he falls on his face, I wrap my arms around Warren and hold him up for a few seconds, only for his size to take over mine and fall to the side. Landing on his back with me on top of him, Warren waves his hand at me while shaking his head, his eyes shut. "I'm fine," He mutters, his voice now suddenly tired and drained.

Eyes wide and concerned, I turn him onto his side and look over him to see blood pouring from his wings. Between the layers of feathers, I find what seems to be four bullet wounds, causing me to practically lose it as the crimson liquid touches my hands. "No, no, no, no, no," I mutter uncontrollably as I place him onto his back. "Warren, Warren," I repeat his name, running my hand against the side of his face, his own blood smearing across his flawless cheek. "Warren, don't go to sleep!"

At my heartbroken plea, Warren opens his eyes, frowning at the sight of tears pouring from my eyes. "Don't cry, my love," He begs, his voice even weaker than before. He lifts a hand to my face, doing the same to me just as I had done to him. I quickly place my hand over his, holding it there as I feel the warmth in his skin begin slowly leaving it. "I... I love you..." He whispers, his eyes closing once again.

Just like a few seconds ago, I feel every ounce of sanity leave me as I watch the love of life wither away in front of me. "Warren, don't do this to me!" I shout, the tears now falling like a waterfall. I could barely manage not seeing him for the three hellish months when he was missing - I can't live the rest of my life without him.

"Warren!" I scream his name again, utter desperation being the only recognizable thing in my voice. Releasing a sob, I push my head against his chest and hear his still-beating heart. However, I know that if I don't get him to a hospital within the next few seconds, his heart won't continue beating like that. But what hospital will even help us?

"Ma'am?" I hear a woman's soft voice coming from the end of the alley, causing me to jerk my head up and see a blonde woman standing twenty feet away. Concerned, she walks closer to me before kneeling beside Warren and me, the knees of her pants becoming stained with his spilled blood on the alley ground. His wings are the first things that catch her focus, making me want to hold him closer.

"Please, don't hurt him," I beg her, my hand holding his hand a bit tighter. "He-he's a-" The woman cuts me off.

"He's a mutant," She points out, looking over at me. Still crying, I nod once, watching as a small smile appears on her face. Within a short second, the fair skin she once had transforms into blue flesh with darker blue scales, her eyes turning yellow and green while her hair changes into a much brighter orange/red.

"It's okay," She assures me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I am too, and I can help."

Her words, not to mention her sudden change of looks, shock me, but I nod at her, ready to do anything this woman says if it means saving Warren.

"Where's his family?" She asks me, her hand remaining on my shoulder as she kneels on the ground beside me.

"Me," I quickly answer her, tears still falling from my eyes. "I am his family."

"You're not a mutant," She points out, shaking her head with squinted eyes as she looks at me a bit confused. "And you care for him?"

"He's my best friend, the love of my life..." I answer her, my heart clenching as the words leave my lips. "Please, you have to help us!"

The woman nods, giving me a small, encouraging smile. "Kurt!" She abruptly yells, a teenage boy with blue skin and carvings appearing behind her with a blue puff of smoke following. I instantly recognize him as the other mutant in the pin with Warren earlier, and in spite of this, he doesn't try to get back at Warren while he's down.

Pulling his hand to get closer, she makes him get on our level before wrapping his arm around her and me. The stranger, Kurt, then wraps his other arm around Warren's almost lifeless body and tugs him a bit closer as well. "Get us all to the mansion nurse's ward - now!"

With the woman's last words, Kurt somehow does so, causing us to suddenly be in a nurse's station only a second later. This all confuses the living hell out of me, but with Kurt having a tail and red eyes, and not to mention blue skin like the lady, I don't know if I should be questioning the normalcy of anything at the moment.

Immediately, three scrubbed nurses rush up to where we are and pick Warren up from the ground. "He was shot, multiple times," The blue woman quickly explains, standing up from the ground. "He'll need blood, and you need to act quick."

Listening to her, the three nurses nod before taking an unconscious Warren back to what I could guess is surgery. Numb, I sit on the cold tile floor as I reach my blood-covered hands up to cross my arms and hold myself, my eyes stuck on the swinging doors that Warren was just carried through. Beside me is Kurt as he places a consoling hand on my shoulder, giving me a small smile.

"He vill be alright," Kurt assures me, his words helping me out a little. Giving him a small nod of my head, I take his held-out hand and stand up with him. "That is Raven, by the way," He adds as the woman from before moves to stand in front of me, taking my hand in hers despite it stained crimson.

"This is the Xavier mansion," She explains to me, "You're safe; we won't hurt you."

At her words, I nod. "I know," I tell her, giving her a small smile. "I trust you."

Smiling back at me, Mystique's eyes flicker behind me before her mouth slightly parts, her hand holding mine slightly faltering. "Who is this, Raven?" I hear a soft British voice speak up, causing me to slowly turn around and see a man in a wheelchair now in front of me. His eyes quickly catch my blood-covered hands and arms, shock taking over him. "Dear heavens, what happened to you, dear?"

I go to answer him, but my voice defeats me in doing so. Instead, Mystique speaks for me. "Charles, her and a fellow mutant were shot at in an alleyway when Kurt and I were passing by. He has wings, that's where most of the bullets hit him," She explains to him, "She has no ill will toward any of us - she just wants her boyfriend to survive."

A few seconds pass before the man, Charles, nods, staring at me with a frown. "I'm sorry to hear that, love," He tells me, giving me a single nod. "Raven, help her get cleaned up and fetch some fresh clothes for her as well," With that, Charles wheels himself out of the room and into the hallway where he enters the room at the end.

In a puff of blue smoke, Kurt leaves Mystique and me, letting us head to what I presume is her room where she wets a washcloth and begins rubbing the drying blood from my arms. "He will be alright," She tells me, saying Kurt's exact words from moments ago. "Trust me."

I nod at her words, but I can't believe them myself. What if Warren isn't okay? What if one of the bullets when through his spine and he's now paralyzed? I couldn't see all of his wounds so I don't know where they all hit him, minus the few I could see in his wings. What if the nurses and doctors can't do anything and he dies on the table? I can't bear to lose him - not again.

With my arms their original (s/c) color, I change into a pair of pajama pants and matching top with a school emblem given to me by Raven before walking with her to Charles' office. Stopping in front of his desk, Mystique and I watch as the man from earlier sits at his desk with his attention stuck on the novel stuck in his hands. However, it doesn't take long for him to notice our presence and put the book down with his glasses following.

"(Y/n), is it?" Charles asks me, turning his attention up to me. Surprised, I hesitantly nod as he speaks up once more. "No need to worry, dear," He assures me with a smile despite my caution. "I'm able to read minds and communicate through them as well," Charles further explains. "Raven and I were talking while she helped you with your arms and hands,"

"I understand you've been through a lot in the past hour, so I won't force you to talk about it," Charles tells me, making me let out a small sigh of relief. "But I am a bit concerned over the fact that you were in such a predicament that your partner was shot," Holding his hand out, Charles waits for me to place my hand in his. "I won't scour through your brain and look at everything you've ever seen or done - I just want to see what all transpired tonight."

Hesitating, I bite my lip in thought before shakily putting my hand in Charles, his touch being warm and welcoming. I feel as Charles does what he told me he would do, the images of the past month flashing before my eyes. Warren's disappearance, me finding him, and helping him get out are all shown before me like a home movie shot from my perspective. Because of this, I gasp a little, shocked at Charles' ability to do such a thing.

Slowly slipping his hand from mine, Charles' eyebrows furrow in thought before flashing his eyes up to mine, confusion written all over them. "You're a human with no powers or anything," He points out, slightly pausing in his words. "And yet, you've always loved a mutant?"

His words come out as a question, but to me, they're a true statement. I love Warren - I always have - and nothing about him will ever change that. "He's human just as I am," I tell Charles, giving him a small smile. "but, with wings," I further add, my smile growing sad as I lightly shrug. "How could I not love my angel?"

My words washing over him, Charles smiles back. "I like you," He tells me, Raven putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Your friend, I think he'll pull through. After all, he has a great incentive."

Because of Charles' words, I smile and give him a nod of thanks just as a question rises to my mind. "What... what is this place?" I ask, gesturing to the overall building. I know it has to be an establishment of some sort going by the built-in medical wing and wide hallways.

"This," Charles states, pointing his finger to the ceiling while his eyes remain on mine. "Is Xavier's a school for gifted youngsters," He informs me before nodding his head once. "This is a school specialized for children with mutations such as Warren, or Kurt, whom you met earlier."

Furrowing my eyebrows together, another question comes to mind. "Why have I never heard of this place before?" I ask, receiving a small smile.

"We're a relatively small school," Charles simply explains, "Ultimately, if your boyfriend would want to join, he could - now, you're not a mutant, but the unique and understanding attitude you give off, I'm sure we could work something out for you too."

His words make my cheeks turn pink in response to the compliment as I thank him, turning my eyes toward the ground as I try to fight the ever-growing smile on my lips. Just as I do this, I see Charles put a hand to his forehead as his eyebrows furrow before looking over at Mystique with a smile. "Raven, take her back to the medical ward," he tells the fiery-haired woman. "It seems that her friend was easily operable and now they're just waiting for him to wake up."

Almost immediately, I turn and follow Mystique out of the room with my pace just a little faster than hers. Soon enough, we walk through the doors and directly to the beds where only one of them is occupied, and the sleeping body in it is Warren's. The window behind him shines down on him with the bright and early morning sun highlighting his now washed and pure white wings that lie behind him. The sight is a complete contrast to what I saw only an hour ago with the almost black sky darkening everything around us and only emphasizing the dirt and grime that covered Warren's perfect wings.

"We told you he'd be okay," I hear Mystique's gentle voice beside me say, causing me to nod with an onrush of tears rising in my eyes. They were right, and my Warren is okay.

Moving closer to him, I sit beside Warren on the bed and take his hand in mine, his unconscious body unresponsive toward my touch and his perfect face never changing. "I'll let you two be alone," Mystique speaks up before doing as she says and walking back toward the door. Once I hear the swinging door shut, the tears residing in my eyes quickly fall over the barrier and down my face as I try to hold in my sobs.

When you love someone, you never want to see them in pain or hurting, and when they're laid up in a hospital bed with consciousness being a waiting game, it hurts you. It physically hurts you to the point where your chest feels heavy with dread, and your stomach feels sick with worry. It's terrible, and I wish there was something I could've done to protect Warren from getting shot.

"I'm so sorry," I sob, turning my eyes away from him and toward the floor. Raising my free hand to cover my mouth as the sobs tumble out, I don't notice Warren's hand gently squeezing mine until I feel the bed beneath me slightly moves.

Immediately looking back over to him, I see his eyes flutter open and quickly dart to me, confusion taking over his tired face as soon as he sees my crying form. "Why..." Warren slowly starts speaking, his voice raspy and scratchy with sleep. "Why are you crying, love?" He finishes his question, now trying to sit up.

"No, no, baby," I usher him to continue lying flat, moving to stand on my knee on the side of his bed before pushing his shoulders back down onto the mattress. Despite this, he still doesn't listen and moves to wrap his arms around me before pulling me fully onto the bed and holding me to his chest. Finally, Warren does lie back down, but in a matter of seconds, his wings are fluttering around me like any other time I'd be on top of him. My eyes quickly catch sight of the now bandaged wounds, and now that I get a better look, I see that there was one more bullet-wound than I initially thought. "Warren, your stitches!"

"It's okay, love," He sleepily responds, leaning his head back to look up at me with a happy face. "I'm so damn happy to see you," Warren confesses, his eyes gazing over me as if I were a precious gem.

If it weren't for the nurses cleaning the dirt from his face and body, I wouldn't have been able to assess the full damage the fighting ring did to him. Above his left eye is a healing bruise that covers a majority of the side of his forehead, and his bottom lip is split, making it swollen. On top of all of that, his green eyes are sunken in and practically taken over by dark circles.

Still, he continues staring at me, acting as if nothing is bothering him until a look of confusion fall over his face. "Now, are you going to tell me why you were crying?" Warren repeats his question from earlier, making me shake my head as more tears rise to my eyes.

"You almost died, Warren," I inform him, his face still unchanging. "I've been without you for three damn months, and the night I get you back, I almost lost you again - for good!" I add on, raising a hand to wipe away my fast-falling tears.

However, Warren beats me to it and places his hands against my cheeks where he gently holds me, his face now soft. I guess he hasn't assessed the severity of the situation. That, or he hasn't taken the time to fully realize that he has stitched-up bullet wounds adorning his wings.

"I'm sorry," Warren apologizes after a few seconds of silence. Despite expecting those two words, it still doesn't hit me any easier as I'm sobbing once again, this time, into Warren's chest.

Holding me close, Warren waits a few moments before moving his hands back to my face and turning me to look at him directly. As soon as he gets the chance, Warren places his rough lips on top of mine, the skin chapped from the harsh things he's been put through. Despite crying moments ago, my tears ultimately stop as I come to the realization of how much I've missed the feeling of Warren's lips on mine. Chapped or not, his lips are the pure definition of Heaven, and when they're on top of mine, it's like pure ecstasy.

Pulling away for air, I pant above Warren as he does the same, his hands now sliding down to grip my waist once again. "I love you," He tells me, "And I've missed you- God, how I've missed you," Warren adds, shaking his head as a small, almost unnoticeable tear falls down his cheek. "Each day was hell without you, and I can't be without you, not again."

Smiling at him, I lean down once more and peck his soft cheek before nuzzling my head next to his on the pillow, his hold on me never changing in the slightest. "You won't have to, Angel," I tell him, watching his lips quirk up in a smile at my nickname for him. Deciding on leaving the explanation of where we're at for later, I close my eyes alongside Warren and fall asleep, finally able to relax knowing he and I can be together with no one to stop or hurt us.

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

hi

could you please do a BoRhap request? Where she looks after the guys during recording since her family owns Rockfield Farm and they love her cooking? But the guys (minus Fred who has Mary) all fancy her too?

❤️

SOMEBODY TO LOVE

Pairings: John + Roger + Brian x Fem!reader Summary: ^^ Warnings: none, I don't think Note: I did my best guys, I'm sorry

a knock came to your door as you finished up breakfast

you left the kitchen and went to the front door

you opened the door to see a blonde with long hair with sunglasses on

he was wearing dark, slightly flared jeans, a yellow v neck shirt underneath a greeny grey jacket with fur

behind him was a short haired brunette with a mustache

he pushed the blonde out of the way and held out his hand

"hi, I'm paul, this is Roger, From Queen" he introduced

of course you knew Queen was coming to your family's farm, it wasn't like you didn't know who they were and wouldn't let them in, it's just that you felt Rogers gaze planted on you and it made you feel a little nervous

"you're not" Roger scoffed quietly

"yes, of course, come in, are the rest here too?" you asked, stepping out of the way to let them in

"they're sorting out their luggage" Roger answered, taking off his glasses

"well, I made breakfast..if you're hungry?" you smiled tightly

"depends what you're serving" Roger smirked and looked you up and down

"pancakes" you responded quickly

"yeah, I could eat"

he followed you to the kitchen and he took a seat, shovelling food onto the plate in front of him and started eating

a few minutes later Roger had finished his plate and went back for seconds

"ah there you are Freddie" Paul spoke up, noticing the other three band members by the door

"we're also here mate" the tall, long curly haired brunette said, seeming annoyed by Paul's presence

"should I show you boys to your rooms?" you wondered, breaking the silence that filled the room

The three boys standing at the door all turned to you

"didn't know the farm came with a pretty lady" the curly Brunette smiled

"oh I'm Y/n. this is my Family's Farm. I live in the building beside this one, I'm just here to show you around"

"are those pancakes for us?" the auburn haired one said

"oh, yes! you can have as many as you want" you pointed to the mountain of pancakes you had made on the counter

"they are delicious" Roger said with a mouthful of food

"well I'm Brian, This is Fred and John and I see you've already met Rog"

"it's a pleasure to meet you guys"

"pleasure's all ours darling" Freddie beamed

"well I'll show you your rooms then" you said taking off your apron and leading them upstairs

"it's probably not what you're used to but your manager said it was perfect to get away from distractions so" you shrugged

you turned to face the boys and see Roger first

"you're in here. mister Taylor" you looked to the first door

"right" he grunted, walking into the room with his heavy luggage

"and that's yours, Mister Mercury" you pointed to the room in the corner to the left

"thank you darling"

"Mister May, yours is right here" pointing to the right side next to the bathroom

Brian walked into the room and you noticed John still standing on the top of the stairs

"oh, sorry. mister Deacon, you're downstairs" he walks back down the stairs and you lead him down to the room.

"I know it's small but it doesn't get nearly as cold as the other rooms" you informed him

"okay..." he frowns as he steps down

"well I'll let you get settled then, i'll show you and the band around when you're ready" you smiled, starting to go up the stairs

"are there still pancakes?" he asked, putting his luggage down on the bed

"oh yeah, they'd probably still be warm too" you answered

he soon started following you up the stairs to the kitchen to find all the other members of the band eating the pancakes

"Rog really didn't lie, these pancakes are delicious" Brian hummed

"we need more syrup" Roger lifted up the empty bottle of maple syrup

"oh..ok" you walked over to the fridge as John took a seat and started eating the food

"here you go" you grinned, putting the syrup on the table in front of them

-

it's been a few days since they've arrived and much to your surprise, you've seen more of them then you expected

you didn't think you would see much of them, you thought thy would be very busy and you didn't have a problem with that

but Roger, Brian and John all seemed to want you around them

Roger would casually flirt with you

Brian would always start up a conversation or make you help with with a lyric

and John would subtly make eye contact and smile before coming up to you to ask for suggestions

and they would all ask if you could cook them up something when they got hungry and said they liked your cooking, so much so that there would be barely any left for Freddie or you.

Roger was currently helping you make breakfast while Brian and John sat and ate while they discussed songs

"i put my heart and soul into this song" Roger spoke up as they talked about his new song he made

"no one is disputing that" John smiled, lifting up his fork

"and you don't like it because you want your songs on the album" Roger fought

"it's not that Roger" John denied

"then what is it?" the blonde raised his eyebrows as he stopped cutting bread

"I'm in love with my car?" Brian spoke up

you fought back a laugh at the thought of the song

Brian and John both made a questionable face as silence filled the air

"maybe it's not strong enough?" Brian suggested

"what does that even mean 'not strong enough'?" Roger frowned

"I know I'm late. What did I miss?" Freddie came in and poured himself some tea

John straightened his back and looked at the singer "discussing Roger's car song"

"is it strong enough, that's all I'm asking. If I'm on my own here, then i apologise" Brian put his hands up defensively

"how does your new song go, then, hm?" Roger walked over and grabbed Brians lyrics

"you call me sweet.. like I'm some kind of cheese" the drummer read out

you stifled a laugh as you cooked bacon

"it's good" Brian defended, looking at the John who was eating a sausage with a smile and Freddie who was stirring his tea

"wow" Roger sighed sarcastically

"is that-, is that you know- when my hand's on your grease gun..That's very subtle isn't it?" Brian read Rogers back

"it's a metaphor, Brian" Roger argued

"it's just a bit weird Roger, what exactly are you doing with that car?" John spoke, waving his fork around

"what do you think, Y/n?" Roger turned to you, looking for backup

you put the now cooked bacon on a plate and turned to the boys

"don't turn to me, I'm not getting involved" you shook your head

"children please, we could all murder each other but then who would be left to record this album?" Freddie butted in

"statistically speaking, most bands don't fail, they break up" John stated mater-of-a-factly

"why the hell would you say something like that?" Freddie frowned

John shrugged and Freddie turned back to the Blonde

"Roger, there's only room in this band for one hysterical queen" Freddie informed the drummer before walking out

"you know why you're angry, Roger?" Brian began again

"...why?" Roger breathed out

"'cause you know you're song isn't strong enough" the curly headed man repeated

"boys I really don't think you should be-" you started to say but cut off by Roger throwing bacon at Brian's face

"is that strong enough?" Roger questioned

"ok" you mumbled, looking at John, who smiled at you amusingly

Roger pushed off plates and glasses off the table angrily

"what about that?!" he asked before going over to find something else

"Hey!" you yelled at Roger, who grabbed a pot of Coffee

he turned and began to swing it at the two boys before he stopped as they put their hands up

"Not the coffee machine!?" they both yelled

Roger put the coffee machine down and you sighed looking at the mess

"I'll clean this up" he sighed after a moment of silence

"you sure are" you nodded sternly

-

you sat in the recording room on the couch with John and Roger as Brian got ready to record his guitar

Roger slung his arm around your shoulder as Brian got set up

"so..how about we go get dinner later" he suggested

"pardon?" you wondered

"you, me, i'll take you out to dinner" he repeated

"I highly doubt she'll want to go out with you, Roger, she's too good for you" John sighed

"and what? you're better?" the drummer scoffed, looking over you to the auburn headed bassist

John stared at Roger for a moment

"how's katie? last time we saw her was right before we left to come here" the Deacon wondered

"shut it mate" Roger groaned

your thoughts were cut short as Brian started playing

you focused on the music but felt John's gaze on you, you slowly turned your head to see him staring at you, smiling

"so, do you have a boyfriend?" Roger asked

"I don't see how that's any of your business" you crossed your arms, looking back at Brian, who's still playing his solo

"what if I want to ask you out?" he shrugged

"how come you're the one that gets to ask her out?" John leans forward to argue with Roger

"because I can" the Taylor boy smirked

"Roger, do you have to be such a man whore?" John questioned, his accent become more defined and thick

"I think you're just jealous you don't get women chasing after you" Roger huffed, leaning back on the couch, seeming to be not fazed

"ah yes, because all i need is women to make me feel better about myself, all i need and want is women around me to fill a void of unfulfillment" John rolled his eyes

"oh yeah? let's see who she wants more then" Roger raises his eyebrows as he took off his glasses to look at you

John frowned "you can't pressure her into choosing either of us...that's not how relationships work, Roger"

Roger stifled a laugh "who said I wanted a relationship"

"my point exactly"

"all i'm saying" is that she's probably looking for somebody to love and i'm right here" Roger raised his hands in defense

"what makes you think she wants someone?" John glared

"children, children. leave the poor girl alone, she doesn't want either of you" Freddie butted in

you found yourself wondering how it came to this, two members of the band Queen almost practically fighting for your, to be with you

it made sense about Roger, seeing all of those tabloids of him with new girls around his shoulder almost every week

but John? he didn't really seem the type

you tuned out of the argument and soon wondered when Brian came back into the room as you looked up to find him sitting with Freddie

"I think whatever happens, it's up to her, you shouldn't be trying to force something she does not want" John fought

"what are you guys fighting about?"

"who gets to take this beautiful lady out" Roger smirked, nodding towards you

"who says either of you get to?" Brian spoke in a confused manner

"oh don't tell me you want her too?" Roger groaned

"what's so wrong about that?" the guitarist questioned

"I'm gonna go" you sighed, getting up

"are you still going to make us pasta tonight?" John perked up

you chuckled "I think you all need a break from my cooking"

"NO!!"

--------------------------------------------

[vixemi]

Idk if anyone will know what I’m talking about but I’m trying to find a imagine about Roger Taylor played by Ben Hardy who cheats on reader with a fan I believe. Let a girl know if you find it.

[exilynn]

title: 𝕰𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖘( Modern Eddie x OC)

synopsis:

"They say that the legend of Nocteris echoes only in the hearts destined to meet. But what if this echo is so strong that it transcends time and memory?"

Love never made sense to Eddie Munson.

With a cynical view and a shielded heart, he believed that fate was always against him. Until a girl came into his life, and everything changed.

He rolled a 2 and saw her for the first time, laughing with her friends while he played with his band.

He rolled a 5 and, that night without rules, she gave him a glimpse of something deeper in the night.

He rolled a 7 and showered her with compliments at graduation, and for the first time, he saw her beyond the idealized girl – she had something much deeper.

He rolled a 10 and, while she was going through her own inner struggles, he found himself wanting to protect her, but not knowing how.

He rolled a 12 and, after a night full of laughter and confessions, he realized that she was changing his view of love.

He rolled a 15 and, even when everything seemed confused, their hearts were more connected by the echo of feelings.

And when he rolled a 20, he knew that love was never a game, and that he had won the lottery of love, but had no idea, until it happened. The bat of Love bit your soul, and nothing would be the same again.

♥ format: longfic; canon divergence, headcanon's

Characters:

♥ pairing: modern eddie x fem oc( self insertion)

♥ warning:

Eddie Munson/Original Female Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Drug Use, Childhood Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Sadness/Grief, Childhood Friends, Original Character(s), Bullying, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, Protective Eddie Munson, Background Hellfire Club (Stranger Things), Basketball Eddie Munson, Explicit Sexual Content, Eddie Munson has a Crush on Quinn Josephine, So many references 80's time, Eddie Munson Has a Sister, Eddie Munson moms Headcanon, Past Jason Carver/Eddie Munson, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Antonella Munson, Corroded Coffin Concert (Stranger Things), Minor Eddie Munson/Original Character(s), Adopted Sibling Relationship, Quinn Josephine has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Loss of Virginity, Good Friend Dustin Henderson, A rewrite of Stranger Things for Eddie Non-canon Love Circle, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Protective Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Denial of Feelings, Good Friend Eddie Munson, Character Death, Smoking, Eddie Munson Lives, Blow Jobs, Eddie Munson is an ABBA Fan, Eddie Munson is Whipped, Eddie is a simp but just for Quinn, Eddie Munson has Golden Retriever Energy, Eddie Munson Has a Praise Kink, Eddie Munson Has a Daddy Kink, Eddie Munson Has a Breeding Kink, Degradation Kink, Sexual Overstimulation, Eddie Munson is an Rob Zombie Fan

— Note; If you're interested, comment, don't be ashamed to support a writer <3

Good reading! 🫦♥️

4. Howling Prom

Eddie Munson

—" If you get thrown out of a Chevrolet, what do you get? A broken leg? A rib?"

That’s what I think about, almost obsessively. My sister watches me, suspecting we’ll never be a united family again.

Resentments are heavy. I can’t live as a creature of the shadows anymore, brooding over the darkness my father left in me.

— This isn’t what I expected from you... One moment you hate him, the next you still like the old man? — Nelly insists.

— I’m not a fan of forcing situations. It gets tiring feeding resentment, coldness... I’ve been surviving hell since I was a teenager. Almost an era of condemnations.

— I hate the divorce too, but we’re not the saviors of their relationship, Eddie!

She’s not wrong. I still have a little bit of that poison in my veins.

— We took too long to realize that Mom loves the old capitalist. I don’t want to live in the darkness of resentment anymore. Got it? — I spit the words out, not angry now.

I think the problem is us. There’s a bitter gulp of escapism in that. We’re immortal creatures trapped in our own human stupidity.

— I think happy days can come back for the Munsons. I was happy with Wayne. Maybe the darkness of the family has passed... — I declare.

— Since when did you get so emotional? — Nelly raises an eyebrow.

— Thank the girl from Howling, the savior of creatures from the dark.

I love being saved by that girl I’ve waited for since my birth on this green and blue pile called planet Earth.

— Nice to see changes, but I’ll call her the healer, okay? — she comments, without mockery.

— Call her Miss Munson. Can I already plan my nerdy wedding?

— Or should I call her the mother of your hobbit-footed elves? — She laughs, referencing The Hobbit.

I smile, but soon I notice her serious gaze. The question she’s not asking: Do I distrust her, or do I trust she only wants what's best for me?

My mind almost short-circuits. Mental breakdown or metal breakdown? Obviously, I’m the son of heavy metal.

I don’t see Antonella like that, even though she hurt me, gave me a childhood trauma. Deep down, she cares.

— I kindly ask that you don’t fool a time traveler. You don’t need to worry about my failed love affairs.

— Really? Let me remind you that you loved Quinn when she said that hi at the Howling playground.

— Here you go again, talking about Quinn. What’s the obsession?

— I don’t know, Eddie... I think you need a bucket of cold water. Wake up!

— No. I am the law of my own life.

She looks at me seriously.

— Put on some music, so we can banish this damn melancholy. — I suggest.

The balance is restored when we talk about music. I listen to Anthrax, Maiden... she listens to Deftones.

— Do you still have that Maiden CD I gave you?

— It was you? I thought it was Wayne!

My life has been a lie. I never imagined Antonella gave it to me.

— Why don’t you go back to Uncle Wayne, since you like the country guy so much? — she shoots, jealous.

— Do you like my company, sis?

She laughs, denying the jealousy.

— It’s normal to feel that way when someone takes your place as a sister...

— But Wayne didn’t take it. You’re useful, Nelly.

— Useful? What a lovely compliment... — she rolls her eyes.

— At least you don’t think I’m an idiot. Most people see me as a weird, futureless metalhead.

— Oh, I think you’re a useful idiot, little bro.

I decide to drop the emotions and enjoy Strange World by Iron Maiden while Nelly drives.

— What if there was an all-female Maiden? Wouldn’t it be cool to see girls playing guitar? Like Babymetal?

I’m surprised. She’s not mocking my favorite band.

— What the hell is this? If you want something bold, rewind the tape and look better.

She laughs and rolls her eyes.

The melody of Halcyon and On and On guides me into a relaxing state, until Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon starts.

— This song takes me back. As if the memories chase me, no matter where I go... — I murmur, closing my eyes.

— The heart beats violently, as if it’s being hit. Doesn’t it?

Nelly opens the sunroof, revealing the stars.

— Why do I wait for Quinn, if she abandoned me, like our father?

My sister has no answer, but fate shuffles the cards.

— Every story has two sides: the truth and each person’s version. Don’t hate the girl without knowing the truth, Eddie.

I shake my head, expressionless.

Maybe it’s not so terrible to give the past another chance.

Nelly disapproves, but I don’t say anything.

I know Lily affects me, but Quinn... Quinn was my watercolor.

And before her, blue was just another color. Now, it’s no longer pain. Now, it’s love.

— I don’t know what else to say without starting a fight with you, Eddie...

Nelly laments, banging her head on the steering wheel. Before she hurts herself, I hold her shoulder and mutter:

— Fine, your melodramatic show encouraged me.

She stares at me, unbelieving, until a strange smile appears on her face.

— Oh, already? Did you get eaten by the courage dragon?

Surprised by how much I helped, she watches me like she hasn’t done anything special.

— Any trigger can be the fatal shot, Nelly.

I take a sip of hope and make a bullet-shattering sound as it hits the target.

•••

We arrive at Linda’s house. I get out of the car and wait for someone to appear. Nothing. I ring the doorbell. Silence.

Consumed by impatience, I start throwing rocks at the window, looking like one of those 50s romance movies.

Normally, giving up isn’t an option. But this time, there’s no choice.

I signal to Nelly that the house is empty. The lights off confirm my frustration. I kick a few stones on the way back and sink into the seat, feeling the rage grow.

— Setbacks happen, Eddie. She might’ve been late and will meet you there...

— PUT THE PEDAL TO THE METAL! — I rant, frustrated.

I shift from calm to irritated as I open the car door.

— Try breaking my door and I’ll crush you, little bro! — she growls, impatient. Now we’re even.

Even though I accept I’ve been stood up, a voice hammers in my head: What if something happened to Lily?

---

We head to the graduation hall, the silence weighing heavily until Nelly decides to break it:

— Oh, stop whining for once in your life. Face it as a challenge!

— Sure, they want Jason. No one looks at Eddie, the weirdo... — I gesture air quotes, but she can’t take my drama.

— Keep feeling sorry for yourself, but what if... Quinn came back to town? Don’t waste time being the weirdo they want. Be the outlaw rocker!

— Damn, that was surgical! — My legs tremble with anxiety.

— I might not be good at giving advice, but I listen to you like I’m your friend.

— Siblings can’t be intimate friends...

— Eddie, are you mad? — She notices the change in my tone.

— No, Antonella.

— Call me Nelly? I hate fighting with you...

I stay quiet. Since I can remember, lying has become a bad habit.

She notices and changes the subject. Too smart to insist where she doesn’t want to go.

— I want to be the hostess at your graduation, since our mom can’t come. Be your mom for a night.

— Stop trying to bring positivity, or I’ll throw you out.

I tell the truth, and she pouts, upset.

— Are you going to kick me out of my own car?

— Fuck it, I don’t care.

I cross my arms and pretend to be indifferent.

I close my eyes and picture Linda Hansol’s smile. No matter how pissed I am at her lack of commitment to me... the girl is still my refuge in such an idiotic world.

— Let’s go in. — I adjust the wings of my costume, which got a little wrinkled.

I get out of the car before the courage that "kissed" me runs away.

This time, I won’t run.

At school, I was always cast as the rebel who avoided feelings. Maybe because I preferred throwing myself into extracurricular activities — the ones that had nothing to do with school. Like the Hellfire Club.

The student council was never of interest to me. It lacked substance. At Howling High, like any other school, no one seemed to care if girls were harassed by Carver's gang or if the boys' bathroom was disgusting.

Nelly and I walk toward the entrance of the hall. I’m anxious, impatient, and have no patience for conversations about feelings.

She looks at her watch and sarcastically says:

— What’s the rush? The girl’s not going to run off to the hills. Or is she, Eddie?

— Got the urge to pee.

— You should’ve gone before you got here. Now you're gonna commit the crime of peeing in front of your crush! — She lightly pushes me, laughing.

I make a face.

— Shouldn’t a stoner see nature as their habitat?

— Just because I used to smoke weed doesn’t mean I’m a forest nomad!

I shrug.

— Damn, this costume’s squeezing my balls... or what’s left of them.

She laughs, mocking.

— Intimacy is a bitch. — I roll my eyes.

Inside the hall, we find an empty spot, but my priority is the bathroom. I rush out, not paying attention.

In the heat of the moment, I walk straight in... and only realize the mistake when I see a girl standing in front of me, staring at me in shock.

— Excuse me? — She blinks, clearly surprised and uncomfortable. — I think you’re in the wrong bathroom.

Shit.

— Oh, shit, shit, shit... — I scold myself aloud, lightly hitting my head.

— Are you friends with Carver?

Her voice carries a hint of fear and surprise.

I freeze.

That voice... so familiar.

My mind spins as I try to remember where I know her from. But, stuck in this pathetic situation, my ability to think goes down the drain.

Unable to say anything that won’t make the mess worse, I leave the bathroom, pretending nothing happened.

The voice keeps echoing in my head like a scratched record.

But I don’t have time to get lost in that. Lily should have arrived by now.

I need to focus on what really matters.

Except, no matter how hard I try to leave the incident behind, that voice keeps haunting me.

And I can’t stand blank mysteries.

Outside, the rain falls heavily, thunder splits the sky, and the weather is definitely not playing around.

Inside the hall, however, no one seems to care. A group of graduates fights against the wind to get inside, and I make my way to Nelly before she finds me first. She’s excited, something rare to see.

— Hey, long-haired guy, I found you! — She smiles, analyzing me behind her glasses.

— Hey... — I try to sound normal, but my hands tremble.

— What did you do? — Nelly crosses her arms, looking at me suspiciously.

— Is everything I do wrong now? — I respond automatically, but my conscience falters.

— I don’t know... why that look of horror?

I take a deep breath.

— Okay... I... accidentally walked into the girls' bathroom.

She widens her eyes for a second before bursting into laughter, attracting looks. Great, exactly what I needed.

— Are you blind or just an idiot?

— I got the female sanctuary wrong, okay?

— What’s with that word, Eddie? — She makes a face, amused.

The hall is packed, about eight hundred people squeezed inside. Frankly, crowds were never my thing. My social battery runs out too quickly, and most of these people are just extras in my life.

After all, I’m always judged for being the "metal kid," as if my style says everything about me. But I’ve learned that fear is an untamable lion — and I try to tame that beast every day. The problem is that, deep down, I’m more of a hungry tiger than a tamer.

---

I make an effort to find her in the crowd, hoping she's just lost somewhere. Maybe it's the side effects of quitting drugs and falling for someone who gave up on truly getting to know me.

During this internal conflict, I spot Jamie and the guys from a distance.

I don't know if I feel betrayed, happy, or if I want to punch them, especially Jamie, who didn’t even show up to the party.

— Eddie! We’re over here! — Stiles yells, waving.

I approach. Jamie is dressed as Dracula. Stiles, as always, looks like he stepped out of a drag queen show. Takamori is wearing something typically Japanese.

— I told you Eddie would get a decent outfit! — Jamie pulls one of the wings of my costume. — Do these things fit you?

I roll my eyes.

— Are the old ladies fighting again? — Stiles laughs.

— Why didn’t God bring back the dinosaurs? — I mutter.

— You never take anything lightly, Munson.

— Oh, go screw yourself, Jamie.

He pushes me, laughing.

— I’m not a baby anymore, you know? And you guys don’t know the news.

— What news?

— It was just a one-night thing... — I shrug.

— Who was the lucky one? — they ask in unison.

— Does it matter?

They exchange weird looks.

— I thought you were inexperienced, Munson — Stiles teases.

— What did you expect? My uncle always kissed different “friends.”

— And who are you to judge then? — Jamie raises an eyebrow.

I sigh, not wanting to get into that debate.

— I’m not proud of it, but it was with Wayne’s girlfriend’s daughter. Annie, her name. I was thirteen.

— How old was she? — Stiles narrows his eyes.

— I don’t know... didn’t look underage.

— And you didn’t fall in love?

I let out a short laugh.

— Damn, Stiles, who falls in love with a finger?

— But don’t you like Quinn?

My expression hardens for a second before I let out another humorless laugh.

— She left. Am I supposed to stop my life for that?

Jamie shakes his head, dissatisfied.

— Would you give Annie a chance... today?

— If she wanted something, I’d tell her there’s no room in my heart.

— You’re so dumb, Munson. You could’ve been with the girl today, but you’re a coward.

— Women don’t like fighting men, right?

Takamori watches me silently before casually commenting:

— Why is the rocker acting different?

I ask myself the same thing.

— What planet are you guys living on? Eddie is the biggest perv in the group, he just hides it behind chivalry and a saintly face! — Jamie exclaims.

— I may be naughty, but I’m not the worst example of a man in Hellfire. — I retort, rolling my eyes.

For a second, I thought we were going to roll around the hall, almost killing each other, but something in the energy of the moment changed.

— At least I didn’t come dressed as a child! — Jamie taunts.

— Stick a firecracker up your ass and fly back to your mom, that planet Jupiter! — Nelly interjects.

— Chill, Antonella. His mom is cool... — I mumble under my breath.

— How embarrassing, be men! — Jamie tries to assert himself.

— “Be men?” — I repeat, feeling the urge to punch him grow. — The only one who needs to grow up here is you, Jamie. You’re a waste of a condom!

He smiles mockingly.

— And you, a failed copy of Alanfiero Munson.

My stomach churns. I’m not my father. What he did has nothing to do with me. I’m not an extension of his past, and I never will be. On the contrary, I’m a rough diamond — I just need to be polished.

They judge me for not knowing how to socialize with girls. They want sincere conversations, to feel cared for, protected. And me? I’m a walking disaster, incapable of offering anything solid.

“Love a woman’s imperfections, and she will love you in a way that will immortalize you for millennia.”

— The reality is that Jamie’s jealous because someone stole the spotlight tonight... And it was Eddie! — Stiles drops the bomb.

Jamie puffs up his chest.

— I’m the hottest guy in Howling! At least my crazy ex doesn’t stalk me like I’m a puppet.

I feel a strange relief for everything that went wrong before. If it weren’t for the betrayal, the breakup... I never would’ve met Linda Hansol. I never would’ve met Lily.

Oh, you could be mine. And you’d never cry over men who don’t know how to love a woman properly...

---

And no matter how long it takes to finish this book called Lily Hansol — I would devour every page as if it were a Tolkien masterpiece.

People are poems, they shouldn’t be read at the speed of light. But when I look at her, I see the most beautiful work ever written.

Lily stole every beat of my heart. Meeting her ignited the same fire I felt when reading The Fellowship of the Ring on a rainy afternoon.

That book captivated me as I plunged into the deepest waters of Elvish knowledge.

Today, I seek someone who loves my hurricanes, my wild, high tides. Someone to whom I can give the same love.

I want someone who isn’t afraid of chaos and will fight by my side. Not someone who packs their bags when my soul thunders. I am selfish when I love.

— The kind of man women love are vampires. — Jamie winks at Antonella, and my blood boils.

— Like you, soul suckers? — I ironize, making it clear what I think of the future union I’m already predicting.

— Sometimes you're an idiot, but... is your father called Zeus? — My sister sounds hypnotized by the blonde.

— Sorry, baby, but I skipped classes in... — Jamie frowns, trying to remember.

— Philosophy, idiot! — I cut in, clearing my throat.

Antonella doesn’t make it easier either. She must’ve smoked the joints I hid. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the sexual tension they pretend doesn’t exist or Nelly already electing Jamie as the future Munson.

I miss smoking. It was my escape to survive the damn adolescence. But if I stay away from drugs, maybe I won’t want to die before twenty-seven — the infamous dark age in the world of rock.

Hard to believe, but I’ve never watched the moonlight with my hands on someone. Outside of Hellfire Club, I’m just a guy wondering if aliens exist or what darker secrets this earthly ball hides... instead of worrying about this love thing.

— Eddie, there’s a girl on the dance floor. — Nelly nudges me, alert.

— I’m not going over there. She ditched the dance... — I point with my eyes, discreet.

— Idiot, go talk to the girl! — She practically pushes me.

— You think so? — I ask, trying to make sure it’s not a joke.

Eddie is far away. His mind wanders to the dance floor, where the lights flash in a colorful show.

Among familiar and unfamiliar faces, he sees her—Lily, the girl his sister pointed out. Could she really be his possible match?

The lights reflect off her red locks, her radiant expression. Every move she makes seems like an invitation, a celebration of friendship or something beginning to bloom. Eddie can’t look away. The world around him blurs, and only she stays in focus, illuminated by a rainbow of emotions.

Lily’s eyes shine, capturing the light almost magically. Eddie feels a tightness in his chest—nostalgia, yearning. The music vibrates, contrasting with the whirlwind of emotions he tries to contain.

He moves closer, positioning himself beside her, not sure how to start a conversation. After a few seconds of hesitation, he leans against the railing and casually says:

— Nice dress...

— You scared me, Eddie! — Lily turns around, surprise written on her face before breaking into a smile.

He stays there, watching her with a somewhat uncertain look.

— I thought you ditched the dance with me. — He rubs his neck nervously.

— I was going to meet you at home, but my dad wanted to bring me... — She makes an apologetic face.

— What matters is that you came. I thought it was going to be boring, but it’s not that bad.

— It’s well decorated. — She looks around.

— Do you like fluorescent things?

— They’re cool. — She watches him. — And you came as...?

Eddie smiles.

— Kas, from Dungeons & Dragons.

— Huh... I thought you’d come as a vampire.

— And you? Something literary, I imagine.

— Lily Munster, from The Munsters, 1964! — She twirls slightly to show off her dress.

— And here I am, dressed as an RPG demon, while you went all gothic... — He laughs.

Lily furrows her brow.

— Kas, huh? Not every day you see someone dress up as him.

— Exactly.

She looks at him for a moment, then narrows her eyes.

— Eddie, your bow tie...

He follows her gaze, confused.

— Is it crooked?

Lily steps closer with careful steps.

— You tied it wrong. Wait a sec.

Eddie smiles, convinced.

— Look at you, trying to fix it just so you can breathe my air, huh?

She makes a face.

— Stop being silly.

Lily undoes the knot and fixes it properly. He watches her closely, enchanted by her concentration on the task.

— See? You even offered to fix me...

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a playful glint in them.

— What happened to the Eddie who spent some time with me?

His smile fades a little.

— I just want a chance to show you who I really am.

Lily studies his face for a moment, then smiles.

— You going to show me your layers today, Munson?

— I’ll show you the best of me.

She nods, and he raises an eyebrow.

— Oh, so you don’t want me to ditch the playful guy?

Lily laughs softly, looking away.

— Shall we sit down? It’s kind of cold...

— I saw a free table over there in the corner. Want to come with me?

He extends his hand, and she takes it. Eddie makes his way through the crowd, arriving at the table far from the dance floor. He pulls out a chair for her like a gentleman. When they’re both seated, he crosses his arms on the table and looks at her directly.

— Don’t let anything convince you to give up on us.

— What, rocker? — She winks, carefree.

He leans in a little closer.

— I don’t like dancing, but... I’d like to take you to the dance floor.

Lily raises an eyebrow.

— Just stand up and come with me.

— What song’s playing?

Eddie looks at the dance floor and makes a face.

— Some generic song...

Lily listens carefully and smiles.

— Oh, it’s REO Speedwagon!

— Really? — He blinks, surprised.

— Can't Fight This Feeling. — She stands up. — Alright, want to dance with me?

Eddie is speechless for a moment. Then, he smiles, taking her hand.

He leads her to the dance floor, trying to appear confident. As soon as he finds a free space, he turns to her, placing his hands on her waist.

— Hold me like you did when we kissed in the clearing? — Lily asks, getting closer.

Eddie swallows hard, his hands settling on her waist more firmly. His heart races. The closeness is overwhelming.

They move to the rhythm of the music, bodies pressed together.

— I don’t want to step on your foot. — He murmurs, uncertain.

Lily laughs, her eyes sparkling.

— You’re holding me. There’s no way.

He breathes deeply, taking in every detail of the moment.

— Can you focus on the music?

She hesitates.

— I don’t know if I can, Eddie.

He looks at her, serious.

— Relax. You’re safe with me. Just relax... and let me guide you.

Her eyes meet his. And for a moment, everything around them disappears.

---

Being so close, they feel each other’s warmth. Eddie places his hand on her waist and pulls her closer, while the other slides over the flushed face of the redhead. The slow music fills the air. He feels an uncontrollable urge to kiss her.

He moves even closer, their noses brushing, sharing the same breath.

Lily’s eyes waver, trying to focus on the steps, guided by his movements. Eddie keeps her close, feeling the heat of her skin against his. His fingers glide through her soft red hair. His gaze locks on her lips.

— Is everything okay? — he murmurs, his voice full of curiosity and a hint of concern.

— A little nervous. — She confesses, meeting his gaze with her amber eyes.

— No one is a dance master... Stay with me, follow my lead. — He whispers, but his eyes remain fixed on her lips.

Eddie holds Lily’s hand firmly, gently guiding her to the rhythm of the music. He watches every movement she makes, captivated by the grace she exudes, like an elf lost on Earth.

Lily, shy, looks away to the other graduates dancing around, trying to avoid his gaze.

— Hey, did I do something? — he asks, unsure, pulling her closer.

She gives a small smile, still not looking at him.

— No, you didn’t do anything. I’m just... hot and happy. — she murmurs, a bit emotional.

Eddie feels a familiar warmth growing inside him.

— Me too... and hot. — he says softly, near her ear.

The rocker can’t hold back. He moves closer, his lips grazing hers. Lily holds her breath.

— I... want to kiss you again. — he whispers, his lips slightly parted, absorbing the sensation of having her in his arms, fighting the overwhelming desire to lose himself in her.

The slow music sets the perfect scene. Eddie presses his forehead to hers, sliding his hands down her waist to her back, feeling the softness of the fabric against his fingers.

When the music ends, he pulls back slightly, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. In a quick movement, he lifts Lily off the floor, holding her firmly in a final dance pose.

— So? Impressed with the dungeon master? — he teases, flashing a satisfied smile at her surprised expression.

— Quite...

— That’s how you end a dance with style. Forget the old movies, come adventure with the master. — His seductive tone makes Lily laugh softly.

They leave the dance floor, Eddie keeping his hand on her waist. When they reach the table, he sits down and, without hesitation, pulls her onto his lap, adjusting her comfortably.

He slides his fingers along her arm, feeling the shivers he causes.

— Got a fetish for my arm, Munson? — Lily teases, laughing.

Eddie blushes, trying to explain himself.

— It’s not exactly a fetish... — he murmurs, a little embarrassed. — I... like touching you.

She swallows hard.

— You change moods fast, huh? You’re usually more talkative.

— You annoy me and make me laugh. — he replies, looking away.

— Maybe you just tired of you.

— Oh, why?

— My lame jokes... that must be it.

Lily sighs.

— No, I’m just tense. They are cool, I like their vibe!

— Dances are tiring... — Eddie agrees, watching her with affection. — But, be honest... are you nervous?

She hesitates before answering, her voice trembling.

— Well... you all handsome next to me doesn’t help.

Eddie blinks, surprised.

— Oh... am I handsome?

— No. You look like Godzilla!

He laughs and suddenly buries his face in her hair.

— Hm... I think I’m addicted to your scent.

— My hair? — Lily stammers, looking at the red and colored locks.

Eddie twirls a strand between his fingers, thoughtful.

— Yeah... it’s beautiful. Always thought it had a caramel tone.

---

— Like ice cream... Neapolitan? — She smiles.

Eddie slides his fingers through the shades of her hair, growing more addicted to touching her.

— I love Neapolitan ice cream. — He teases, pressing his lips together.

— That’s weird and cute. — Her voice comes out a little choked.

— You mean... I’m going to devour you? — His teasing hits Lily’s buttons.

— Hey, Eddie! — She changes her tone, surprising him.

He laughs, letting her hair fall freely in the air.

— What if I don’t stop, redhead? Don’t you like when I tease you until you turn red?

— You know how to push my buttons. This isn’t funny!

— In my head, we almost did what we shouldn’t. Not that I’m proud of it, but... — He lowers his voice. — Come here.

Eddie pulls her by the arm, making her stand. She ends up sitting on his lap.

— What are you doing? They’re going to see us... — Lily turns her face, watching the other graduates dancing.

Eddie, however, doesn’t care. His focus is on her.

— Let them see. — His eyes shine with a daring challenge. — Because you haven’t left my mind since last night.

— Think of me with pigtails and stop with those shameless thoughts! — She tries to hide a smile but fails miserably.

— Pigtails? Cruel... but I’ll try. — He closes his eyes, pretending to concentrate. But his mind keeps taking him back to the kiss they shared. He bites his lower lip, trying to push the memories away.

Lily notices and pulls away, crossing her arms.

— Alright. Shall we order cocktails without... alcohol?

— Okay, non-alcoholic cocktails. — Eddie repeats, trying to push away imagining her in his bed.

The waiter approaches with the menu. Eddie scans the options.

— Hmm, a virgin mojito.

He looks at her, waiting for her choice.

— What the hell kind of drink is that, Eddie? — She furrows her brow.

He laughs.

— A non-alcoholic version of a mojito, my angel. Green juice with little sugar, lime, mint, and soda.

— Interesting... But it has a terrible name.

He looks at the waiter.

— Two virgin mojitos, please.

Silence settles, despite the chatter at the other tables. Eddie decides to break it.

— So, what else does the nerd have to talk about?

Lily nudges him lightly.

— Wanna know more about Dungeons & Dragons?

— Not the time... But I’m still learning. I even made a homemade master’s shield.

Eddie’s eyes light up.

— Need someone to guide you? I’m your guy...

— My guy? — She raises an eyebrow, not hiding her interest but keeping a clear boundary.

— You just don’t know it yet. — He leans in closer. — I can be your gamer master, your backup...

— Let’s make one thing clear? If you want, I’m already in your hands... I might not be a genie, but I grant wishes, baby.

He takes her hand.

— Oh, really?

— Want a new awesome weapon, an incredible monster, an epic story? Just ask.

His fingers slide through her hair and then down her lips. Lily falls silent, lost in her thoughts.

— Hey, what about... a guy type?

She looks away.

— I like playful guys, not too serious. longhair... sassy smile....

Eddie’s smile fades. He thinks about her type, that maybe he was or wasn't your type... And then about Quinn. He takes a deep breath, pushing the insecurity aside.

— Thanks for inviting me to the dance, Eddie. You pull me out of my hell. No one else can handle me...

He squeezes her hand.

— I’m glad I banished some of your hell. After all, we’re friends, right?

The moment inside the van hits him hard. It was perfect. Unforgettable.

— But I think we’d better not go into details... You were so hot kissing in my van..

He leans in, whispering.

— Don’t say the rest! — Lily shakes her head, laughing.

---

— Don’t worry, I’ll store this moment in the Area 51 of my brain, where only I can access it.

— Area 51? — Lily laughs, giving his shoulder a light shove.

— Yep, a dark place... — Eddie makes a scary face.

— I thought we stored memories in the prefrontal cortex. — She crosses her arms, tilting her head as if analyzing him.

— Look at you, more of a nerd than me. Since when do you work at NASA? — He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her reaction.

— Are you crazy? — Lily widens her eyes, pretending to be scared.

— You wanna go to Area 51, huh? — Eddie leans in a little closer. — Together, we can keep all the secrets safe, and as a bonus, you get a VIP pass to my room again...

— Enough with the pick-up lines. — She rolls her eyes but smiles. — Hey, nerd, wanna have an intellectual duel?

— We have a problem. I’m a nerd too! Fine, let’s go. You start.

— What’s the capital of France?

Lily furrows her brow, thinking.

— Italy? No, wait... Paris! — She guesses, immediately pouting adorably after realizing her hesitation.

Eddie resists the urge to kiss her.

— What a mess, Lily! Do you always confuse capitals?

He clears his throat and throws out another challenge:

— Who was the first president of the United States?

Lily furrows her brow, scrunching her nose.

— Bush? Clinton? Oh, you’re messing with me, asking me that. I don’t remember!

— Clinton? — Eddie laughs. — Try again.

— Can you give me a hint?

— Uh... He was president during the Revolutionary War.

— Wow, great hint. Hm... George Washington?

— That’s it, girl! — He raises his arms in celebration.

Lily raises an eyebrow.

— Alright, know-it-all. And who was the first president of Brazil?

— Easy! It was Dom Pedro I, right? He proclaimed independence in 1822.

— Wrong, Munson! It was in 1894, and his name was Deodoro da Fonseca.

— Huh? — Eddie looks confused, but then he gets distracted by the sparkle in her eyes.

— One more. Who was the first emperor of Brazil?

Eddie scratches his beard, thinking.

— Dom Pedro I? No, wait... Dom Pedro II!

— Oh, no, decide!

— Fine, Dom Pedro II.

— Wrong again! It was Dom Pedro I.

— Damn...

Lily laughs at his frustration.

— Your turn, Munson. What’s the largest land animal in the world?

— The largest animal? You! — Lily retorts.

Eddie laughs loudly.

— Very funny. But no, try again.

— Hippopotamus?

— No, but you were close.

— It’s bigger than your head, so it counts! — Lily teases.

— Funny. Go on, try again.

— Elephant!

— Finally! One point for you. Now, an easy one: in which movie do they say "May the force be with you"?

— Star Wars!

— That’s right! You can do the Chewbacca scream now.

— You’re the Chewbacca here, Munson, with that hair!

— If I’m Chewbacca, you’re Princess Leia.

— Stop messing with my head with compliments! Now it’s my turn... Which movie did Mike Myers play a cat?

Eddie thinks.

— The Cat?!

— I give up. It’s a tie. But, thinking about it, you got more wrong than I did.

— We’ll settle this later.

He runs a hand through his hair, laughing, but his gaze shifts to Steve Harrington, who is crossing the hall. Eddie feels his fingers tense. He knew the danger the King of the Baskets represented. He’d always felt like he could never compete, but with Lily by his side, he felt invincible.

---

— Look, Harrington with his pompadour... He’s coming. — Eddie nods his head, the insecurity starting to take root.

— Who? Where? — Lily scans the room with her eyes.

— Don’t you see him? — He leans in, his warm breath brushing her ear as he indicates the direction.

The redhead finally spots him.

— Oh, now I see.

Eddie watches her expression, recalling Steve's warning about not losing Lily to him.

— What if I invited him to hang out with us? — The question sounds casual, but his eyes betray a flash of discomfort.

— Oh, you want to invite Steve? Fine, redhead. — He tries to sound nonchalant, battling against his insecurity.

— He looks so handsome... — Lily’s voice has a genuine tone, almost defensive.

Eddie furrows his brow.

— Hey, do you two have something going on? — His voice comes out rough, revealing a fraction of the vulnerability he’s trying to hide.

— No. He liked me before, but maybe now he’s not trying anything... — Lily hesitates, her eyes searching his.

Eddie takes a deep breath, his hands tightening slightly.

— I don’t know what happened between you two, but I’ve never seen anyone look at you like he does. I mean, he’s talking to that girl, but... — He lets the sentence hang, watching Lily pick up on his concern.

— But Steve isn’t my guy. You know that, right, Edd? — She touches his arm, her fingers tracing circles on the sleeve of his jacket.

He smiles, crooked but genuine.

— I just want you to know that you don’t have to hide anything from me. If he’s just a friend, that’s fine. I trust you.

— Don’t talk like I want to spend the dance with him. I have another guy, I’ve told you that.

— Although I want you, I can understand if I’m not your favorite... — As sincere as it was, a part of him ached when he said this. He squeezes Lily's hand.

— Steve is an ex-friend. If he talks to me today, I won’t be rude, but I won’t engage much either. — She murmurs, fixing her gaze on his.

— So there’s nothing between you two? — The question comes softly, laden with meaning.

Lily smiles.

— You could still be the guy I’d take to the altar.

Eddie laughs, surprised by the reversal.

— You’re terrible, Hansol. You’ve flipped the roles. — He messes with her hair.

— Maybe, you’re the only place where I feel at peace. — Lily sighs, touching his face.

— My pick-up lines may not be great, but I’m willing to steal your soul and your heart tonight. — Eddie holds her chin, his voice thick with jealousy.

— Are you jealous, Eddie Munson? — The question rekindles the fire within him.

— I’m not in love just because we kissed. I already knew you from other times, and I never forgot you for a second. I woke up thinking about talking to you, but because I couldn’t, I stayed away... — He slides his fingers down her cheek.

— Oh, don’t open your heart... What if I have a knife? A sword? — She teases, her eyes gleaming with provocation.

— It doesn’t matter. It’s worth the risk, if it’s to win the heart of my former crush. — His finger glides over Lily's flushed face.

— And if I break your heart, Eddie?

— Your fight against the dragons in your mind doesn’t have to be solitary. I’m here. I’ve always been. But I won’t force anything. — He murmurs, closer to her.

— After graduation, if you want to invite me to Corroded Coffin’s shows, I’ll accept.

— The queen of Howling at my show? You’d go to the small ones, like... at the Hideout?

— I wouldn’t be there when they were famous, but when it was still grassroots.

Eddie grins, excited.

— I swear to God, I’ll do anything if you go to one of my band’s shows. I’ll give you gifts.

— No need. I already have the Hellfire chain. Going to the Hideout, I don’t want a gift. The best gift would be seeing the band’s frontman.

He stares at her, surprised.

— Man, I want this dance to end. And tomorrow, I want to pick you up to go to the bar and watch me play and... spend the night with me.

— And what would we do? — The question makes Eddie’s body short-circuit.

— Huh? I never got to that part. — For the first time, he seems shy.

— Think about it until the end of the dance... What would you do if we went out? — Lily lightly touches his shoulder, sending chills down his spine.

Eddie swallows hard.

— You made my neurons explode. But can I ask you something?

— You’re the master of flirting, so go ahead.

He takes a deep breath.

— What did you feel yesterday when we were alone in my van?

Lily leans in, brushing her lips against his ear.

— Comfort... and the need to have you on top of me.

The answer hits him hard.

— You were patient. I didn’t think you’d be. And your kisses... they’re light.

Eddie feels a wave of longing for that moment.

— Hot description... — He says, nervous. — Knowing I can have your heart drives me crazy to kiss you.

— Kiss? — She teases, innocently.

He exhales, trying to control his breath.

— I just want to be the guy who would help you not to have a war with yourself. And the guy who would make you discover Mordor within my lips.

Lily stares at him, motionless. She sighs, a nearly involuntary moan escaping her lips.

— You want that with me? — Vulnerability and desire mix in her gaze as she touches his chest.

---

— With you, I’d go to Middle Earth, Lily. — He holds my face in his hands, his warm skin against mine.

I’m struck by his declaration.

— Damn, Eddie...

— But if it’s my arrogance... I’d settle for watching you from afar, accepting being just your friend. — He murmurs, smiling that smile that hides the pain of a repressed desire.

— You can’t make me fall in love so quickly... — I whisper, feeling my chest tighten.

— Can’t I? Why not?

— Because... you ate my heart.

— No, Lily. I took your heart to care for it. It’s fragile like you, it needs love... even if I’m lacking it. I’d search within myself until I found something to give you. — Eddie slides his fingers over my face, as if promising to protect the most precious part of me.

He breathes deeply before continuing:

— Beautiful Hansol, you made my life less hellish. You made me trust someone again... And I don’t regret it.

— Are you sure, Eddie? We just met at the end of the school year, and you’re acting like we’ve been childhood friends...

He laughs.

— So what? I think you’re a bard who casts arcane magic just by existing. There’s a difference between beauty and talent, you know? Why don’t you see that?

I look away.

— No one has ever said that about me. Why would you?

— I don’t know anything about feelings, but I know you erase my guilt. The dirt of my life. You resurrect me, Lily.

— But I’m the darkness incarnate...

— Then we can create an eclipse. I’m the sun, you’re the moon... And they make love.

The silence is heavy. My eyes widen when I realize the double meaning of what I just said.

— Oh my God... I’m sorry!

She laughs, and I wonder why fate made our paths cross in Howling.

— Changing the subject... Did you know you saw me earlier? — She looks at me, innocent.

— Saw you? When?

— I came from Ghostface. Didn’t you see? — She plays with her red strands, looking frustrated.

It dawns on me.

— The person I mocked with the guys... was you?!

I cover my mouth, feeling the guilt swallowing me.

— Yeah, Eddie. You mocked me.

I freeze.

The hooded girl from the bathroom. The one my friends ridiculed.

Lily.

Life has a strange way of putting things in their place, doesn’t it?

— Are you okay?

My mind is still short-circuiting when I ask:

— And you have to dress up?

— Shibari and other things... — She murmurs with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

WHAT?!

— You asked about fetishes, didn’t you?

— No, Lily... — I choke, stunned. — Damn, what was that?

She laughs.

— Sorry, I thought we were already that comfortable. My God, Eddie... You’re not going to run to the mountains, are you?

The way she fears losing me makes my heart race.

— No. — I let out a laugh. — Quite the opposite... Now I want to talk more with you.

I see the freedom in her gaze. The trust. Like she knows she can be herself with me.

And then, a phrase invades my mind:

"And you make it seem like I can be myself without fear... And I, well, want to stay by your side."

I swallow the guilt that tightens my chest.

— Forgive me for mocking you. My friends are idiots.

She raises an eyebrow.

— I’m not going to forgive you. But you’re lucky I’m not a gypsy, or I’d cast a spell on you.

Her playful tone makes me relax... But still, a shiver runs down my spine.

Women could be complicated, but in my mind, it was like a seven-headed beast would form every time I tried to start a conversation without sounding cheesy or like an unbearable know-it-all.

But with Lily, it was different. Our connection felt like two crazy people trapped in the same asylum — and, somehow, that attracted me.

Where did the old Eddie go? The tough guy who ran from love like a villager fleeing a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at the door?

The truth is, we’re puppets of the choices we make and the sins we commit, always at the mercy of what comforts or suits us.

And in the end, heaven or hell, we’ll be thrown to one side when the Apocalypse comes.

But until then, let us not die. Let us intoxicate ourselves with lust and taste the flavor of this hellish drink on the tip of our tongues.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your first kiss

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

PETER PARKER (SPIDER-MAN)

- The city is quiet tonight, or as quiet as New York ever gets. You sit beside Peter on the rooftop of his apartment, your legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The neon lights paint his face in streaks of color, flickering like the embers of something unspoken between you. He’s rambling—about school, about the Bugle, about the latest science joke that made him laugh—until he stops mid-sentence, swallowing whatever he was about to say. His fingers tap anxiously against his thigh, a restless rhythm betraying his thoughts.

- It happens when he turns to look at you, his brown eyes soft and unbearably earnest. There’s something about the way the wind plays with your hair, the way the city hums beneath you, the way the space between you feels like a held breath. His hand, calloused from web-swinging, brushes against yours, tentative but lingering. "I—uh," he starts, then stops, then exhales a nervous laugh. "I think I've been waiting for the right moment, but—maybe this is it?" He’s always second-guessing, always overthinking, but this time, you see the decision settle in his gaze before he moves.

- The kiss is hesitant at first—Peter Parker, for all his brilliance, is still a boy who fumbles when he cares too much. His lips are warm, the taste of laughter and something achingly familiar laced between them. And when you don’t pull away, when your fingers find their place in his hair, he exhales against your mouth like relief, like gratitude. His arms circle around you, pulling you closer, the city forgotten, the night reduced to the way you fit against him.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath unsteady. "Okay," he murmurs, voice edged with wonder, "so, that was—wow." And then he grins, that boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart stutter. "I think I need to run some tests. Y'know, for science. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke." He’s already leaning in again, and this time, neither of you hesitate.

TONY STARK (IRON MAN)

- The night is heavy with champagne and the soft murmur of jazz drifting through the penthouse. Tony, ever the spectacle, had spent the evening dazzling the crowd with sharp wit and sharper smiles, but now it’s just the two of you, the after-hours of the party settling into something quieter, something real. He’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the scars that speak of past battles and victories that cost too much. His fingers trail along the rim of his glass, but his eyes are on you, dark and contemplative.

- "You know," he muses, voice rich with amusement, "I’ve kissed a lot of people in my time. Scandalous, I know." A smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "But this one—this one might actually matter." The admission is half a jest, half a confession, and wholly Tony Stark—deflecting with humor, with bravado, but never insincere. He leans forward, the world outside reduced to the warmth of his gaze, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

- The kiss is molten, slow but deliberate, the kind of thing that leaves its mark. Tony Stark is a man who takes what he wants, but this—this is different. He kisses you like a man savoring a stolen moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, you might disappear. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with something almost reverent.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his eyes darker than before. "Well," he murmurs, his voice rough at the edges, "that was definitely a top contender for best kiss ever. Might have to do some retesting, though. Y'know, for science." The grin that follows is lazy, pleased, but there’s something softer beneath it—something that lingers as he pulls you in for another.

STEVE ROGERS (CAPTAIN AMERICA)

- The battlefield is silent now, the fight won, but the scent of smoke and steel still clings to the air. You stand beside Steve, both of you breathing hard, adrenaline still crackling in your veins. His shield is strapped to his back, his uniform scuffed and torn in places, but he’s whole. Alive. And for a moment, that’s all that matters. The world around you is chaos, but in this sliver of time, there is only him. The golden light of the setting sun catches in his hair, highlights the worry still etched in the furrow of his brow as he turns to you.

- "You scared me today," he says, voice quiet but steady. Not an accusation, just the truth. Steve Rogers doesn’t scare easily—not when facing enemies, not when staring down impossible odds—but you, you are something else entirely. His gloved hand reaches for yours, fingers tracing the bruises blooming along your wrist, a silent apology for the pain neither of you could avoid. His jaw tenses, and then, softer, "I don’t want to lose you."

- The kiss is inevitable, a culmination of unsaid words and lingering glances stretched over countless battles. Steve moves like a man who believes in purpose, in certainty, and right now, you are his. His lips meet yours with quiet desperation, firm yet impossibly gentle, as if he’s afraid you might break beneath his touch. But there is strength in the way you answer, in the way you hold him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit. The war fades into the background, the ache in your bones forgotten beneath the weight of him.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own. "I mean it," he murmurs, a promise laced between the syllables. His hand tightens around yours, unwavering. "I’m not letting go." And somehow, you know he never will.

THOR

- The storm rolls in like a heartbeat, distant thunder thrumming beneath your feet as the wind tangles in your hair. You stand beside Thor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vastness of Asgard’s golden horizon. The feast is still raging behind you, laughter and music spilling from the halls, but here, in the open air, it is just the two of you. His gaze is on you, blue and endless, filled with something deep and unshaken.

- "You are different from the others," he muses, tilting his head as if pondering a great mystery. "Stronger, in a way that has nothing to do with battle. I have seen warriors crumble beneath lesser burdens, and yet—you endure." There is admiration in his tone, reverence even, as if you are something worthy of legends. His fingers brush against yours, tentative for a god who has known conquest and war. "It is… humbling."

- The kiss is as sudden as the storm breaking overhead—lightning splitting the sky as Thor moves. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing, only the raw certainty of a god who knows his own heart. His lips are fire and fury, the taste of rain clinging to the space between you. He holds you as if he could keep you here, bound to him by the force of his embrace, by the quiet, unshakable devotion that lingers in every touch.

- When he pulls away, the storm settles, the world exhaling as if in reverence. He watches you, eyes dark with something ancient, something unbreakable. "I have lived lifetimes," he murmurs, his voice a promise carved into the bones of the universe itself. "But this—I would live them all again, if only to find you once more.”

LOKI

- The air crackles between you, heavy with something unspoken, something that has been threading through your conversations like a whispered promise for longer than either of you will admit. Loki lounges before you, the very image of ease, but his fingers tap restlessly against the arm of his chair, betraying the storm beneath his skin. His sharp green eyes trace your form, lingering, considering, as if trying to decipher a puzzle he has yet to solve. “Do you know what it means,” he muses, voice a blade honed to silk, “for a creature like me to crave something?”

- The question lingers, woven with challenge and invitation, but you do not flinch. You have never been one to cower beneath his words, and that—more than anything—has always drawn him to you like a moth to an unforgiving flame. He stands in a slow, fluid motion, closing the space between you with deliberate steps, the ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "I have held kingdoms in my hands, stolen secrets from the lips of gods—" his fingers lift, barely grazing your chin, "—and yet, I find myself most drawn to the one thing that refuses to be claimed."

- And then he kisses you. No warning, no hesitation, just the full force of Loki's unyielding will pouring into you like a flood breaking through a dam. It is a kiss spun from defiance and devotion, from a god who has never known worship in the way he craves it from you. His hands—so often wielding knives and illusions—now cradle you as though you are the only thing in this world worth holding onto. There is something desperate in the way he moves, as if he fears this moment will be stolen, as if even now, he expects the universe to take you from him.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his usual mask nowhere to be seen. He searches your face, as if expecting you to vanish like another trick of the light. “Do you see now?” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before. “This is not a game for me.” There is something almost fragile in the confession, something that would be a secret to anyone but you. You smile—soft, knowing—and pull him back to you, sealing your answer between his lips.

CLINT BARTON (HAWKEYE)

- The first time Clint kisses you, it’s after a mission gone sideways, when the dust has barely settled and the adrenaline still thrums in your veins like a second heartbeat. The two of you sit on the rooftop of some rundown motel, passing a cheap bottle of whiskey between you while the neon lights of the city flicker in the distance. There’s a gash on his cheek, dried blood beneath his nails, but his grin is easy, effortless, as if you both didn’t almost die hours ago. “Hell of a night,” he says, taking a slow sip before handing the bottle to you.

- He watches you as you drink, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Clint has always been good at watching, at noticing the things no one else does—the way your fingers tremble just slightly when you exhale, the way your shoulders carry the weight of too many ghosts. “You okay?” His voice is quieter now, serious in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the whiskey burning in your throat, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at you—like he’s already made up his mind about something—but you don’t lie. “Not really.”

- And then his lips are on yours. No preamble, no hesitation—just Clint, raw and unguarded, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip through his fingers like everything else in his life. He tastes like whiskey and recklessness, like battle scars and late-night confessions. His hands find your face, rough and calloused, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if memorizing every inch of you. He pulls you closer, like he’s trying to drown himself in you, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

- When he finally pulls away, he exhales a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Guess I really suck at timing, huh?” There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s bracing for you to tell him this was a mistake. But you just shake your head, smiling as you steal the whiskey bottle from his hands. “Nah,” you murmur, taking a slow sip, “you’re just an idiot.” He grins, and just like that, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

NATASHA ROMANOFF (BLACK WIDOW)

- The rain falls in soft sheets around you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting shadows along the slick pavement. Natasha stands beside you, her red hair damp, strands clinging to her cheekbones. The mission is over, the enemy neutralized, but neither of you have moved from this quiet corner of the city. She has barely spoken since you both walked away from the wreckage, but you know her well enough to recognize the weight in her silence. “You don’t have to be okay,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with me.”

- She looks at you then, something shifting behind her guarded green eyes. Natasha is a woman who has built walls so high that even she forgets what lies beyond them. But here, in the quiet of the rain, she lets something slip—just for a moment. "I don't know how to do this," she admits, the words foreign on her tongue, heavy with a truth she rarely allows herself to speak. She takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her despite the cold. “But I want to try.”

- And then she kisses you. Slow, deliberate, like a secret unfolding between you. Natasha Romanoff has always been calculated, controlled—but here, with you, she allows herself to be something else. Her lips move against yours with a quiet intensity, as if she’s searching for something she has spent her whole life denying herself. Her hands rest lightly against your jaw, fingers trembling just slightly before she grips you tighter, pulling you in like she’s afraid to let go.

- When she finally pulls back, she stays close, her breath warm against your lips. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” she murmurs, and there is something fragile in the way she says it, something raw. You brush a damp strand of hair from her face, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “It’s not,” you promise. And this time, when she kisses you again, she does not hesitate.

BUCKY BARNES (WINTER SOLDIER)

- The cabin is silent except for the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Bucky sits across from you, his metal fingers curled loosely around a mug of coffee, steam curling in the dim light. Outside, the snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into something quiet, something untouched. He has been different since coming here—softer, but still carrying the weight of ghosts in his eyes. “Feels like another life,” he murmurs, staring into the fire. “Like I don’t belong in it.”

- You set your mug down, moving to sit beside him on the worn-out couch. “You do,” you say simply, because it is the truth. He turns to you then, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. Bucky Barnes is a man who has spent a lifetime fighting his own reflection, drowning in the echoes of a past he cannot escape. But here, now, you see something else—something softer, something searching. “You make it feel real,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

- And then, with a quiet resolve, he leans in. The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for the world to pull him away from you. But when you don’t flinch, when you don’t disappear, something in him unravels. His lips move against yours with aching slowness, like he is memorizing every second, like this is something fragile he is terrified of breaking. His hands shake slightly when they settle on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, grounding himself in the reality of you.

- When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he murmurs. You smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not.” And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes believes you.

MATTHEW MURDOCK (DAREDEVIL)

- It happens in the quiet hours of the night, when Hell’s Kitchen is caught between the restless hum of the city and the stillness of something deeper, something almost sacred. You sit beside him on the rooftop, the neon glow of a flickering sign painting his face in sharp red shadows. His hands are bruised, his knuckles split open like old confessions, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his fingers twitch against his thigh, as if fighting the urge to reach for you. “You’re too good for this city,” he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to longing.

- You shake your head, smiling softly. “And you’re not?” The question lingers between you, heavy with meaning, with the weight of all the nights spent tending to his wounds, of all the times you’ve felt his presence before he even spoke your name. He turns his face toward you then, unseeing eyes searching, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heartbeat stutters beneath your ribs. “I know what good feels like,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, like a confession. “And it’s you.”

- Then, before you can speak, his lips are on yours. There is no hesitation, no faltering—just Matt, breaking the tension like a dam finally giving way. His hands find your face, fingers tracing the shape of your jaw with a reverence that makes your breath catch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s mapping out something he’s known for years but never dared to touch. He tastes like rain and something bittersweet, something that feels like the beginning of an ache he’ll never quite shake.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid to let go. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me I didn’t just make a mistake.” There is something fragile in the way he says it, something vulnerable beneath all the armor. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fresh bruise on his cheek. “You didn’t,” you promise, and he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for longer than he’ll ever admit.

FRANK CASTLE (PUNISHER)

- The world around you is painted in blood and smoke, the aftermath of a night that should have ended differently. The warehouse still burns in the distance, the scent of gasoline thick in the air, but neither of you move. You’re standing too close to him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours, the adrenaline still thrumming between you like a second heartbeat. He’s got a cut on his forehead, dried blood tracing the line of his jaw, but his eyes—sharp, dark, unforgiving—are focused only on you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no real warning in his tone.

- “And you should?” you challenge, your voice steady despite the weight of everything that’s just happened. Frank exhales through his nose, a sound that could almost be a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He’s looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know what to do with, like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “Everything I touch, it ends up—” He stops himself, shaking his head. But you don’t let him finish. “I’m still here,” you say softly, and those three words cut through him sharper than any bullet ever could.

- And then, without warning, he grabs you. His hands—rough, calloused, steady despite the storm inside him—frame your face, and then his lips crash against yours with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. Frank Castle doesn’t do anything gently, and this kiss is no exception. It’s raw, desperate, full of all the things he can’t say, all the things he’s spent too many years trying to bury. He tastes like gunpowder and whiskey, like violence and something achingly human.

- When he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands on you, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath is ragged, his grip just shy of bruising. “You’re too good for this,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. But you don’t move, don’t pull away, don’t give him the out he’s expecting. Instead, you just tighten your hold on him, anchoring him to something solid. “I don’t care,” you whisper back, and for the first time in a long time, Frank lets himself believe you.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- The motel room is dimly lit, the neon sign outside casting an eerie blue glow against the cracked wallpaper. You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. But you are. Bullseye leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted as he watches you with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “You got a death wish, sweetheart?” he asks, but there’s something almost amused in the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he already knows that you aren’t leaving.

- “If I did, I’d be dead already,” you answer, and that makes him grin, all teeth and danger. He takes a slow step toward you, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Guess you’re tougher than you look.” His fingers brush against yours, a ghost of a touch, but even that is enough to send something electric skittering down your spine. He’s testing you, waiting for you to flinch, to pull away. You don’t.

- And that’s all the permission he needs. His lips crash against yours, all heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. Bullseye doesn’t kiss like a man who loves—he kisses like a man who consumes. His teeth scrape against your lower lip, his hands gripping your waist like he’s daring you to run, like he wants to see just how far you’ll let him go. He tastes like sin, like something forbidden, like trouble wrapped in leather and bad intentions.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide. He runs his thumb over your swollen lip, his smirk laced with something almost possessive. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let you go. He doesn’t want you to. You tilt your head, smirking back at him. “So are you.” And just like that, he’s kissing you again, laughing against your lips like he’s just won something.

MARC SPECTOR (MOON KNIGHT)

- The desert air is cool against your skin, the stars stretching endlessly above you in a sky so dark it feels like you could fall into it. Marc stands beside you, his posture tense, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hasn’t spoken in minutes, but you can feel the war raging inside him, the weight of something he can’t seem to shake. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you say finally, your voice quiet but steady. He exhales a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing,” he mutters. “I do.”

- You step closer, closing the distance between you. “No, you don’t,” you insist, and something in his expression cracks. Marc has spent years running, years convincing himself that he is nothing more than the sum of his mistakes. But here, now, with you, he feels something he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something terrifying. Something real. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.

- And then he kisses you. It’s sudden, desperate, like he’s trying to brand the moment into his memory before it disappears. His hands are firm, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He kisses like a man who’s afraid this is the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. He tastes like dust and exhaustion, like prayers whispered into the void.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmurs. But you just cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “That’s not your call to make.” And when he kisses you again, it’s softer—less like a battlefield, more like a promise.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the pavement slick beneath your boots as you follow Taskmaster through the abandoned lot. His mask hides his expression, but you’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his movements—the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s bracing for something. “You got a habit of walking into trouble,” he mutters, voice edged with something sharp, something protective. “Yeah?” you counter, stepping closer, tilting your head. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you never let me walk alone.”

- He exhales sharply, tilting his head toward you. His mask catches the neon light in slashes of blue and red, making him look almost inhuman. But you know better. You know the man behind the skull, the one who memorizes the way you move, the one who catalogues your tells, your habits, the way your breath hitches when he stands too close. “You keep getting in my head,” he mutters, and there’s something dangerous in the way he says it, something that sounds almost like surrender.

- And then, without warning, he lifts his mask just enough to press his lips against yours. The kiss is firm, deliberate—like a decision made in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, his body a wall of heat and tension and unspoken words. He tastes like adrenaline, like a man who’s spent too long in the dark and doesn’t know how to step into the light. You grip the fabric of his jacket, anchoring yourself to him, and he lets out a quiet, almost frustrated groan, like he hadn’t meant to let himself do this.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is uneven, his mask still lifted just enough to show his mouth, his jaw. He stares at you for a long moment, his fingers still curled against your hip. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fabric of his glove. “Then why does it feel like the best one you’ve had in a long time?” He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh before tugging his mask back down. “Damn you,” he mutters, but when he walks away, he reaches back, just once, and takes your hand in his.

JOHNNY STORM (HUMAN TORCH)

- The rooftop party is in full swing, music pulsing through the warm summer air, laughter spilling over the edge of the building like champagne bubbles. Johnny stands beside you, drink in hand, his usual smirk in place—but there’s something different about the way he looks at you tonight. Less cocky, more searching. He’s used to attention, to adoration, to people flocking to him like moths to an open flame. But you—you don’t just admire him. You see him. And that scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

- “You’re quiet tonight,” he muses, nudging your arm with his elbow. “That’s a first.” You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your smile. “Just taking it all in,” you reply, letting the city lights reflect in your eyes. He watches you like you’re something he’s trying to memorize, something fleeting that he’s afraid will slip through his fingers if he looks away. “You ever think about just… leaving it all behind?” he asks suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “The fame, the cameras, the expectations.”

- And then, before you can answer, he kisses you. It’s sudden, impulsive—because Johnny Storm has never been one for patience, never been one to hesitate when he wants something. His lips are warm, impossibly so, like he’s carrying embers beneath his skin. One of his hands cups the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair, while the other settles against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you like he’s afraid this moment might burn away before he gets to hold onto it.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm summer air. He chuckles, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That was—” he starts, but then he stops himself, grinning. “—about damn time.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he grins even wider before pulling you in for another kiss, because Johnny Storm has never been one for half-measures.

REED RICHARDS (MISTER FANTASTIC)

- The lab is quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional scratch of pen against paper. You sit across from Reed, watching as he scribbles furiously in his notebook, his mind a million miles away. He gets like this sometimes—lost in thought, in theories, in equations only he can fully understand. But tonight, there’s something different. His brow is furrowed, his fingers tapping against the desk in a distracted rhythm. “You’re staring,” he remarks, not looking up.

- “You’re brooding,” you counter, tilting your head. That finally earns you a glance, his sharp eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t brood,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… I’ve been considering something.” You raise a brow, waiting. He hesitates, then stands, moving to stand beside you. “An experiment,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “A hypothesis I need to test.”

- And then, before you can fully process his words, he leans down and kisses you. It’s careful at first—measured, precise, like he’s cataloging every detail, like he’s analyzing the way your lips fit against his, the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers instinctively grip his sleeve. But then something shifts, and the scientist gives way to the man beneath. His arms tighten around you, his hands splaying against your back as he deepens the kiss, no longer thinking—just feeling.

- When he finally pulls away, his gaze is sharp, searching. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. You blink, still catching your breath, and then you laugh. “Did you just kiss me for science?” He smirks, adjusting his glasses. “No,” he says simply, and then he kisses you again, because some things don’t need an explanation.

BEN GRIMM (THE THING)

- The night is quiet, the world softened by the glow of streetlamps and the distant murmur of the city. You sit beside Ben on the park bench, your fingers just barely brushing against his. He’s always careful with you, always so aware of the strength in his hands, the weight of his presence. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air, something unspoken. “Y’know,” he mutters, staring straight ahead. “I ain’t exactly what most people would call… kissable.”

- You frown, turning to face him fully. “That’s not true,” you say, your voice firm. He lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. I ain’t exactly soft.” His voice is gruff, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it, something that makes your chest tighten. “Ben,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. He flinches, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You don’t get to decide how I see you.”

- And then, before he can protest, you kiss him. You feel the moment he freezes, the way his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with this—with you, with the way you touch him like he isn’t something to be wary of. But then, slowly, carefully, he responds. His lips are warm, hesitant, like he’s afraid of breaking you, of breaking himself. His hands tremble slightly as they settle against your waist, his fingers barely curling around you, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

- When you finally pull back, he stares at you, wide-eyed, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. “You… you really mean that, don’t ya?” he murmurs, voice rough. You smile, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah, Ben. I really do.” And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe it.

SUSAN STORM (INVISIBLE WOMAN)

- The evening is quiet, the world outside the Baxter Building hushed under the glow of the city. You sit beside Susan, watching the skyline through the vast glass windows, the lights flickering like stars fallen to earth. She is always composed, always poised, but tonight there’s a restlessness to her—a quiet tension in the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass, the way she exhales just a little too sharply. “I never let myself have this,” she murmurs, and when you turn to her, she’s already looking at you, her blue eyes full of something unreadable.

- You know what she means. Susan Storm carries the weight of leadership, of family, of responsibility. She is the glue that holds everything together, the lighthouse in the storm. But for all her strength, for all her brilliance, there are moments—fleeting, rare—where she lets herself be something else. Something softer. Something just for herself. And tonight, you realize, you are one of those moments.

- She reaches for you, hesitant at first, like she’s testing the shape of the decision she’s about to make. And then, suddenly, she moves—decisive, certain, as if she’s crossed some invisible threshold. Her lips meet yours, warm and insistent, the weight of unspoken things pouring into the space between you. There is something fierce in the way she kisses—something that speaks of restraint finally abandoned, of walls finally lowered. One hand tangles in your hair, the other resting lightly against your cheek, like she’s memorizing the feel of you.

- When she pulls back, her breath is uneven, her eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to fall just a little deeper. “I don’t want to lose myself in this,” she whispers, but you shake your head, touching her face, gentle and steady. “You won’t,” you promise, and something in her melts at the certainty in your voice. She leans in again, this time slower, softer, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your touch.

FELICIA HARDY (BLACK CAT)

- The city belongs to you both tonight, the rooftops your playground, the neon glow painting Felicia in slashes of silver and blue. She moves like moonlight—fluid, untouchable, slipping between the cracks of the world with a smile that’s equal parts mischief and danger. “You’re keeping up,” she teases, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “I’m impressed.” You roll your eyes, but you know she can see the amusement flickering at the corner of your lips. “Maybe I just don’t want to give you the satisfaction of losing.”

- She grins, sharp and knowing, because that’s always been your game—this endless push and pull, this dance on the edge of something electric. You don’t chase Felicia Hardy. You don’t catch her. You match her. And that, more than anything, is what keeps her coming back. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something lower, silkier. “You know what I love about you?” she muses, tilting her head. “You make me want to break my own rules.”

- And then she kisses you, swift and decisive, like a thief taking exactly what she wants. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the heat of her mouth against yours, the way her hands find your collar, tugging you closer as if she’s daring you to keep up. She tastes like adrenaline, like the promise of trouble, like midnight secrets whispered against bare skin. The kiss deepens, slow and teasing, a game in itself—because Felicia Hardy never gives anything away for free.

- When she finally pulls back, her lips are curled into that signature smirk, her fingers still hooked in the fabric of your jacket. “Careful, darling,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement. “I might just steal you next.” But you only smile, catching her wrist before she can slip away. “Maybe I’ll let you,” you murmur, and for the first time in a long time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would feel like to be the one caught.

STEPHEN STRANGE (DOCTOR STRANGE)

- The Sanctum is still, the air heavy with the scent of ancient books and forgotten incantations. Stephen stands at his desk, eyes scanning the open pages of a tome older than memory itself, but his mind is elsewhere. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch against the parchment, the way his jaw tightens as if battling thoughts he refuses to voice. “Something’s on your mind,” you say, stepping closer. His gaze lifts to meet yours, sharp and contemplative. “You,” he admits, and the honesty of it knocks the breath from your lungs.

- Stephen Strange is not a man who loves easily. He is a fortress of intellect and discipline, a scholar of the arcane who has spent lifetimes mastering the impossible. And yet, here he stands, unraveling just slightly in your presence. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing against your cheek in an almost hesitant gesture—like he is tracing the edges of a spell too powerful to fully comprehend. “I was never meant for this,” he murmurs. “For softness. For wanting.”

- And then, like surrendering to something he cannot fight, he leans in. The kiss is slow, deliberate—a study in patience, in precision. His lips press against yours with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing the very essence of you. One hand rests at the nape of your neck, steady and grounding, while the other lingers at your waist, his touch both careful and commanding. He kisses you like he is trying to rewrite fate itself, like he is making a choice that defies every law he has ever known.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his usually composed expression softened in a way few have ever seen. “I should warn you,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. “Nothing in my world is simple.” You smile, reaching up to touch his face, grounding him in something real. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of the impossible.” His lips quirk into something small, something almost reverent, before he kisses you again, sealing the spell between you.

NAMOR (THE SUB-MARINER)

- The ocean sings in the distance, waves lapping against the shore like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Namor stands beside you, the moonlight casting silver across his sharp features, his dark eyes reflecting the vastness of the sea. “This world is fragile,” he says, voice laced with something ancient, something heavy. “It does not deserve you.” You glance at him, at the way he watches you—not with admiration, not with softness, but with something deeper, something possessive. “And yet,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I am here.”

- Namor has never been a man to beg. He does not kneel. He does not ask. He takes what he wants, claims what he deems worthy. But with you, there is hesitation, a silent battle waging beneath the surface of his control. His fingers brush against yours, the slightest touch, but it is enough to set the air between you alight. “You tempt me,” he admits, voice low, almost reverent. “And I have never been a man with much patience.”

- And then he kisses you, fierce and unyielding, like the tide crashing against the shore. His hands settle on your hips, drawing you against him as if daring the world to try and pull you apart. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing—only the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale of breath as he claims you the way he has always wanted to. He tastes like salt and storm, like the very essence of the ocean, like something wild that refuses to be tamed.

- When he finally pulls back, his grip remains firm, his forehead resting against yours as he exhales slowly. “You are mine,” he murmurs, not a question, not a plea—an undeniable truth. And for the first time, you realize you do not mind being claimed, not when it is by him.

JOHNNY BLAZE (GHOST RIDER)

- The desert wind howls through the canyon, a restless spirit caught between sand and sky. The motorcycle beneath Johnny hums like a living thing, its metal frame still warm from the hellfire that lingers in his veins. You sit beside him on the hood of an abandoned car, the silence stretching between you, thick with something unspoken. He isn’t a man of easy words, and neither are you, but there are moments like this—where the quiet speaks louder than any confession ever could.

- He glances at you, the flickering embers of his curse hidden beneath the deep blue of his eyes, and you feel the weight of his stare like a brand. “I don’t get good things,” he mutters, voice rough, shaped by years of regret and roads paved in fire. “Not for long.” You know he means you, means this, the fragile thing growing between you both. And maybe he’s right—maybe fate has already written tragedy into your story—but right now, with the stars burning above and his hand ghosting over yours, you want to defy it.

- He moves before you can answer, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that speaks of desperation, of stolen chances and borrowed time. His hands are warm—almost too warm, like he’s barely holding back the fire inside him—but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time. The kiss is rough, raw, a clash of teeth and longing, and for a moment, you taste the hellfire that runs through his soul. He kisses you like a man who’s already lost everything once and refuses to lose again.

- When he finally breaks away, his breathing is uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if grounding himself in the reality of you. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, but there’s no regret in his voice—only the trembling remnants of a man still learning how to hold onto something good. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and when you speak, your voice is steady, unwavering. “Then we’ll steal it.” A slow smile tugs at his lips, something wild and reckless, and when he kisses you again, it feels like a promise to fight whatever hell comes next.

EDDIE BROCK / VENOM

- The city is a restless thing at night—buzzing, pulsing, alive. You stand on the rooftop beside Eddie, the neon lights casting shadows across his face, the distant hum of traffic filling the space between you. There’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that never quite leaves, the weight of a body that’s never entirely his own. “He likes you,” Eddie mutters, gesturing vaguely to the symbiote that lingers just beneath his skin. “Says I should stop being a coward and kiss you already.”

- A low, amused growl echoes in the back of Eddie’s throat—not entirely his own. “Yes,” Venom rumbles, voice curling through the night air like something alive. “She is ours.” Eddie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but there’s no real annoyance in it. If anything, there’s something close to agreement buried beneath the exasperation. He turns to you, gaze flickering between hesitation and something darker, something unspoken. “You want this?” he asks, voice rough, uncertain. “Me? Us?”

- You don’t get the chance to answer. One moment, you’re staring at him, the city sprawled beneath your feet. The next, Eddie has you pressed against the rooftop ledge, his mouth on yours, his hands tangled in your hair. The kiss is desperate, consuming, an unspoken plea wrapped in heat and longing. And when the symbiote joins, its inky tendrils curling around your skin, it isn’t unwelcome—it’s protective, claiming, a silent promise that you are theirs, that they will never let you go.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. “Too much?” he asks, but you shake your head, fingers still fisted in his jacket. “Not enough,” you murmur, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. Venom purrs in agreement, and as Eddie leans in again, you realize that whatever this is—whatever you’ve become to them—it’s already too late to turn back.

T’CHALLA (BLACK PANTHER)

- The air is thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, the Wakandan night stretching vast and endless above you. T’Challa stands beside you on the palace balcony, his gaze sharp and contemplative as he watches the city below. He has always been like this—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who carries the weight of a nation with grace that borders on impossible. But tonight, he is not just a king. Tonight, he is simply a man, standing beside the one person who makes him forget the weight of his crown.

- “There is a saying in Wakanda,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. “That love is not something taken, but something earned.” He turns to you then, his eyes dark with meaning, with unspoken truths. “I do not take this lightly. I do not take you lightly.” There is something beautiful in the way he says it, in the way he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, to let his guard drop even for a moment. You lift a hand, brushing your fingers along his jaw, and he exhales, his composure faltering just slightly.

- And then, like a tide giving way to the shore, he closes the distance between you. The kiss is slow, deliberate, like the turning of a page in an ancient story. His hands settle at your waist, steady, grounding, as if anchoring himself to the moment. There is no rush, no urgency—only quiet devotion, the kind that lingers, that settles deep in the bones. He kisses you with the weight of a man who has spent his life making careful decisions, and this—this is the one he chooses without hesitation.

- When he pulls back, his fingers trace a slow path along your cheek, his gaze still heavy with something unreadable. “You are my greatest risk,” he murmurs, and you know he means it. Because love, for a king, is always dangerous. But when you smile, pressing your forehead against his, he only exhales softly, as if surrendering to something inevitable. And when he kisses you again, it is no longer with hesitation, but with certainty.

ELEKTRA NATCHIOS

- The rain falls in thin silver threads, washing the city clean in its quiet embrace. You stand beside Elektra on the rooftop, the neon lights below flickering against the wet pavement. She is always beautiful like this—sharp, lethal, untouchable. But tonight, there is something different in the way she watches you, something softer, something almost fragile. “This is a mistake,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away.

- You know what she means. Elektra is not made for gentle things. She is blood and steel, shadow and fury. She has killed men for less than what you make her feel. But even knowing this, even with the sharp edges of her past pressing against the space between you, you do not flinch. Instead, you step closer, watching as something in her gaze flickers—fear, maybe, or something far more dangerous.

- And then she moves, closing the distance between you with a swift, decisive grace. The kiss is not soft. It is not hesitant. It is fire and hunger, teeth and desperation. Her fingers curl into your hair, pulling you against her like she is trying to burn the shape of you into her memory. She tastes like danger, like a storm breaking over the city, like something you should run from but never will.

- When she finally pulls back, her breathing is uneven, her lips slightly parted as if she is about to speak. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses her forehead to yours, the tension in her body slowly unraveling. “You should walk away,” she murmurs, but when you don’t move, when your hand finds hers in the dark, she exhales, defeated. And when she kisses you again, it is not a warning—it is surrender.

MUSE

- The world around you is a canvas, but Muse does not paint in colors meant for beauty. He sculpts in blood, in the echoes of silent screams, in the jagged edges of chaos where meaning is stripped bare. You should not be here—you, with your warmth, your softness, your ability to turn even the void into something full of light. And yet, he lets you stand beside him in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to destroy or to hold.

- "I see you," he murmurs, voice rasping like something broken. His eyes—dark, unreadable, filled with a hunger that has nothing to do with flesh—trace the lines of your face like you are something he will never be able to capture. "I see you in a way I don't see anything else." His art is made of madness, but you, you are the only thing that remains clear in the haze of his unraveling mind. And it terrifies him. It excites him. It pulls him closer, the weight of obsession curling around his ribs like wire.

- His hands move before his mind catches up, fingers ghosting over your jaw as if memorizing the texture of your skin. And then—without prelude, without hesitation—his mouth crashes against yours. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a claim, a signature scrawled in fevered ink, a vow written in the space where language fails. He tastes of copper, of sleepless nights and the sharp tang of something unhinged, but he does not pull away. He drinks you in like a man starved, like an artist who has found his only masterpiece.

- When he finally parts from you, his breath is ragged, uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if trying to anchor himself. "I will ruin you," he whispers, a warning and a promise both. But your hands do not tremble when they pull him back in, when you whisper against his lips, "Then make it beautiful." And for the first time, in a life stitched together by violence, Muse finds himself desperate to create something that will not break.

VICTOR VON DOOM (DR. DOOM)

- The air is thick with the scent of burning embers, the remnants of his latest experiment still crackling in the distance. You stand within the towering walls of Doom’s kingdom, a place where gods are made and broken, where the laws of nature are rewritten by the will of a single man. He watches you with an intensity that borders on divine, his green cloak casting shadows against the molten glow of machinery and magic entwined. Doom does not love like mortals do. Doom does not kneel before lesser emotions. But Doom has chosen you.

- "You are a fool to stand beside me," he muses, voice rich with arrogance, with certainty. "There is no safety in my presence. No mercy. No retreat." He speaks as if this is a warning, as if you have not already chosen to stand in the eye of the storm. You meet his gaze, unflinching, and something in the iron walls of his soul fractures. He does not understand it, this defiance wrapped in something so soft, so steady. He does not understand you. And Doom despises what he does not understand.

- The kiss is not an accident, nor is it impulsive. Doom does nothing without calculation. It is a conquest, a declaration, a moment where even the weight of the world bends to his will. His gauntleted hand cups your cheek, the cool bite of metal a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth against yours. He does not kiss like a man—he kisses like a ruler branding his empire, like a god bestowing a gift upon the only mortal he has deemed worthy. It is overwhelming, intoxicating, and it is absolute.

- When he pulls away, his gaze is unreadable, something ancient and unfathomable lingering in its depths. "You belong to Doom," he states, as if it is law, as if the universe itself would sooner collapse than deny him this truth. And perhaps he is right. For when he kisses you again, you realize that the world has already reshaped itself around his words.

PETER QUILL (STAR-LORD)

- The stars stretch endless above you, the vast expanse of space humming with the quiet melody of a universe still singing itself into existence. Peter leans against the railing of the Milano, his usual bravado dimmed into something softer, something more honest in the quiet glow of starlight. “You know,” he starts, voice lazy, teasing, but edged with something deeper, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

- You roll your eyes, but the truth lingers between you, unspoken but undeniable. Peter has always hidden behind humor, behind cocky grins and deflective quips, but you have learned to read between the lines, to hear the way his voice wavers when he talks about the things that matter. And you—you are one of those things. He won’t say it outright, not yet, but it’s there in the way his fingers drum against his thigh, in the way he leans closer without meaning to.

- "You ever think about how weird this is?" he asks suddenly, gesturing between the two of you. "Like, of all the people in all the galaxies, somehow, it’s us?” There’s something vulnerable in his voice, something almost hesitant. You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Instead, you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in, and for once, Peter Quill is speechless. The kiss is electric, dizzying, like the first rush of a jump through hyperspace. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear into the stars.

- When you finally part, he’s breathless, grinning like a man who just won the greatest jackpot in the galaxy. “Okay,” he says, voice slightly dazed. “Yeah. That was definitely my favorite thing that’s ever happened.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he presses another quick kiss to your lips, just because he can. “You’re in trouble now, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.” And when he pulls you into another kiss, you believe him.

RICHARD RIDER (NOVA)

- The weight of the Nova Force thrums beneath his skin, a power that has shaped and shattered him in equal measure. Richard is used to battles, to the endless war against forces greater than himself. But this? This is different. This is not something he can fight, not something he can outrun. You stand beside him on the edge of a dying world, the stars reflecting in your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s not fighting alone.

- "You make me want to stay," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion, with the kind of honesty that takes more strength than any battle he’s ever fought. He turns to you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. "That’s dangerous." He has spent too long losing people, too long watching the universe take and take until there is nothing left. But you—you are something the universe has given, and it terrifies him.

- The kiss is sudden, but not thoughtless. It is the culmination of something inevitable, something that has been building since the moment he let himself care. His hands cup your face, firm but reverent, as if afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. He kisses you like a man clinging to the last piece of something real, like a soldier who has finally found a reason to return home. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, he feels weightless.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath steadying. “If I could choose anywhere in the universe to be,” he murmurs, “it’d be right here.” His fingers tighten around yours, and as the stars continue their endless dance above, he wonders if, for once, the universe will allow him to keep something good.

[illfoandillfie]

Quality Vs Quantity

Rich Fuckboy Ben Series Masterlist

Pairing: Rich Fuckboy!Ben Hardy x Fem!Reader

Summery:  Spending a day in Ben's hotel room has some unforeseen consequences

Warnings: Basically just fluff with some references to sex - nothing happens on page, Specifically references to oral sex (m receiving) and P in V sex, Rich kid dickishness, hints at dom!reader/sub!Ben but nothing major, discussions of urinary tract infections.

Words: 1,166

A/N: The idea for this one came about because I was rewatching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (for those that are unfamiliar it's a tv comedy series that features musical numbers, its great, highly recommend) and in on episode the main character contracts a UTI and the guy she's been sleeping with sings a song about how he's proud to have been soon good at sex that she needs medication. It's funny and stupid but it did make me think of my favourite rich prick and I had to write something lmao.

(How could I not use this image lmao)

Taglist: @labessieisallama@deakyclicks@jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor@i-cant-hangout-im-drumming@queenmylovely@ilovequeenmorethanyou@johndeaconshands@borhapbois@stardust-galaxies@cherries-n-rocknroll@rogersslave @scorpiogemini

When you’d gone out with Ben you’d figured you’d have a good night letting him be all dominant and then you’d be sent home as soon as he was done, with a slap on the arse and probably some comment about being a whore. You hadn’t expected to still be there the next morning let alone for Ben to get so subby so quickly. You definitely hadn’t anticipated that the night with him would turn into nearly a full day in his bed. But you hadn’t been able to pull yourself away and he seemed reluctant to let you leave. So instead, you’d stayed.  

It was only once you were home (and Bianca had stopped grilling you about your new mystery man, since she had no idea you’d seen Ben again), that you were able to actually think about what had happened. There’d been a surprising amount of kissing when you really thought about it. None of it like how it was when he kissed you in the limo – territorial, cornering you so he could claim you or mark you. It was nicer than that. Sweet and soft and a lot of it had happened when he wasn’t inside you which was maybe the most surprising part. Though, really, the whole thing was definitely unexpected. 

There’d been breaks for room service meals and at one point you’d dozed off whilst laying against his chest, a movie playing on the TV and his fingers playing with your hair. But most of the time had been spent fucking. A, frankly, ridiculous amount of fucking. In all sorts of positions and places throughout the suite, some of it rough, some soft and sensual, all of it very satisfying. Honestly, you couldn’t help but be a little impressed by Ben – his prowess and stamina. But unfortunately, there was unforeseen consequences too, even a couple of days post marathon fuck session.  

You hadn’t planned on telling Ben you probably had a UTI. You’d felt the burning sensation and immediately called your gyno to organise an appointment and on your way home you’d made sure to pick up some cranberry pills and juice to hold you over until then. Ben hadn’t even factored into your thoughts at all except to briefly curse him. And then, out of the blue he’d called.   “You free tonight?”  “Y’know, typically conversations start with some kind of greeting.”  “Hi, Y/N. So are you?”  “That depends. What were you planning?”  “Well something like the other day preferably. There’s more I want to do to you.”  You couldn’t imagine what else he could possibly be thinking of but kept that to yourself in order to tease him a bit, “You must really love being my sub if you’re asking me out again already. Don’t think many girls get invited into your bed a second time and little old nobody me gets a third.”  “I just figured since I got you off so much, the least you could do is suck my cock again.”  You laughed, “Well if a blowjob is all you want then maybe I’ll consider it, but I’m not really up to uhh penetration.”  “Why not? My cock too big for you to handle and now you need a week to recover?”  “No, I just think I have a urinary tract infection so sex is off the table until I can get onto some antibiotics.”  “Soooo,” he stretched the word out thoughtfully, “I wasn’t too far off. You’re pussy just couldn’t handle all the incredible sex.”  You sighed, somewhere between exasperated and amused, “It’s not the quality of the sex and it’s not a comment on your size. It’s just that there was like a lot of sex happening and that led to a very natural transferal of bacteria.”  “No don’t ruin this for me. It’s my huge dick and how good a shag I am, you need medication to cope. It’s actually a complement, so thank you.”  You snorted and heard Ben laugh too.  “But I s’pose that’s a good enough excuse, I’ll let you pay me back some other time. I could probably use a quiet night in anyway.”  “A quiet night? What’s that, only going to one club before you’re newest conquest sees the hotel?”  “Usually yeah,” he chuckled, “but actually I was thinking of staying home and watching TV. Maybe some video games, don’t know yet.”  “Really? You don’t have a model you can call as a plan B?”  “Oh, believe me I have them. I guess I just don’t really feel like it tonight.” There was a short pause and then Ben said, “Believe me, no one is as surprised as I am.”  You had to laugh, but also said, “Well, sounds like it’ll be fun.”  “You could still join me.”  “It’s a tempting offer but I probably shouldn’t. A night on your own will do you some good anyway.”   “Sure it’s not cause I’m so irresistible? Worried you’ll catch a glimpse of my halfie and beg to suck on it?”  “More that I don’t trust you not to talk me into it and I’m still trying to train you to behave.”  Ben gave a soft little whimper that he tried to cover with a cough and you smiled, pleased you could still affect him like that.  

But just when you thought he was being a little predictable, Ben decided to throw you for a loop.   “You are okay though right?  “Yeah,” you said, trying not to sound like you were too taken aback, “I’m fine. UTI’s can become serious if ignored but I’m not ignoring it and they’re pretty easy to treat. I’ll just be out of action or a week or two, no biggie. Unfortunately I had agreed to go with Bianca to a cycling class so I’ll probably have to cancel that. She’ll understand though.”  “Well then let me pay for that. I mean, I assume there’s a cancellation fee.”  “There is but you don’t have to do that.”  “Please, Y/N, if there’s one thing I have, it’s money. It’ll be like losing some loose change in the couch. And...I want to help. I did contribute to your situation after all – y'know, big dick, hot lay, we’ve covered that already. I’d be a prick not to help somehow. Is there anything else I can do? Pain relief or, I don’t know, do you need a lift to the appointment? I could send my car for you.”  You were thrown entirely off balance by how genuine and sweet and un-dickish Ben sounded, “Um no I think I’m all good. It’s really kind of you to offer though.”  “Okay, if you’re sure. But if you need something just let me know. And message me with how much the cancellation costs. And...feel better soon.”  “I will, thanks Ben. Umm, talk soon?”  “Yeah, definitely.”  You were still a little in shock when you hung up, and not at all sure how to break it to Bianca that you might have a crush on the Ben Hardy.

[drreidsconverse]

Manhattan

Ben Hardy x fem! reader

(a/n): been a minute since I've written anything, but I think this could be good? Hoping this gets me back into the writing mood, I also got a MacBook so I'm hoping I can write more on here.

long or short?: short imagine; I MAY elaborate later with a longer story with full detail of how we've gotten here ;)

what kind?: angst

Inspo?: Manhattan by Sara Bareilles (lyrics will be in color and italics)

(a/n 2): I SWEAR i'll write some fluff later, I used a different writing format then normal for this so I probably didn't proof read this lol.

gif by @ificanwriteiscannon

.....

First person POV:

You can can have Manhattan, I know it's for the best,

I packed the last of my things in a duffle bag, a weeks worth of clothes, zipping it quietly.

Hoping- no praying he didn't wake. Next, I grabbed the note and placed it on the table next to our his bed. My sneakers came next, I slip out of our bedroom without disturbing him or Frankie.

Catching a final glimpse of their sleeping forms, Taking in our Manhattan apartment in for a final time.

I'll gather up the avenues and leave them at your doorstep and I'll tiptoe away, so you won't have to say you heard me leave

Ben's POV:

you can have Manhattan cause I can't have you

"-I just feel

as if we've gone two different directions

I am so so sorry

I love you

forever yours.

y/n."

you can have Manhattan ill settle for the beach and sunsets facing westward with sand beneath my feet ill wish wish this away

"What the fuck, what the actual fuck? Sh- she wouldn't just leave, She didn't get all of her things." I tried to rationalize as I paced the living room.

I put my head in my hands as I tried to find a reason for this to be happening, we were happy; Things were perfect, so perfect, and now it's just gone?

I grabbed my phone dialing her number. My thumb hovering over the 'green cell phone' icon. Pressing it I placed the phone next to my ear listing to ringing for the longest, when I finally moved to end the call she answered.

"Hi." Her voice was broken like she'd been crying. I could hear birds behind her with crashes of waves as if she was at the beach. "Hey" My voice somber and small; "Is this really what you want? For us I mean-" I barely finished my sentence before I was crying.

She took few shallow breathes before answering.

"I- I don't know..."

(a/n): I am not responsible for how you feel after reading this because it hurt me too

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Can I request a fluffy Ben Hardy x fem. reader oneshot where it’s his birthday and reader and their 2 year old daughter celebrate Ben’s special day with him?

My Girls

Fandom: RPF, Actor RPF,

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Fem! Reader

Characters: Ben Hardy, Female Reader, Original Female Character, Reader

Word Count: 1036 // Rating: Gen

Summary: Ben gets a birthday breakfast in bed

Tags/ Warnings: Fluff, Requested, Ben Hardy x Reader, Ben Hardy x Fem!Reader, Established relationship, Marriage, Married Life, Long Distance Relationship, Kissing, Kids, Toddlers, Original Child Character

Notes: Hope you like it. I'm looking through my requests and doing some asap. I've been focused on TOEG for a while. @borhapgirlforlife19 [updated 9/22]

As the cup slipped to the edge of the tray Y/N grabbed it wincing as hot tea splashed over her hand. Amelie didn’t seem to notice or care about her mum’s minor burns as she burst into the room screeching, ‘Happy bird-day dada!’ she said walking forward and putting the tray on Ben’s legs which were under the cover on the bed. Ben was sitting watching as his wife muttered what sounded like a swear word under her breath. He held back a chuckle.

‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Ben said grabbing his daughter and heaving her up into his lap peppering her face with kisses which made her giggle. ‘Dada,’ she giggled as Ben started to tickle her, ‘stop it!’ ‘I thought you were asleep,’ Y/N said sitting down on the edge of the bed and sliding the tray onto the flat side of the bed where she put the tea back on the tray. Ben looked up from tickling Amelie and smiled at her, ‘what I was supposed to sleep through the racket of you two making breakfast?’ ‘It wasn’t that loud,’ Y/N chuckled as she passed the plate to him. ‘I was roused by you two walking downstairs. And then completely up at the sound of the electric whisk,’ he said cutting a slice of pancake with the side of his fork with his free hand, ‘how much mess am I walking into?’ ‘Not much, besides I should hope it’s worth it,’ Y/N said as Ben took a bite. ‘Mmm, that is gorgeous,’ Ben mumbled. ‘You like it?’ Amelie said, ‘me and Mumma made them.’ ‘I know you did. They’re very yummy. Thank you, princess,’ Ben said kissing her head. ‘Amelie have some?’ Amelie asked her fingers already grabbing at the raspberries on the side of the plate. Her pink pyjama shirt was covered in batter splashes which made Y/N thank the lord she hadn’t changed her before they made breakfast. ‘Amelie, let Daddy answer before you take one,’ Y/N said. Amelie turned her face up to Ben her blue eyes as large as a Disney Princess’. ‘Of course, you can,’ Ben said, ‘Mumma can even have some too if she plays her cards right.’ ‘You say that like Mumma’s not already had the test pancakes we couldn’t bring up,’ Y/N smirked. ‘Oh like that is it?’ Ben said. ‘Birthday boy deserves the best right?’ Y/N said. ‘Right!’ Amelie giggled making her parents smile.

‘So come on, what’s our plans for the day?’ Ben said. He’d been working up until yesterday and had a long train journey back home that only got him into London near midnight. By the time he had gotten home Amelie was tucked up in bed as was Y/N though she had roused a little when he had slipped in beside her. ‘Um, about that,’ Y/N said, ‘we haven’t really got anything planned. I knew you’d be knackered and I didn’t want to make a big list if you didn’t feel like doing anything. Sorry-’ ‘Don’t apologise,’ Ben chuckled. ‘I mean I should’ve arranged something,’ Y/N said. ‘Honestly babe, it’s not a big deal. I don’t wanna do something big and fancy. Just spending the day with my two favourite girls will do,’ Ben said. ‘You’re a star you know,’ Y/N said. ‘I know,’ Ben smirked, ‘so what should we do?’ ‘I don’t know. You pick,’ Y/N said. ‘Hmm,’ Ben said, ‘what can we do? Amelie, what should we do today?’ ‘Monkeees,’ Amelie said right off the bat. ‘Monkeys?’ Ben said. ‘Monkeeeees,’ Amelie repeated, ‘like George.’ ‘George? Who’s George?’ Ben asked looking at Y/N for an explanation. ‘Nawty Georgie. He’s silly like you Dada,’ Amelie giggled as she oohed and ahhed showing Ben her monkey impression. ‘I think she means Curious George. It’s been on repeat all week. It’s been the only thing she’ll fall asleep to,’ Y/N said with a yawn. ‘More bedtime standoffs?’ Ben sighed. Y/N nodded. Amelie was always the same whenever Ben was away. The longer it was the worse she seemed to be. ‘Yeah,’ Y/N sighed but before she could say anything more Amelie repeated herself, ‘monkeeees Dada we go see the monkeeeeeees.’ ‘I think you mean the zoo baby. That’s where the monkeys are,’ Ben said. ‘We can see George?’ Amelie asked excitedly. ‘Yep, now come on you. Let Daddy eat his breakfast in peace while we get ready for the zoo eh?’ Y/N said standing up and scooping her daughter up and placing her onto her hip. As she turned to leave Ben grabbed her spare hand and kissed it. She allowed him to and then she placed her hand on his cheek and stroked it for just a moment. That was until Amelie started tugging on her top her excitement about the monkey’s not waning the longer she was made to wait.

‘Okay Ami I’m coming,’ Y/N said rolling her eyes as she walked to the door. ‘Guess I better eat fast eh?’ Ben said. Y/N turned for a moment to look at him. ‘Can’t keep the monkeys waiting,’ Y/N said, ‘besides faster we go faster we get back. And faster you can open your present.’ ‘Oh? Can’t I open it now?’ Ben said. ‘You’re as impatient as her,’ Y/N chuckled before she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘and no you can’t. Let’s just say your present isn’t suitable to be unwrapped in front of just anyone.’ ‘No?’ ‘No and you better hope this kid of yours goes down easy tonight,’ she said and then she carried her daughter out of the room. Ben smiled as he watched them go even more so as he heard his daughter's babbles trail off as they got to their room.

He didn’t need a birthday fuss. He just needed his girls.

[rosesvioletshardy]

ben hardy masterlist

fics

* indicates smut

life as we know it (FINISHED) (55.2K words) (series)

- prologue, chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3*, chapter 4, chapter 5,

chapter 6, chapter 7, chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, chapter 11

chapter 12*, chapter 13, chapter 14, chapter 15

quarantine headcanons

interviews

charlie’s birthday

6 underground

Can We Do It? (series) (DISCONTINUED)

- prologue, chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4*, chapter 5,

chapter 6*, chapter 7, chapter 8

imagines

ben hardy 

who cares about what they think

that’s not my name

take my shoes 

L.O.V.E.

tummy love

period pains 

i’m sorry

glasses are the best

lies

Frank McCullen

you what now?

just like old times*

[hardydrabbles]

Need A Hand? | Ben Hardy

Word Count: 565

Warnings: SMUT (18+), fingering, oral sex, dirty talk

a/n: i really don’t know what this is but let me know what your thoughts are.

-

After a warm shower, you laid on your bed scrolling through your phone. Your flatmate, Ben posted on his instagram story. The sexual tension between you and him was thick whenever you were in the same room and lately you couldn’t help yourself around him. You decided to view what he posted, it was a picture of him in the gym wearing a black tank top and gray sweatpants. He was sweaty, his toned biceps were showing and the vein he had on his arms was enough to get you wet. 

Clenching your thighs, your mind wandered thinking of all the things he would do to you. You put away your phone and sneaked a hand down your panties. You teased yourself by rubbing circles on your clit, imagining it was Ben’s thick fingers. Your trailed your finger to your aching entrance, slipping one it in. Slowly pumping it in and out of yourself. 

“Fuuuck Ben” you wanted more so added another finger and occasionally flicking your clit pretending it was Ben’s mouth on you wrapping it on the sensitive nub.

“Need a hand with that?” you jumped at his voice, he was at your doorway smirking.

“Oh please don’t stop at my expense” Ben cocked his head towards your hand in your panties.

You threw a pillow at him “fuck off, perv”.

“No I’m serious. My name sounds fucking good when you moan it.” you bit your lip as he inched closer towards you.

His fingers traced the hem of your shorts “is this okay?” you nodded and that was all he needed to strip you off your clothes from the waist down. You felt a wave insecurity wash over you as he knelt down to position his face in between your thighs.

“Baby you’re beautiful” he reassured you. You felt his breath on your aching heat.

He gripped your waist and you moaned at the contact of his tongue to your pussy. His mouth covered the entirety of it while he dragged his tongue back and forth, lapping all your juices.

“Fuck Ben, that’s it” your hand flung to his hair as he flicked his tongue against your clit.

He continued to suck hard on your clit while sinking a finger in your entrance. His finger explored your walls, thrusting in and out of you slowly. 

He pulled off of your pussy, his pink lips glistening with your juices “You taste so fucking good.” he plunged back to eating you out.

You were a moaning mess and your hips bucking wildly towards his face, wanting more. Ben caught on to your need and inserted another finger in you, pumping in and out at a faster rate.

“shit!” you whined as he curled his finger hitting your g-spot. His plump lips sucked as hard as he could on your clit. His breathed heavily as his fingers continued going in and out of you. You were wildly twitching, feeling the pit of your stomach begin to coil. You clenched tightly on his fingers. 

“oh fuck ben!” you cried out in pleasure as you came on his mouth. Ben’s movements faltered then slowly pulled out his fingers and raised it to his mouth.

“You taste fucking amazing, baby” He rose from his position, his fingers hooked on the waistband of his gray sweatpants, his erection visible  “Now, I think I need a little hand with this.” 

[likesomekindofcheese]

The BEN-nefits of Fake Dating

Hello! @littlespoiltthing​ it is I!!! Your Secret Santa revealed! Here is a one shot I wrote (with a title inspired by @littlespoiltthing​ ‘s own beautiful work) for @dtfrogertaylor​‘s Christmas Event. Enjoy everyone!!

Pairing: Ben Hardy x fem!Reader

Words: 2412

Warnings: Families, kissing, swearing, Christmas, grandparents, and parents being grandparents and parents. Sex, engagement, and kids are mentioned, nudity but nothing graphic. Plus a LOT was inspired by the Hallmark movie Holiday Engagement

Genre: Fluff and a bit of Angst!

“If I have to see you single again on another Christmas, I’ll jump off a bridge!” your grandmother whined over the phone. You sighed deeply, out of reach of the phone on the speaker in your hand.

“She’s joking, of course!” your mom interjected.

Yeah right, with another year and another ring less finger in the midst of an Instagram feed full of clean, French manicures with the largest diamonds sparkling on the left hand with two billion likes, you had had it. Especially since a lot of those clean, French manicured hands of yours with large sparkling diamonds on the left hand with two billion likes were in your family.

So now every head that was female and greying turned to you in anticipation. And every holiday, from their wrinkled, pink lips and their hot breath full of peppermint came the dreaded question with the monotone, dreaded answer.

Then came Ben.

Charming. Funny. Smart. Single. Ben.

He sat in your car on the passenger side and his eyes widened at your grandmother’s comment.

“Oh, I just want you to be happy, dear! And know you’re taken care of!”

Your grandmother forgot to recall the new world of college degrees, Netflix nights with friends, job choices, and vibrators to think a man could possibly be in the picture for women in the 21st century.

This was where Ben came in. Especially his job for the next week.

Ben clicked his tongue a little and bit his lips in a way that almost made you miss the turn.

He reached over the clicked the red button on the phone to end the call.

“Well, she’s a little mad.”

“She’s mad for babies, that’s what. I think she just wants babies to play with without changing diapers or, you know, responsibility” you said.

“Maybe I should’ve brought a dog, then” Ben quipped.

It was ideal. But too ideal. Ben and you were friends. Just. Friends. No matter what your stomach felt. No matter what fantasies you had at night. Just friends.

But it was nice to live that fantasy for a week. Merry frickin’ Christmas.

You pulled the car over to the park and walked into the big house. Already a lot of your family had entered in and were having drinks in red cups as a sports game blared on the tv as opposed to nice Christmas music tinkling away.

“Oh, honey, welcome!” your mother greeted, walking in with a big hug, the red arms of her red sweater outstretched.

“And is this your boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes, I’m Ben, Ben Jones.” He greeted. He had a polite smile and had engaged in his role. Today’s audition he had to read the role of boyfriend to shut up the Karens for a week. Only no real script except what was discussed, and pure improv. Good thing he was paid to leap off of trucks and shoot fake guns for Micheal Bay.

How hard could it be? After all hard was his name. His stage name.

Your grandmother gawked at you.

“Oh my gosh! What a cutie! I haven’t seen a butt that perky since your grandfather in ’72!” “Grandma!” you gasp, but giggling anyway.

You hug your mom very tightly, so much you can smell her. Ben merely gives her a platonic handshake.

But Ben handles being the dutiful boyfriend very well. People go over and drill questions into him. He hesitates a little and then replies quietly.

“So Ben, what job do you have.”

“I’m an actor, film, and television.”

Though one cousin of yours, who is at least six foot five and the size of a buffalo storms over, almost to Ben’s face. If it were not for the reindeer antlers hanging from his head, you probably would have been nervous.

“I’ll tell you Jonesey, my cousin, Y/N, is the sweetest, smartest, best girl ever.”

“I know! I wouldn’t be datin’ ‘er if she wasn’t!” Ben replies. His hands shoot out in front of him.

You can feel yourself biting your cheek insides in order not to smile.

Your cousin practically grabs him by the shirt collar and lifts him almost.

“If you break her heart or hurt her, I swear to God, man, I’ll cut your nuts off!”

“I-I won’t!” Ben insists being lowered to the ground.

But right as Ben turns around and sees your brother and you feel your stomach turn a little. Are your family members ganging up on poor Ben?

But he just nods his head and says “I think you seem like a nice guy, Ben, so ditto. But Y/N is a tough cookie, I trust you with her. And I trust her” he adds, he picks up his mug in the shape of Frosty the Snowman and lifts it as a toast in your direction.

Pretending to be dating was almost too easy. Natural, even.

It seems like forever, but the guests eventually filter their way out. Your family sighs deeply Your stepfather throws himself on the couch, almost melting into it.

“Well somebody has to pick up the dogs tomorrow…”

You can see Ben’s face light up.

“Dogs?” Ben interrupts, widening into the smile of a seagull offered a crumb of bread.

Your mom is a little taken aback.

“Uhm, yes…we have two German Shepherd puppies. We had to put them in a daycare center for the party. They’re cute, but a little rowdy,” she warned, shuffling her feet.

You have to hold Ben back from jumping into the car and picking them up now.

“I’ll go, why, I’ll even drive!”

“Well, thank you, Ben!”

“Anything for my best…”

You kick him softly into the back of his leg, threating harder later if he doesn’t keep it together.

“Anything for my best girl! That is! The best girlfriend ever!”

The night gets darker and everyone is exhausted from the greeting party.

“You guys are fine sharing a bed, is that right? Well, the only bed available is Y/N’s old bed…” your stepfather begins.

You are both muttering and Ben’s turning very pink.

“Yes, Dad! We are thinking about moving in, soon, so sharing a bed isn’t a problem.”

But you both head to the room, lock the door and sigh.

“This is gonna be harder than I thought.” You confess.

“I think we’re doing great!” Ben adds optimistically, looking around at the trinkets and clothes left on hangers and chairs in your room. “And we don’t have to sleep together, I brought an air mattress.”

Fighting the urge to wince from the comment, you begin chewing your bottom lip.

“I need to go to bed, when do you shower? There’s only two up here.” You suggest, fanning out your top from the sweat you gathered.

“Mornin” Ben added, noticing an old book on your shelf and curiously thumbing through it.

As you take some towels and walk off, you bump into your mother getting a laundry basket.

“Do you think they liked the cake I made?” she asked.

“Oh, they definitely did!” you assure.

“I just think I may not have put enough icing, you know the family always goes for the heavy sweet stuff”

“Oh, mom, your baking is always great! Fyi, Ben got a really big slice today if that’s a sign!” you tease.

She taps your shoulder lovingly.

“And how’s your relationship with Ben going?”

You pull your hands under the towel and squeeze.

“It’s…good mom, really good.”

“It’s just that today I noticed you didn’t hug or hold hands or kiss that much” she murmured, relaxing her arms so that the empty laundry basket seemed to dangle from her grasp.

“We wanted to be respectful. You wouldn’t want to see your daughter making out with a guy all evening, would you!”

Your mother’s eyes sparkled as if hesitant to give you an unexpected answer.

“Well, of course not!”

“Besides,”  you say, turning to the bathroom and opening the door “he’s the kind of person who’d rather be private about touchy stuff, you know?”

Your mother hums in understanding and turns off to her room.

A warm homey shower and a nice bedtime routine got you all settled. Cleanliness of your body and mouth seemed to free you from the weariness of the social demands and your mental worries of what could go wrong.

But there was one more thing that did go a little wrong. When you walked back into your room Ben was lifting the blanket to get into the air mattress.

In his birthday suit.

You let out a scream and turned away immediately, not sure whether to be thankful or mortified or both. Ben saw you and let out a small yelp as well, he grabbed an old pillow and put it right over his junk. His whole head turned pink.

“I’m so sorry. You were taking your time and I thought I’d be under by the time you…y’know!!!” He seemed to curl down and you fought the powerful urge not to let your eyes wander to his eight-pack.

“Just put on some underwear for the love of God!”

You manage to get him in underwear and your mother's fluffy pink robe full of flowers. Almost scoffing, you flop on your bed and fall asleep almost at once.

What you don’t see is Ben turning his head to look at you. He can’t go to sleep quite yet. Thoughts are racing thought his head far too fast for him to catch one and examine it.

Being in your room, seeing all your old trinkets, clothes, books, and even toys everywhere. Bits of your personality shine out to him. And now a younger, but your deeper, almost private self is now all around him.

He adores it and his heart is bursting silently. With widening eyes, he keeps still on the bed and observes each tiny detail as if it is a clue to reveal a bit more about you.

And there you are, your face turned right to face his, eyes closed and deep asleep. He admires how there’s a bit of moonlight from the window falling on you and he can see you.

There you are so close. If he got up now, he could touch your hand perhaps and even stir. He could place his head against your heart to feel how after everything today that it’s beating just, so, so slow. Your lips are curved into a smile. Is it a dream, perhaps? His hand almost reaches out, wanting to trace every bit of your face but he stops himself.

He nestles down on the pillow and your face is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and drifts off into uneasy rest.

Nights like these got quieter as the days got repetitive. There was a lot of smiling and conversing with each other in the day and in the evening, you both would be quiet. The air dripping with words that wanted to be said and yet could not be said for fear of something dying.

One evening the clock had struck one in the morning and neither one of you had gotten any sleep other than tossing and turning.

“Let’s just watch Christmas movies together!” Ben suggests childishly, and you nod. You two will sneak downstairs and watch The Grinch and Netflix together. One evening, Ben suggested The Snowman.

“It’s on Youtube, have you ever seen it?”

“No!”

“Let’s watch it!” Ben says, whipping out his phone and suggesting you scoot over.

It’s hard not to let your head fall on his shoulder and you force yourself to keep the slightest distance.

At the very end of the short little feature, the magical Snowman had melted, leaving the little boy alone in the snow as the credits rolled over a soft song with an orchestra and boy soprano.

Ben was bawling quietly.

“Oh my god…every bloody time…”

But as you reach over, you wipe off the tears and he looks right at you. You are both quiet.

“Go back to sleep, I need to have a smoke before I sleep.”

It had been a long smoke too.

On Christmas Eve, it was another small gathering. Mainly Grandma. She was eyeing you two as if she was watching the last five minutes of a Game of Thrones episode for any sudden, shocking twist or turn.

Like a kiss. Or a hug.

Ben could tell something was up and pulled up to her. “Well hello there, I’m Ben Jones, I don’t think I’ve talked with you much yet, but I’m dating your granddaughter.”

She nodded and gigged. Her eyes shone and brought energy not felt for about fifty years

“I know, we haven’t talked!” she replied, raising her shoulders a little in shyness.

“And I can’t leave a lovely lady all by herself!” Ben added with a wink.

You smiled. Ever the charmer where it counted.

You went over to the kitchen and heated up two mugs of hot milk and picked tow packets of hot chocolate.

But as you walked over to hand them to Ben right by the doorway there was a sudden burst of “OOOOOOOHHHHH!” from your brother.

There was mistletoe hanging over the two of you.

Mistletoe that wasn’t there yesterday.

You and Ben stared at each other, blinking. Then you looked at your grandmother, eyes wide and nodding.

You gave him a short peck. His lips were cold and reeked of onions from the pizza you ate, but it was soft and plump.

Ben looked back at you, dazed. You only half heard the cheering from everyone and the toasts.

You both looked at each other, the party went on, but it was as if you two were the only ones in the world.

“Y/N…” he starts….”I think I need some air…” he confesses.

“Me too…” you say, following after.

You both rush, the air is cool and soft, not freezing like the typical Christmas Eve and with a disappointingly green front yard in front of you and a semi-clear sky.

Before you can say anything, Ben looks up at you shyly.

“Can I kiss you properly? And date you proper? Not for fake…”

You take your hands on each side of his face, his green eyes grow to the size of your neighbors' bushes.

“Uhm…it that a yes? It was a pretty bad kiss back…”

“Shut up” you insist before locking your lips onto yours for a much bigger improvement.

[michelle-is-writing]

Sick, Ben Hardy

Word Count: 1.2k~

Saturday nights are always date nights for me and Ben. No matter what, we always go out and do something fun together. We'll go to dinner, watch a movie, see a game, anything that sounds like a good time. We always make an effort, and nothing ever stops us from spending time together.

However, as I lay in my bed with nonstop nausea filling my throat and stomach, I feel the need to cancel for tonight. During the seven months that we've been dating, neither of us have ever canceled a Friday night, and that's always something I love about us. Once again, we always make time for each other, so when I think about calling Ben and saying I can't go tonight, I feel even worse.

Reluctantly pressing the green button on Ben's contact, I hold my phone up to my ear and listen to the ringing tone as I wait for him to pick up. As more seconds pass, I find myself trying to hug my blankets as close to me as I can while my body begins to shiver. This stomach pain is starting to cause me to feel cold as well, and it sucks.

"Hello, darling," I hear Ben's voice pick up after the second ring, making me smile. I always love hearing his voice. It carries this tone of protection in it that gives off a feeling of happiness at the same time. "Are you ready for our date?"

At his question, I close my eyes and swallow down the guilt that rises to my throat as my smile lowers into a frown. He sounds so happy - excited, almost. Do I really have to take that away from him? All because of something that could probably be treated with medicine?

As soon as the thought of maybe suffering through the pain and going on a date, another stomach cramp pushes into me, making me almost hunch over in my bed to get through the pain. "Actually, Ben," I start, my free arm wrapping around my stomach as the stinging sensation passes. "I was calling to tell you that I can't come," I explain, my ears almost catching the sound of his heart breaking through the phone speaker. "I think I caught food poisoning from my friend's food at dinner we went to the other night."

"I ate it, and I seem fine," He tells me, his words making me shake my head with an amused smile.

"That's because you have an iron stomach, Ben," I joke, hearing him chuckle on the other end. "And, besides, if you can eat your own cooking, then you can eat practically anything."

"Oi!" Ben dramatically exclaims as if my words hit him with a punch. I laugh at his silliness. "Such harsh and hurtful words from the woman I love!" He further chides as I clench my already hurting stomach from laughing. He soon joins in on the laughing before speaking once more. "But that's alright love. I understand you're not feeling well. I love you! And I'll be over in ten minutes."

Just as quick as he said his last words, he hangs up, leaving me to stare across the room with wide eyes as my phone remains resting in my hand, Ben's picture flashing once before the screen goes dark. Did he really just pull a fast one on me? Just like that?

While thinking about Ben, yet another wave of nausea rolls over me, causing me to turn onto my side with my knees close to my chest, a pained groan escaping my lips at the same time. What if this isn't food poisoning, and it's something contagious, and I accidentally give it to Ben? It's not that I don't want him coming over (I'm glad that he is), but the last thing I want to do is make him sick as well.

For what feels like an eternity, I lay on my sides, switching between the two when another cramp comes along. It isn't long before I hear keys being inserted into my front door, twisting and turning before the piece of wood opens and closes a few short seconds later. Footsteps sound throughout my tiny apartment until my bedroom door gently opens, a head full of blond hair and shining blue eyes staring back at me as I smile from my current predicament on the bed.

"There she is," Ben says with a sweet smile. Wearing a plain grey t-shirt and black sweats, he takes one step into my room before happily sighing. "And just as beautiful as ever."

Blushing, I roll my eyes and flop onto my other side to dramatically turn my back to him, only receiving a laugh back before I feel his warm body settle behind my cold one. As soon as he touches me, it's as if all of my nausea and cramping dissipate, the warmth from his body acting as a heating pad for my achey body.

Ben wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to his body as he kisses my temple, his lips soft and warm like fresh pastries. At his sweet affection, I smile even more and raise my hands to rest on top of his, only for him to interlock our fingers together. Even when I'm sick and not able to do the things we usually do, he's still the best boyfriend I could ever ask for.

"Would you like me to make you some soup?" Ben asks, leaning down to nuzzle his face in my neck. Underneath the covers, his legs intertwine with mine, bringing me just enough warmth to stop shivering so bad.

"No, just lay here with me, please," I tell him, snuggling my body further in his hold as a soft sigh escapes my lips. There's nothing better than lying in the arms of the person you love - especially if they're a natural heater.

"Oh, and like I said earlier," I begin, remembering our earlier conversation. "Your cooking is something special," I remind Ben with a smirk, listening as he snickers behind me. Okay, maybe there's nothing better lying in the arms of your boyfriend and teasing him for his helpless qualities.

"I can put on a video or something, go off of that," Ben suggests, leaning his head over mine to cuddle closer to the front of my neck. "Or, I could be safe and just order something," he offers, making me smile.

"That would be nice," I tell Ben, nodding my head. Just as he goes to get up to grab his phone presumably, I tug him back down and snuggle even further into him. "In five minutes, of course," I clarify, hearing him snicker behind me again.

With a simple "okay," Ben gets himself comfortable once more before resuming holding me close. I guess no matter what, Saturday nights will always be our night and not even a stupid stomach bug can stop that.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

That’s My Boy

Headcanon - Daddy!Ben Hardy x fem!Reader

Words: 836

Summary: From the moment you’d surprised Ben of your pregnancy to the present moment, had you not once ever doubted his life as a father. 

Warnings: fluff, mentions of pregnancy, swearing, time jumps (***), (Y/S/F/N) = your son’s first name

A/N - so this is my FIRST EVER IMAGINE for Ben, and I’m so keen to write some more. I fell for him instantly after watching Bohemian Rhapsody and now ya girl just can't get enough... My ass really does belong to him. Sorry if this is shit and short too, I just felt the sudden urge to write for him real quick and this is all I want in life right now, so enjoy :) xx

The moment you had revealed to Ben that you were pregnant, he’d grown ecstatic like you'd never seen before. 

He’d just finished filming for Bohemian Rhapsody, and so it felt like perfect timing.

And that was the greatest relief. 

His reaction towards you being pregnant, was everything you’d ever hoped for.

He was incredibly supportive, keen and most importantly he was devoted, just as he'd always been since the start of your relationship. 

He had his fleeting moments of doubt of course, here and there, just as you had throughout the progression of your pregnancy. 

He had doubted that he was going to be the perfect father figure in his mind, that he had always envisioned. 

“Babe, I really can’t handle the pressure that if I screw up just this once if-” 

“Ben, sweetie, you could never. This child, our son-” Taking his hand in yours as you guided it over, letting it gently rest over to your protruding bump, you’d witnessed the fleeting moment his eyes ignited with shock. 

“W-We’re having a boy?” His deep voice broke. 

“Yes,” You whispered back, your smile growing on your face, accentuating your glow even more that Ben would never stop boasting about. 

“I can't believe it...We’re going to have fucking a son!” He repeated, staring off into space, before bounding over towards you, his strong arms embracing your body before realising just how careful he needs to be from now with you.

“Oh, god! Sorry babe...Still getting used to now being so rough around you.” 

The smug bastard that he is, he winks and you know exactly what he's referring to...*cough cough* sex (cause he definitely is DOM). 

***

The birth of your son, (Y/S/F/N) Hardy, could not have been more perfect. Undoubtedly it was exhausting, and at the very least, it was excruciating, although with the outcome of it all: delivering a healthy baby boy, with Ben by your side throughout it, you wouldn't of wanted it any other way. 

“He’s gorgeous,” Ben sincerely uttered, gently stroking his newborn’s face, despite him crying ever so loudly, as you cradled him protectively in your arms... It seemed your motherly instincts were already beginning to kick in. 

“Already seems to take after his father, hm?” 

***

It had been a year since you’d given birth, and your son was already 1. 

It was a quiet night in, and you could confidently say that both Ben and you had now completely adjusted to the life of parenthood. 

It was perfect: your life was beyond everything you could have ever wanted or imagined. 

You were in the career of your life, that now was currently on hold as your time now was currently preoccupied with being a full-time mother, you had found and now lived beside the love of your life, and from that you both had extended that love into the little being that was your son. 

As you stood in the kitchen, preparing some popcorn, snacks and tea for your traditional movie nights, you'd taken the moment to study Ben and your son. 

With each passing day, he’d become more and more alike with his father...Appearance wise, of course. 

He had the same lips, same smile, same nose, and the same damn mesmerising blue eyes you’d become ever so captivated by. 

The only difference was, was that he had your (h/c) hair. 

You watched with a smile beaming on your face, as Ben laid down on the couch, holding his son firmly in his hands, holding him high above his face, as he pretended he was soaring through the air. 

“Look at you go, (Y/S/F/N)!!!” 

And by the ecstatic look on your son’s face, as his laughs echoed through the room, he was having the time of his life. 

“Landing, landing and he has landed!!!” Ben roared, as he gradually sat his son on his stomach, in return his son let out a little giggle, one that filled both your hearts with joy. 

“What’s taking Mummy so long, hm?” 

As soon as your son heard the word “Mummy” his eyes in sync with Ben’s turned towards you in the kitchen. 

“Just waiting for the tea, Bubba!” 

“Come on, say hello to Mummy, go on,” Ben eagerly encouraged his son, as he nudged his son’s hand away from his drooling mouth. 

“H-Halllooo-” Your son cooed, before instantly turning back to Ben, hastily becoming distracted by the print on his father’s shirt.

“God he’s going to be a genius-”

“That he got from me,” You retorted, as you cock your brows, cheekily staring up at Ben, who had a smug look on his face, whilst you poured the tea into your cups. 

“Is that so?” He cockily insisted, as he bounced his son on his lap, whilst still focusing on you.

“Absolutely! He mostly has taken after your looks, which only leaves me to say that he’ll take after my personality.” 

“We’ll see about that...Isn’t that right, Bubba?” 

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Reply to anon: As promised...your little Catholic boy. I spend my days writing to keep my mind off my surgery. I'm a really anxious person, so I have to fill my head with my pleasures (my fandoms). So the requests will come out quickly, I'm happy and you're happy... win win. Thank you for all your requests and support. LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH ♡

Peter Parker

- Peter Parker has been kissed before. He has known the warmth of affection, the giddy rush of young love, the slow ache of something deeper. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment your lips press against his, sudden and unannounced, shattering the rhythm of his thoughts like a lightning strike in the middle of a quiet night. His brain short-circuits instantly.

- His body reacts before his mind does, his breath catching, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to hold you or simply let himself drown in the moment. There is a fleeting second of hesitation, a half-formed thought that this must be some kind of dream, some cruel trick played by the universe. But your warmth is real, your presence undeniable. The city fades around him, the constant hum of responsibility momentarily silenced beneath the press of your lips.

- When you finally pull away, Peter blinks—once, twice—like he’s trying to process what just happened. Then, without warning, his face erupts into a deep crimson flush, spreading down to his neck like wildfire. “Oh,” he breathes out, voice slightly strangled. “Okay. Cool. That was… um. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Was that, like, a scientific experiment? Because if so, I volunteer for more data collection.”

- Despite the awkward attempt at humor, his hands are still trembling, his pupils blown wide with something raw and unspoken. And then, after a moment of hesitation, his fingers curl around yours, his grip steady despite the lingering nerves. “But, uh… just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, voice softer now, more certain, “if you ever wanna do that again, you won’t have to catch me off guard next time.”

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark has spent a lifetime mastering control. He anticipates every possible scenario, every variable, every consequence. His mind is a constant whirlwind of calculations, solutions, contingencies. But when you kiss him—when you seize the moment and steal his breath away with no warning, no preamble—his mind goes completely, utterly blank. For the first time in years, there is no plan. No exit strategy. Just you.

- His body reacts on instinct, hands coming up to grasp your waist, a sharp inhale against your lips. But it’s not just the physical contact that undoes him—it’s the fact that you did it at all. That you, beautiful and untouchable in a way he never dared to hope for, have chosen him in this moment, with no ulterior motive, no expectation. It is not a conquest. It is not a game. It is real. And Tony Stark has never known how to handle real.

- When you finally break away, his lips are still parted, his usually sharp tongue momentarily silenced. Then, ever so slowly, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, something dangerous and delighted and entirely Tony. “Well, well,” he muses, his voice a low hum. “That was unexpected. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But, uh, you might wanna be careful, sweetheart. You kiss me like that, and I might just start thinking you like me.”

- And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something softer, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger against your skin, in the way his expression shifts—just for a fraction of a second—into something almost reverent. Because the truth is, he is already lost. And if you kissed him again, he wouldn’t just let you—he’d make damn sure you never stopped.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers is used to the world moving too fast around him. Time slips through his fingers like sand, people come and go like ghosts, and every moment is a reminder of just how much he has lost. But when you kiss him—when you break through the steady, predictable rhythm of his days with something as sudden and undeniable as your lips against his—it is the first time in a long, long while that he feels truly, absolutely present.

- He freezes at first, caught between instinct and shock, but it lasts only a second. Then, without thinking, his hands find your waist, steadying you both as though the moment itself is something fragile, something sacred. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a deep, resounding drumbeat that he swears you must be able to hear. And when he finally exhales, it is not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something like surrender.

- When you pull back, his blue eyes are searching, tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t joke or tease or stumble over his words. Instead, he simply watches you, memorizing every detail of the moment, committing it to memory as if he is afraid it will slip away. And then, at last, he lets out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. “You really do like keeping me on my toes, don’t you?”

- But there is warmth in his voice, something gentle and unshaken. And then, after a moment, he does something you don’t expect—he leans in again, slower this time, deliberate. His lips brush against yours, and this time, he is the one who takes control. And when he pulls away, his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, a small smile playing at his lips, “next time, I won’t let you take me by surprise.”

Thor

- Thor Odinson has been kissed before. He has known the passion of warriors, the devotion of gods, the fleeting tenderness of mortals who looked upon him with awe. And yet, when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without hesitation, without prelude—it is not reverence that he feels, nor expectation. It is something deeper, something that sinks into his very bones. It is you.

- There is a moment of stillness, as if the entire world holds its breath. Then, with a deep, rumbling exhale, he reacts—not with hesitation, not with shock, but with the full force of a man who has never done anything by halves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm yet careful, as if you are something both fierce and fragile, something he is terrified of losing.

- When you pull back, he does not release you immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he simply exists in the aftermath of what you have done. Then, with a slow, wolfish grin, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with something unmistakably pleased. “Ah,” he rumbles, his voice thick with amusement, “so the battle has begun, then?”

- And before you can question him, before you can even think, he leans in once more—this time with purpose, with certainty. His lips claim yours in a way that is both a challenge and an offering, a promise and a declaration. And when he finally pulls away, his fingers trail down your spine, his grip unwavering. “A warning, my beloved,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You have started something you may not wish to finish.” But the way he holds you—the way his touch lingers, possessive and warm—tells you that, in truth, he is hoping you never do.

Loki

- Loki is a creature of calculation, of control wrapped in silver-tongued deception. He reads people like poetry, anticipates betrayals before they are spoken, dissects affections before they can wound him. But when your lips find his—without warning, without preamble—it is the first time in centuries that someone has truly caught him off guard. His breath halts, body rigid, as if the universe itself has shifted beneath him.

- He does not pull away. He does not return it immediately, either. Instead, he remains perfectly still, sharp eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on dangerous. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mind, the war between disbelief and hunger, between skepticism and the undeniable thrill of being wanted without agenda. And then, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, something dark and pleased blooming in his expression. “Interesting,” he muses, voice velvet-smooth, though there is an unmistakable edge of breathlessness beneath it.

- When you move to step back, he does not allow it. A hand—cool, firm, deceptively gentle—curls around your wrist, anchoring you in place. “You think you can best me in my own game, little one?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every syllable. “That you can steal a kiss and escape unscathed?” His voice is teasing, but there is something else beneath it—something raw, something aching, something that trembles on the edge of longing.

- And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, he leans in once more. This time, there is no hesitation, no caution. His lips claim yours in a way that is both challenge and surrender, fire and ice melting together in something neither of you can quite name. And when he finally pulls away, his thumb traces the edge of your jaw, his smirk lazy yet predatory. “You are playing a dangerous game, darling,” he whispers. “And I do hope you intend to see it through.”

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has been trained to anticipate the unexpected. He is a man who survives on instinct, who sees what others miss, who never lets his guard down—not truly. But when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his without warning, without prelude, it is the first time in years that someone has managed to slip past his defenses. And it floors him.

- His breath stutters, muscles tensing as if expecting some kind of punchline, some cruel joke at his expense. But then—then—your hands brush against his jaw, gentle, grounding, real. And suddenly, the world feels quieter. The weight of it all—the missions, the past, the scars that never quite fade—momentarily lifts, leaving nothing but the steady, warm press of your mouth against his. And for once, he lets himself sink into it.

- When you finally pull away, he blinks as if shaking off a haze, lips parted in something like disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face—lazy, crooked, entirely Clint. “Well, damn,” he breathes out, a chuckle escaping him. “Gonna be honest, didn’t see that one coming.” He tilts his head, eyes alight with mischief. “You always go around ambushing guys like this, or am I just special?”

- But there is something softer beneath the teasing, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger near yours, as if debating whether to pull you back in. And then, with a quiet exhale, he murmurs, “Not that I’m complaining, but—maybe next time, give a guy some warning?” He smirks. “Or don’t. I kinda like the element of surprise.”

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff is not a woman who is easily caught off guard. She is control, precision, danger wrapped in elegance. She anticipates every move before it happens, never allows herself to be vulnerable, never lets anyone too close. But when you kiss her—without warning, without calculation—it is the one scenario she never saw coming.

- Her body tenses immediately, years of instinct screaming at her to assess the threat, to react. But then—then—your lips linger, warm and unhurried, and something in her falters. There is no ulterior motive, no expectation, no game being played. Just you. And that, more than anything, leaves her shaken. She does not kiss you back, not at first. She is too busy deciphering why—why you would do this, why she doesn’t hate it, why the world suddenly feels too small with you this close.

- When you pull away, she does not speak. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression, emerald eyes scanning your face as if searching for an answer you have not yet spoken. And then, at last, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Brave,” she murmurs, voice smooth, almost amused. “Reckless, but brave.” But there is something else in her gaze—something uncertain, something hesitant. As if she is not quite sure what to do with the warmth still lingering on her lips.

- Then, before you can respond, she steps closer, closing the space between you. There is no hesitation this time, no calculation—just the slow, deliberate press of her mouth against yours. And when she finally pulls away, her voice is softer, quieter. “Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she warns. But the way her fingers trail against your wrist, the way her breath lingers against your skin, tells you that she is hoping—just this once—that you do.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes is a man who flinches at softness. He does not know how to accept kindness without suspicion, does not know how to be wanted without expectation. He has spent years being used, being controlled, being nothing more than a weapon to be wielded. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without warning—it is the first time in a long, long while that he is simply Bucky.

- His entire body stiffens at first, muscles coiled as if expecting an attack, a trap, a trick. But then your hands brush against him—gentle, grounding, real—and something in him cracks. His breath shudders against your lips, something raw and unspoken trembling just beneath the surface. And for the first time in years, he allows himself to be held instead of holding himself together.

- When you pull away, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is unreadable, blue eyes stormy with something you can’t quite decipher. And then, ever so slowly, he exhales. “Why?” The word is quiet, hesitant, as if he doesn’t believe he deserves the answer. As if he is bracing himself for you to tell him it was a mistake. But you don’t. You just look at him, and that alone is enough to undo him.

- And then, after a long moment, his fingers brush against yours, tentative, uncertain. “Do it again,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. But when you do—when you kiss him once more, slow and patient and real—his hands finally come up to hold you, steady and warm and home. And this time, he doesn’t let you pull away.

Matthew Murdock

- Matthew Murdock is a man who lives in anticipation. Every breath, every footstep, every heartbeat in his vicinity is accounted for, cataloged, expected. He senses things before they happen, navigates the unseen with the certainty of someone who has never truly been blind. But he does not sense this. The moment your lips press against his, his world—usually so finely attuned—stutters. For the first time in a long time, Matt is truly caught off guard.

- His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, and for a brief moment, he is frozen in place. The taste of you lingers—warmth and surprise and something maddeningly sweet. His senses flood with you, and it is overwhelming in the best and worst way. His pulse is erratic, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. He has fought the devil inside himself for so long, denied himself softness, pushed away love because it only ever ends in ruin. And yet, here you are. Kissing him.

- When you pull back, he exhales shakily, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand finds you—fingertips ghosting over your cheek, as if to make certain you are real. His voice, when he finally manages to use it, is quiet, reverent. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his words, no true protest. Only the lingering tremor of someone who wants—desperately, deeply—but does not know if he is allowed to have.

- And then, as if unable to resist the temptation you have placed before him, he leans in. His kiss is not hasty, not fevered, but something far more dangerous—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It is an unspoken confession, a quiet surrender, a promise that he may not be ready to put into words. But his hands find your waist, his lips press deeper into yours, and the way he sighs against your mouth tells you all you need to know.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle has lost too much to believe in second chances. Love is a thing he buried alongside his family, a thing he does not touch, does not deserve. He is a man made of violence, of war and grief and cold, unrelenting vengeance. He does not get soft things. So when you kiss him—when you, in all your warmth, in all your reckless beauty, dare to press your lips to his—he does not know what to do with it.

- His entire body goes still, as if the world has caught fire and he is standing in the center of the blaze, unscathed but bewildered. He does not pull away. He does not push you back. He simply exists in the moment, feeling something that is not rage, not pain, not the gnawing emptiness that has been his only companion for years. The taste of you lingers—something achingly sweet against the bitterness of his own existence.

- When you finally step back, he exhales sharply, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched. His eyes—dark, stormy, battle-hardened—lock onto yours, searching, questioning. He wants to tell you this is a mistake. That people who get close to him only end up hurt, that his hands are meant for killing, not holding. But he doesn’t say it. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he does not want to push something away.

- Instead, his fingers curl at his sides, his voice low, rough. “You sure you wanna be doin’ that?” It’s not a warning—it’s an invitation. A chance to walk away before he inevitably ruins you the way he ruins everything else. But when you don’t—when you meet his gaze and kiss him again, slower this time, softer—his resolve cracks, and he kisses you back with something that is almost desperate, almost alive.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is used to taking. He takes lives, takes power, takes anything he wants because no one can stop him. He is a monster, and he knows it—embraces it. There is nothing good in him. Nothing worth saving. And yet, you—beautiful, foolish, unafraid—have the audacity to kiss him as if he is anything but ruin incarnate.

- The moment your lips meet his, something snaps in him. His instincts scream at him to turn this into a game, to take control, to make you regret ever thinking you could surprise him. But for once, he does not move. He lets himself feel it. The warmth of you, the softness, the maddening contrast of something so pure against the corruption that coats his soul like tar. It is unexpected, undeserved, and utterly intoxicating.

- When you pull away, his smirk is slow, sharp-edged, dangerous. His eyes—dark and gleaming with something predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail, committing your recklessness to memory. “Well, damn,” he drawls, voice slick with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.” His fingers ghost over his lips as if testing whether the sensation was real or just some twisted hallucination.

- And then, with a sudden, startling speed, he moves. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist, and before you can react, he’s kissing you back. But this—this is something else entirely. It is wild, chaotic, consuming. A warning, a promise, a claim. And when he finally pulls away, grinning like the devil himself, he murmurs, “Hope you know what you just started.”

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector is used to ghosts. His past, his mistakes, his fractured mind—he carries them all like shadows that never fade. He does not trust happiness, does not trust peace, because both have been ripped from him too many times to count. And love? Love is not something that belongs to men like him. But then there is you. And then there is this. Your lips against his, unannounced, unexpected, real.

- The first sensation is shock. Not fear, not rejection—just shock. His mind, always a battlefield of shifting identities and whispered voices, goes silent for one aching, beautiful moment. The warmth of your mouth, the way you lean into him with no hesitation, no fear—it is something foreign, something he does not know how to hold. And yet, he wants to. God help him, he wants to.

- When you pull back, his breath is unsteady, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back in. His eyes—haunted, desperate, yearning—flicker between you and the ground, as if struggling to find something solid to anchor himself. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is raw, broken. “You shouldn’t do that.” But there is no weight behind the words, no real protest. Just the quiet, trembling confession of a man who does not believe he deserves to be touched with kindness.

- And then, with a slow exhale, he makes a choice. His hand—scarred, trembling—reaches for yours, fingers brushing tentatively before curling around them. He does not pull you close, does not claim you the way others might. Instead, he simply holds on. A silent plea, a fragile hope. And when he finally kisses you back, it is not with hunger, not with dominance—but with something far more dangerous. Need.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster survives by reading people before they can act. He sees a shift in weight, a flicker of intent, the smallest twitch of a muscle, and he knows what comes next. It’s how he wins fights, how he predicts every move before it happens. But not this. Not you. He doesn’t see it coming when your lips press against his, a ghost of warmth against the cold edge of a man who has spent his life being untouchable.

- His entire body stiffens, instincts roaring at him to react, to counter, to do something—but he doesn’t. His mind, trained to memorize, analyze, replicate, suddenly falters. He can mimic a thousand fighting styles, anticipate attacks from the best in the world, but he has no defense for the softness of your mouth, the way you kiss him like he is something more than a weapon. And it unsettles him.

- When you pull back, his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if searching for the right response. His mask hides his face, but you can feel the way he’s staring at you, the sharp intensity of a man trying to process something he can’t categorize. “The hell was that for?” he finally mutters, his voice low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. But there is no anger, no mockery. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.

- And then, something shifts. A decision made. He moves faster than thought, a gloved hand catching your wrist, pulling you in before you can slip away. And when he kisses you back, it is not soft, not hesitant. It is sharp-edged and confident, like a man reclaiming control over the one thing that has ever caught him off guard. You wanted to surprise him? Fine. But now, he’s the one in charge.

Johnny Storm

- Johnny Storm burns hot—always has, always will. A fire that never quite settles, never dims. He is loud and reckless and bright, and he wears his confidence like a second skin. But beneath it all, there is something deeper, something hidden behind smirks and easy laughter. And it is that something that flickers the moment you kiss him.

- At first, he doesn’t process it. One second he’s talking, maybe making some cocky remark, and the next—your lips are on his. His brain short-circuits. Johnny Storm, king of comebacks, has absolutely nothing to say. There’s just heat, not from his flames but from the rush of you, the sudden realization that this thing he’s been pretending not to feel is very, very real.

- When you pull back, he blinks—once, twice—before a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreads across his face. “Damn,” he exhales, voice a little breathless, a little stunned. And then, because he is who he is, he recovers. “If you wanted a piece of me, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.” But his voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fact that he is not nearly as unaffected as he wants to seem.

- And then, before you can say anything, he moves. A hand curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you with the full force of his fire—burning, consuming, alive. Because Johnny Storm never does anything halfway, and now that he knows what you taste like, he is never going to pretend he doesn’t want more.

Reed Richards

- Reed Richards lives in a world of equations. He understands the mechanics of the universe, the fabric of reality, the infinite complexities of time and space. But there are some things even he cannot predict. Some things he cannot quantify. You are one of those things. And when you kiss him, it is a complete and utter anomaly.

- His breath stills, his mind goes blank—something that has not happened in years. He can usually calculate the likelihood of an event before it occurs, but this? This wasn’t factored into his reality. His hands hover in the air, as if unsure of the proper response, as if the laws of physics themselves have momentarily escaped him.

- When you step back, he does not move immediately. He is frozen, recalibrating, processing. Then, slowly, his lips part, and a quiet, stunned “Oh” escapes him—soft, unguarded. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if needing a moment to refocus. “That was… unexpected.” His voice holds no rejection, only fascination, as if he has just witnessed a scientific miracle.

- And then, something shifts. His hand reaches for yours—not hasty, not desperate, but careful, deliberate. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, Reed Richards abandons calculations in favor of instinct. When he kisses you again, it is slow, exploratory, like a man learning a new language and savoring every syllable.

Ben Grimm

- Ben Grimm does not get soft things. He does not get stolen kisses or tender touches or the kind of love that isn’t weighed down by pity. He is The Thing. A man made of stone, of battle and loss, of aching loneliness that he never speaks of. And yet, here you are. Kissing him. As if he is not a monster. As if he is just a man.

- He stiffens, his whole body locking up. His heart—too big, too hopeful despite everything—stumbles in his chest. He has dreamed of things like this before, but dreams are cruel, and reality is harsher. He expects you to pull away, to realize what you’ve done, to see him and regret it. But you don’t. You don’t. And that, more than the kiss itself, threatens to undo him.

- When you finally step back, his throat works around words he can’t quite form, holding the weight of years spent convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this. His massive hands twitch at his sides, as if afraid to reach for something too fragile, too precious. “You… you sure about that?” There is doubt in his tone, not because he doesn’t want you, but because he doesn’t know how to believe you’d want him.

- But when you step closer again, pressing your hands against the solid breadth of his chest, when you tilt your head up and kiss him again, slow and sure and certain, something in him cracks. A deep, shuddering breath escapes him, and his massive arms finally—finally—come around you, pulling you close. And when he kisses you back, it is hesitant at first, reverent. But then it deepens, something raw and aching in the way he holds you, like a man who has been starved of love for far too long.

Susan Storm

- Susan Storm is a woman of grace, of careful composure, of quiet strength that bends but never breaks. She is a leader, a protector, a force of nature wrapped in silk. And yet, for all her brilliance, for all her ability to phase in and out of sight, she does not see you coming. Not when you step close. Not when your fingers graze her cheek. Not when your lips press against hers in a kiss that is as sudden as it is soft.

- Her breath stills, caught between the moment and the impossible realization of what it means. Her mind races—was she blind to this? Had she misread the signs, the weight of your glances, the unspoken words hovering between you for so long? But all thoughts unravel when she feels the warmth of your lips, the unguarded tenderness of it. She has spent her life holding herself steady, but now—now she is the one being unraveled.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks, slow and breathless, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh,” she murmurs, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. A rare moment where she is not Susan Storm, the poised and polished heroine, but simply a woman standing before someone who has just shaken her world.

- And then, that moment of surprise shifts into something else—something warmer, something braver. Her fingers find your wrist, curling around it in a silent request. She meets your gaze, eyes shining with something unreadable, something soft. And when she kisses you again, it is no longer hesitation, no longer surprise—it is intention, steady and sure, as if she has made up her mind that this—you—is something she does not want to let go.

Felicia Hardy

- Felicia Hardy is a woman who dances on the edge of danger, who thrives in stolen moments and the rush of risk. She is a thief, a phantom in the night, a creature made of silver laughter and sharp edges. She knows the art of seduction, the game of push and pull, and yet—when you kiss her, it is not part of the game. It is not calculated, not played for leverage. And that is what stops her dead in her tracks.

- Her lips part against yours, a stunned exhale slipping free. For the first time in a long, long time, Felicia Hardy is caught off guard. She is used to controlling the moment, to being the one who sets the pace, who dictates the terms. But this—this—feels like something stolen from her. And she doesn’t know if she wants to steal it back, or if she wants to let herself fall.

- When you pull away, her signature smirk wavers, something uncertain flickering behind those sharp, clever eyes. “Well, well,” she purrs, but there’s a breathlessness to it, a vulnerability beneath the velvet tone. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” A tease, a cover. But her fingers twitch at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in, to demand more.

- And then, as if making a silent decision, she moves. She closes the space between you with a sharp, deliberate kind of grace, tilting her head with the confidence of a woman who has decided to play a game she was not expecting—but one she suddenly wants to win. When she kisses you again, it is slow, languid, laced with amusement and hunger, as if savoring the way you are the one who caught her off guard for once.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of control honed by years of discipline. He bends reality to his will, commands forces beyond human comprehension, and yet—he is utterly unprepared for the moment your lips press against his.

- His body locks up, his breath caught between disbelief and something deeper, something dangerously close to longing. He does not move at first, too caught in the sheer absurdity of it. He has faced cosmic horrors, rewritten fate itself, but he cannot seem to process the feeling of your touch, the warmth of your mouth against his own.

- When you step back, he blinks, slow and calculating, as if searching for some rational explanation. “That was… unexpected,” he says at last, his voice measured but carrying the faintest waver. He looks at you as though you are a paradox he cannot solve, an anomaly in his carefully structured existence.

- And then, after a long pause, his lips curl in something resembling amusement, a rare, genuine softness breaking through the rigid control. “I suppose,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, almost reverent, “it would only be fair if I returned the favor.” And when he kisses you again, it is with the deliberation of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance.

Namor

- Namor is not a man accustomed to surprise. He is a king, a warrior, a god walking among mortals. He has stood against empires, defied the heavens, and shaped history with his own hands. But when you kiss him—you, with your infuriating defiance and your breathtaking boldness—he is, for the first time in centuries, at a complete and utter loss.

- His entire body tenses, as if bracing for an attack rather than an act of tenderness. And yet, despite his initial shock, despite the sheer audacity of you, he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Instead, his sharp, piercing eyes darken, a slow and simmering heat curling beneath his ribs—dangerous, unrelenting.

- When you finally part, he does not speak immediately. He simply looks at you, gaze heavy with something unreadable. And then, after a moment, his lips curl—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement. Interest. Challenge. “You are either very brave,” he murmurs, voice rich and edged with something unmistakably possessive, “or very foolish.”

- And then, before you can respond, before you can think to retreat, he moves. His hands—strong, unyielding—catch your wrist, his body closing the space between you with the effortless command of a king reclaiming what is his. And when he kisses you again, it is not a question. It is a declaration, a silent vow that whatever game you have started, he will be the one to finish.

Johnny Blaze

- Fire and damnation have clung to Johnny Blaze for as long as he can remember. He is a man marked by hellfire, by a fate he never asked for, by the weight of every soul he has ever sent screaming into the dark. He does not expect kindness, not really, not from anyone. And yet, when you kiss him—suddenly, without warning, like a spark catching dry earth—he is stunned into absolute stillness.

- The scent of smoke and leather clings to him, the remnants of something infernal lurking beneath his skin, but you do not hesitate. Your lips are warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold edges of his existence. He has faced demons, outrun the devil himself, but this? This simple, quiet moment? It terrifies him in a way nothing else ever has.

- He exhales sharply when you pull back, as if he’s just come up for air after drowning. His blue eyes burn like embers, searching your face as if trying to understand what the hell just happened. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust himself to. “You don’t wanna do that,” he finally mutters, voice rough with something dangerously close to longing.

- But when you tilt your head, when you don’t flinch, don’t pull away, don’t fear him—something in him cracks. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists, and then, finally, finally, he lets himself move. He grabs the back of your neck with a touch that is both possessive and reverent, and when he kisses you again, it is with the desperation of a man who has spent too many years in the dark, suddenly blinded by the light.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has lost too much, fought too hard, and learned to trust too little. He is rough around the edges, worn down by anger and regret, always bracing for the moment when the world inevitably turns against him. He is not used to gentleness—not from others, and certainly not for himself. And so, when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his like it is the most natural thing in the world, his brain short-circuits entirely.

- His first instinct is to pull back, to question, to doubt. But Venom—Venom is faster. The symbiote rumbles in amusement, in approval, wrapping around Eddie’s ribs like a second heartbeat. "We like this one," the alien purrs inside his mind, and Eddie swears under his breath because of course Venom would be delighted by this.

- “You’re—” Eddie starts, but stops himself, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically shove down the confusion. He shakes his head, glancing at you with something that is half bewilderment, half hunger. He wants to say something cocky, something to brush it off, but all that comes out is a breathless, “What the hell was that for?”

- And then Venom moves, slick tendrils curling around his shoulders, shifting his posture. "Kiss her back, Eddie," the symbiote urges, a wicked, knowing grin in his voice. And—God help him—Eddie does. He surges forward, his grip strong, his kiss a mixture of frustration and want, like he’s fighting against how much he needs this, how much he needs you. And when he finally breaks away, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. Shit.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is not a man who is easily surprised. He is a king, a warrior, a strategist who sees every angle before the game even begins. His mind is always ten steps ahead, his composure an unshakable force of nature. And yet—when you kiss him, when you step close without prelude or warning, tilting your chin up to press your lips to his—he is caught entirely off guard.

- His breath hitches, just slightly, so small a reaction that most would not catch it. But you are not most. You are you, and you notice the way his body stills, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as if warring with the impulse to pull you closer. His heartbeat is steady, measured, but beneath the surface—oh, beneath the surface, you have sent ripples through a man who does not bend easily.

- When you part from him, his dark eyes study your face with a sharpness that borders on unreadable. “You are bold,” he says, but there is no admonishment in his tone—only observation, only something deeply considering. His gaze is heavy, knowing, like he has already unraveled every reason why you did it. And yet, for all his brilliance, there is one question left unanswered.

- And so, after a pause, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. “Was that a challenge?” The words are a whisper, rich and silken, spoken against your lips as he closes the space between you once more. His kiss is not hurried, not desperate—it is a promise, a declaration, a reminder that T’Challa does nothing without intention. And you? You have just become something he intends to keep.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, like a blade cutting through the dark, like something that cannot be held for long. She is sharp edges and silken danger, a whisper of death wrapped in a dancer’s grace. She does not trust easily. She does not love easily. And yet, when you kiss her—fast, sudden, without warning—she does not push you away. No. She freezes, her entire body tensed, not out of resistance, but because she did not see it coming.

- For a woman who has spent her life reading people like open books, you have just managed to turn a page she did not anticipate. Her lips part against yours, not in invitation but in sheer, startled stillness. The moment you step back, her gaze is already piercing into you, unreadable and electric, the air between you charged with something taut and dangerous.

- “That,” she breathes, eyes narrowing just slightly, “was foolish.” But the way she says it—it is not a warning, not truly. It is curiosity, the ghost of something far more wicked lurking beneath the surface. She watches you like a cat watching its prey, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if deciding whether to draw a weapon or pull you back in.

- And then, just as quickly, just as effortlessly, she moves. Her hand catches your wrist, yanking you forward with a force that is not violent but possessive. And when she kisses you this time, it is not hesitation—it is fire and fury, a battle won with the curl of her fingers at your nape, the press of her body against yours. If this is a game, you have just signed yourself into a war. And Elektra Natchios? She never loses.

Muse

- Muse does not feel things the way others do. Art consumes him, violence is his language, and the world is nothing but a blank canvas begging to be marred. He has wandered through blood-soaked streets and carved poetry into walls with trembling hands, but this—this sudden kiss, this moment where your lips press against his without prelude or warning—is something entirely new.

- He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He does not react in any way that might be considered human. Instead, he listens. To the way your breath hitches. To the way your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. To the way the world stills around him, just for a moment, like existence itself is waiting to see what he will do next. And oh, how he loves the weight of expectation.

- When you finally pull back, his blind eyes remain locked onto you, empty and unreadable, yet somehow knowing. His lips part—not in surprise, but in something closer to fascination. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh, almost a prayer. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is not a plea. It is a command wrapped in velvet, spoken like a secret only you were meant to hear.

- And when you hesitate, when you wonder if it is wise, if it is safe, he simply tilts his head, his smile carving itself into his face like a brushstroke on an unfinished painting. His fingers ghost over your jaw, not quite touching, not yet. “I wonder,” he muses, voice lilting with something dangerous, something close to reverence, “how many shades of red I could pull from your lips alone.”

Victor von Doom

- Victor von Doom does not tolerate surprises. His mind is a kingdom unto itself, a fortress built upon knowledge and control. There is no action he takes that is not calculated, no movement that is not deliberate. And yet—when you kiss him, when you dare to step into his space and press your lips against his without permission, without warning—it is the one moment he does not anticipate.

- His body tenses, not in shock but in something colder, something unreadable. There is steel in his stance, in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. For one impossibly long second, the world feels as if it has stopped, as if the very air around you is waiting for his verdict. And then, his hands rise—not to push you away, but to cup your face with the precision of a sculptor, as if he is considering whether to keep this moment or cast it aside.

- “Foolish,” he murmurs, though his grip does not loosen. His green eyes burn into yours, heavy with something unreadable, something vast. “You mistake me for a man who yields to impulse.” But you can feel it—the faint tremor beneath his touch, the war waging behind his gaze. You have shaken something in him. Something he does not have words for.

- And then, Doom decides. His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze darkens, and when he leans in, it is not hesitant. It is not uncertain. No, Victor von Doom does not do anything halfway. His lips capture yours with the finality of a ruler taking his throne, with the weight of a choice made, a fate sealed. And when he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if he has allowed himself one moment of indulgence—and nothing more. “You are either very bold,” he muses, voice quiet, “or very foolish.” And then, after a pause, after a second’s hesitation— “Perhaps both.”

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has been kissed before. By strangers in bars, by lovers who knew better, by the lingering ghosts of memories he refuses to let go of. But this—this kiss, your kiss—catches him completely off guard.

- He is mid-sentence, probably saying something ridiculous, something cocky, something meant to make you roll your eyes—and then, suddenly, your lips are on his, stealing the words right from his mouth. His brain short-circuits so violently that for a full second, he just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

- And then, like a delayed reaction, like an aftershock, he grins. A slow, lazy, completely obnoxious grin that spreads across his face like wildfire. “Well, damn,” he breathes, blinking at you like he’s just been hit by a starship. “If I knew that’s how you felt, I would’ve shut up ages ago.”

- But then—just when you think he’ll ruin it with another joke—he tugs you forward, his fingers curling around your waist with an easy kind of confidence. And when he kisses you this time, it is deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he means it. And maybe, just maybe, Peter Quill has finally found something—someone—worth holding onto.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has been through hell. He has seen galaxies burn, has carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders, has fought and bled and lost more than he can put into words. He is tired. He is so tired. And yet—when you kiss him, when you pull him down from the weight of the cosmos and remind him of something as simple, as human as this—he forgets, just for a moment, how heavy the universe feels.

- His breath stutters. His entire body tenses, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He has been hurt before, has been broken in ways that no amount of power can fix, and yet—this is different. You are different.

- “I—” he starts, but the words get lost somewhere between his lips and yours. He laughs, but it’s not the cocky, confident sound most people expect from him. It’s breathless, unsure. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Didn’t see that coming.” But the way he looks at you—the way his blue eyes soften, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know if he should—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’s glad you caught him off guard.

- And then, slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the battles he’s fought, with the wars he’s survived. And when he kisses you again, it is not hurried, not rushed. It is quiet. It is careful. It is real. Because for the first time in a long, long time—Richard Rider is not fighting. He is simply here. With you.

[illfoandillfie]

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Pairing: Rich Fuckboy!Ben Hardy x Fem!Reader

Summery:  An unexpected call from Ben results in an unexpected evening.

Warnings: Smut (18+), Rich kid dickishness, dom/sub dynamics, mostly dom ben and sub reader, but also a little round the other way, a fair bit of derogatory/degrading language (esp whore), edging, cockwarming, a little spanking, oral sex (m receiving), face fucking, piv sex, begging, bondage, forced orgasm. I think thats all.

Words: 12,890

A/N: Wasn't necessarily planning to write more of rich bitch Benny but then I saw some promo pics for his movie Love At First Sight and something in my brain booted up. This was written over a stupidly long time, literally months, so hopefully its okay lmao. Also please excuse any weird formatting. The way tumblr works, paragraphs can't be more than 4096 characters so some of the dialogue had to be broken up to make it postable.

Taglist: @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming@queenmylovely @ilovequeenmorethanyou @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies @cherries-n-rocknroll @rogersslave @scorpiogemini

“You get two questions.”  “Five,” Bianca countered.  “Two. I want to have a shower.”  “Fine.” She agreed, disgruntled. Bianca had ambushed you the second you got home, having stayed up waiting on the couch to hear all about your date with Ben. She’d listened patiently, laughing or nodding and squealing a little, as you told her about the restaurant he’d chosen and the club and ending up on the yacht. But when you’d admitted you had slept with him, she got so excited you were a little worried she’d forget to breathe. Bianca thought for a moment, choosing which of her questions were most worth asking, “Okay, one, was he good? Like did you get off?”  “Yeah, he was very good,” you smiled to yourself thinking about just how good he’d been, following all your orders.  Bianca seemed a little relieved that the exceptional lover she’d fantasised about so many times could live up to the image. “Was he into any weird kinks?”  You thought for a moment, contemplating how little you could get away with saying, “Nothing super unusual. But y’know that’s stuff you don’t necessarily bring out the first time.”  “Nothing kinky? Not even like some bondage or spitting or anything?”  “You asked me about weird! Yeah there was a little bondage. Spanking too.” 

"I knew it!” she said before the loudest squeal yet and you hurried to shush her before a neighbour complained.  “He was hung right? Please god tell me he was hung.”  “Thats more than two questions.”  “Fuck, c’mon Y/N. Just describe his dick for me. I've been trying to picture it for years, it’d be mean of you not to tell me.”  You laughed, enjoying teasing her but you felt a little bad for sleeping with her celebrity crush so held up your hands to demonstrate an approximate length, “Comparisons could be drawn to horses.”  Her eyes lit up like it was Christmas, “I knew it.”  “He wasn’t super thick but he was decently long. Nothing crazy but more than enough. Very slight curve.”  She’d closed her eyes and hummed as you described him, “It’s beautiful,” she said dreamily.  Laughing, you bid her goodnight, looking forward to showering and then heading to bed, but once more she stopped you.   “Wait, are you going to sell the story?”  “Oh, I can’t. He made me sign an NDA. I’ve probably said too much already so don’t go repeating it okay.”  “So that’s why no one ever spills too many details.”  “Yeah, must be.” You felt a little bad for lying but you really wanted to shower, and you knew she’d ask more questions if you admitted you didn’t want to tell anyone now. If the night had gone more to Ben’s plan, if you’d let him be in control, you wouldn’t have had any qualms about writing to a magazine with the big scoop. But he’d obviously cultivated a particular image in the public conscious, one that didn’t necessarily align with ideas of him as a willing, even eager, submissive. The thought of selling that story made you feel dirty in a way the other versions just wouldn’t. So, at the end of the night you’d promised to keep it a secret, even if that meant remaining poor. You’d gotten to domme The Benjamin Hardy after all, what more did you need.

As it happened, it wasn’t so much what you needed, but rather what Ben did. Around two weeks after your night together, you answered a call from a private number, hoping it wasn’t a scam caller. Your surprise at hearing Ben’s voice saying your name was rivalled only by his apparent surprise that he was calling.  “Um, what’s this about?” you felt entirely caught off guard.  “I- well, I guess I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me tonight?” It didn’t sound so much like he was asking you, as he was questioning his decision to call.  You laughed, stepping into your cupboard and pulling the door closed so you’d be less likely to be overheard. The darkness made everything feel more surreal than it already did, “You already bored of the airheads who just do what you say?”  He scoffed, his uncertainty falling away at the first opportunity to be a tosser, “No, actually, I’m looking for an easy shag. Most of my regular options are at this fashion thing this weekend but I knew you wouldn’t be invited.”  “Fashion event? Is that what they told you? They’re probably off trying for a different sugar daddy.”  “Good luck to them. They’ll all be back, but my cock’s hard now.”  You rolled your eyes, “C’mon Benny, you don’t have to lie to me. Just admit you liked what I did to you and want me to do it again.”  “I just liked your cunt.”  “You liked me threatening to peg you.”  He paused for a beat, “I like the idea of fucking your arse more.”  “Okay, this is cute,” you said, growing bored of his asshole attitude, “but I’ve got better things to do. Bye Ben.”  “Wait, don’t hang up.”   You let him hang in silence for a few seconds before saying, “I’m listening,” intrigued by the way the bravado had dropped from his voice.  “Would you like to get dinner with me?”  “Just dinner?”  “Yes. Your call if anything else happens.”  You hummed in thought, weighing up your options. On one hand, Bianca would freak out at even the smallest hint there was more than just a one-night stand between you and Ben. And you didn’t really feel like being paraded in front of cameras or his boorish friends again. But on the other, you’d clearly awoken something in Ben. To the point where he seemed willing to go out with you again, even without the promise of sex. And that was after just one night of being edged....imagine what you could do with more time. “Okay, dinner sounds nice. But not at that ridiculous place you took me last time.”  “You didn’t like it there?”  “It was nice, but the cameras are a bit of a buzzkill.”  “Well I can get us in anywhere else, but the paparazzi will find me wherever we go.”  “So then let me pick where we eat.”  “Do you have a standing reservation at any Michelin star restaurants?”  “No but they’re not the only places to eat in this city.” you only just managed not to call him an idiot.  “The only worthwhile ones. Michelin literally means delicious in French.”  “It’s a tire company Ben, it means jack shit. Just let me pick where we eat.”  “Fine, but only if I’m guaranteed a shag. A good one, that I get to control.”  “What happened to just dinner?”  “I think we both know just dinner wasn’t really going to happen. You liked my cock too much. But if I’m not allowed to choose where we go, you’re not allowed to dom me.”  “But isn’t that the entire reason you called?”  “Not the entire reason. I’ll have you know there were ulterior motives.”

As it happened, it wasn’t so much what you needed, but rather what Ben did. Around two weeks after your night together, you answered a call from a private number, hoping it wasn’t a scam caller. Your surprise at hearing Ben’s voice saying your name was rivalled only by his apparent surprise that he was calling.  “Um, what’s this about?” you felt entirely caught off guard.  “I- well, I guess I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me tonight?” It didn’t sound so much like he was asking you, as he was questioning his decision to call.  You laughed, stepping into your cupboard and pulling the door closed so you’d be less likely to be overheard. The darkness made everything feel more surreal than it already did, “You already bored of the airheads who just do what you say?”  He scoffed, his uncertainty falling away at the first opportunity to be a tosser, “No, actually, I’m looking for an easy shag. Most of my regular options are at this fashion thing this weekend but I knew you wouldn’t be invited.”  “Fashion event? Is that what they told you? They’re probably off trying for a different sugar daddy.”  “Good luck to them. They’ll all be back, but my cock’s hard now.”  You rolled your eyes, “C’mon Benny, you don’t have to lie to me. Just admit you liked what I did to you and want me to do it again.”  “I just liked your cunt.”  “You liked me threatening to peg you.”  He paused for a beat, “I like the idea of fucking your arse more.”  “Okay, this is cute,” you said, growing bored of his asshole attitude, “but I’ve got better things to do. Bye Ben.”  “Wait, don’t hang up.”   You let him hang in silence for a few seconds before saying, “I’m listening,” intrigued by the way the bravado had dropped from his voice.  “Would you like to get dinner with me?”  “Just dinner?”  “Yes. Your call if anything else happens.”  You hummed in thought, weighing up your options. On one hand, Bianca would freak out at even the smallest hint there was more than just a one-night stand between you and Ben. And you didn’t really feel like being paraded in front of cameras or his boorish friends again. But on the other, you’d clearly awoken something in Ben. To the point where he seemed willing to go out with you again, even without the promise of sex. And that was after just one night of being edged....imagine what you could do with more time. “Okay, dinner sounds nice. But not at that ridiculous place you took me last time.”  “You didn’t like it there?”  “It was nice, but the cameras are a bit of a buzzkill.”  “Well I can get us in anywhere else, but the paparazzi will find me wherever we go.”  “So then let me pick where we eat.”  “Do you have a standing reservation at any Michelin star restaurants?”  “No but they’re not the only places to eat in this city.” you only just managed not to call him an idiot.  “The only worthwhile ones. Michelin literally means delicious in French.”  “It’s a tire company Ben, it means jack shit. Just let me pick where we eat.”  “Fine, but only if I’m guaranteed a shag. A good one, that I get to control.”  “What happened to just dinner?”  “I think we both know just dinner wasn’t really going to happen. You liked my cock too much. But if I’m not allowed to choose where we go, you’re not allowed to dom me.”  “But isn’t that the entire reason you called?”  “Not the entire reason. I’ll have you know there were ulterior motives.”

By the time Ben pulled up you were waiting out on the street. You’d decided it was best to get out without Bianca finding out who you were going out with, just to minimize the questions and potential jealousy or excitement. You weren’t sure which direction her emotions would go in. So you’d twisted the truth a little to make it sound like Ben was a random guy you’d matched with on tinder. Bianca had been interested but not as overbearing as she might have been had she known, her questions more general ones about where you were going and how long you’d been messaging the guy. Ben seemed a little surprised when he saw you waitingbut got out and held the limo door open for you.   “Worried if I came up you’d forget yourself and just have to get my cock out?”  You snorted, “No, I just don’t want Bianca to know I’m going out with you again.”  “Bianca....why does that name sound familiar?”  “She’s my roommate. I mentioned her last time. She was with me when we met and you first asked me out.”  “Oh, right, the chick who puked.” Ben laughed, “You worried she’d be jealous? Should have invited her, she sounds easy and you know that’s my type.”  “Ben,” you said firmly, beginning to regret not just hanging up on him, “you know that sort of comment isn’t going to work on me, especially since you’re talking about my friend. Now either stop acting like such a prick, or I will go back upstairs and block your number. There is no one here who is going to be impressed by your bullshit.  “Sorry.” He said softly and surprisingly sincerely, “You look nice, by the way.”  “Sure you don’t want to tell me I should have dressed sluttier?” You waved a hand in front of yourself, indicating the dress you’d chosen. It was neither as short, nor as tight, as the dress you’d worn last time, falling to your knees, not clinging to your skin. The only vaguely revealing part of the dress was a little bit of cleavage on display and even that wasn’t much.   “No, it suits you. And you look lovely in it.”   You were a little suspicious but chose to accept the complement, thanking Ben before saying, “I did do as you asked though. No underwear.”  He tried not to look too pleased, “Can I see?”  “Not yet.”  “What if I promise to go down on you until we get to wherever you’re taking me – which is where by the way?”  You gave him the address and he passed it on to the driver.  “So?” he asked as the car began to move, “You know I know how to eat pussy.”  You rolled your eyes, though you felt that at least his tact included offering to pleasure you rather than just himself, “No. Not yet.”  “I thought you promised to be my whore,” he pouted. Ben still wasn’t used to not getting his way immediately, “My whores do what I say when I say it.”  “Well we both know that doesn’t work with me, does it baby,” you weren’t sure how far Ben would let you push him, but it was fun to test the waters. He made a low rumbly sound, almost a growl, and for a moment you wondered if he’d put his hand on your throat like last time, attempt to intimidate you into complying. Instead, he just nodded and subtly palmed the front of his pants.  “I know I let you maul me in this limo last time,” you felt confident enough that he wouldn’t try anything to continue, “but that was when I was trying to lull you into a false sense of domination. So we’re going to have dinner first and you’re going to be nice to me. And then, once we’re on the way to your place, that’s when I’ll let you take control.”  Ben was quiet for a moment, contemplating what you’d said. You could see his habitual tendencies to objectify every women he talked to were battling with his clear enjoyment of being bossed around, “Okay, deal. But you’ll be fucking in for it later.”

“Who’s house is this?” Ben asked as he offered you a hand out of the limo, the bag of food in his other. You leant back in to grab the bottle of champagne and the glasses, able to feel Ben ogling the hem of your dress as it rose up the back of your legs, “It’s not the house we’re here for, c’mon.” You led him around the corner and up a little alley that ran behind the houses. Ben scrunched up his nose a little, “Bit…dingy isn’t it. Not really the sort of place I want to eat. Quickie during a party is a different story though.” You ignored him, leading him further down the path until it opened out into a little garden which was surrounded by trees, making it feel removed from the outside world. Ben’s dissatisfaction with the alley turned into a bemused approval, “Well this is quite nice. You set it up yourself?” “No, the lights got put up for a Christmas party a few years back and they just left them up.” Ben looked around at the twinkling white solar lights draped throughout the tree branches, “Well it’s not what I was expecting but it’s nice. Cute. Little bit romantic even with the moonlight and all. Well done.” You laughed a little and took the bag from him as you sat down in the middle of a circle of stone pavers, pulling out the few dishes you’d ordered as well as some paper plates and bamboo cutlery. Ben watched you for a while until you told him to sit down. He warily crouched down, brushing leaf litter from a patch before he sat proper. When he caught your raised eyebrow he shrugged, “This suit is worth more than you make in a year. Not even the best cunt in the world could make me ruin it.” “You think I have the best cunt in the world? I’m flattered,” you continued dishing up the food, handing a plate to Ben. “That’s not what I meant. We’ll see after tonight though. If you behave and take me the way I want, you might be in the running.” You did your best to hide a smile, trying not to give away how amusing his comment was. That is, until he took it too far and your smile turned into an eye roll. “Although, to really be sure I’d have to have all the contenders lined up for me to test out one after another. Hmmm, now that’s a thought." You cleared your throat, hoping a gentle reminder would be enough but Ben remained lost in pornographically unrealistic fantasies, the outline of his cock much more visible than it had been a moment before. “Fork Ben?” you asked, tempted to poke him with the implement.” “You’ve gotten eager but alright.” This time you did poke him, just quickly in the shoulder, emphasising correct articulation as you repeated, “Fork.” “Ow, alright.” He took the cutlery from you, “you’re the one who was talking about cunts though. Can’t blame me for mishearing.” Before you could do more than huff in response Ben quickly said, “So, you gonna explain this place to me? Because I can tell you, if we’re caught trespassing here, we’ll definitely end up in the papers and that sort of publicity is much less fun than being seen at a nice restaurant.”

You shook your head as you settled back with your own plate, “No, we have permission to be here. Hows the food by the way?” “Incredible. Can’t believe I haven’t heard of them before.” “Well they don’t have any Michelin stars so maybe that’s why. And don’t you start telling your rich friends about it. I don’t want you ruining my favourite Thai place.” Ben laughed, “So when you say we have permission to be here what do you mean?” “Well, I grew up in this area actually. One street over, but I used to come to this spot a lot. It was designed to be a little community garden, there’s still some planters over along the fence, but mostly it gets used for street parties and things, so usually it was empty. I used to come here when I wanted to be alone. It seemed so secret and secluded and, I don’t know, kind of magical I guess. I mean, now I know it wasn’t quite as secret as I thought. The house that we’re behind can see directly between those two trees,” you pointed at them, “and the old couple who used to live there were friends with my parents, so they’d keep an eye on me. And then when I was a bit older I did some baby sitting for their daughter who eventually moved back into the house to look after her parents and who still lives there now since she inherited it.” “So she can see us? Didn’t know you were into exhibitionism.” “She’s overseas at the moment. But our families have kept in contact and when I said I had a date I wanted to bring here she said it’d be fine.” “Condemning silence about exhibitionism which I’ve definitely filed away. But this place is nice. A little dirty perhaps, but nice.” He had another mouthful and then said, “So, why exactly did you bring me here?” “Isn’t that obvious?” He hummed thoughtfully, “Because you’re a dirty girl who likes doing it outside? Because you didn’t want me to have home ground advantage? Because you don’t like the idea of other women having me and this way you get me all to yourself? Am I getting close?” “I wanted to see you away from the cameras and the fawning models and the arseholes you call friends. I wanted a nice, normal sort of a night where we weren’t going to end up on the front page of every gossip website. And I wanted to see if you were a prick even without an audience.” “Please, you like it” he scoffed teasingly, “And I don’t understand what you’ve got against having your photo taken. I told you last time that being seen is half the fun. I mean, don’t me wrong, this is nice too. Just a bit boring in comparison.” “Mmm, well I’m sure there’ll be plenty of articles speculating on where you were tonight since no one’s got a picture.” Ben perked up a little at the idea, “That’s a good point. Maybe a quiet night every so often isn’t a bad idea.”

For the next little while, as you finished your dinner, Ben oscillated between total sweetheart and utter dickhead, as though he were playing Double Dutch with the line between. You’d hoped that getting him on his own would discourage some of the behaviours he’d displayed last time you’d been with him. If he wasn’t around his idiot friends, he’d have no one to objectify women with. If you weren’t at a restaurant, none of his previous or prospective conquests could remind him of wild nights that he’d then tell you all about. If he couldn’t throw money around in order to buy your company for the night, he’d have to offer stimulating conversation and a genuine reason for your interest instead. But apparently it was not as cause and effect as you’d assumed and Ben still managed to do all the things you’d hoped to avoid. And if anything, being alone with him with no other women to distract made him even more intent on getting you out of your clothes. He suggested first that dinner would taste better eaten off your tits. And then when you tried to come up with a new topic of conversation, he decided to reminisce about a time he’d seduced a TV personality on the set of a cooking show after they’d both been judging it. And every time you took a sip of champagne he’d watch as if telepathically trying to get you drunk. The annoying thing was that in between he was absolutely delightful. You knew there was a decent man buried beneath the layers of wankery his affluent lifestyle had imbued him with. But it was only after he smiled charmingly, leaned in close, and suggested you give him a quick handy if you weren’t going to lift your skirt, that you grew fed up enough to voice the opinion you’d formed about his style of flirting. “Y’know, I thought you’d be better at it.” “Better at what?” he asked suspiciously, “I can assure you I’m incredible at it, you just need a proper demonstration.” “No not that. Flirting. I mean, that is what you’re trying to do isn’t it?” “Obviously,” he said, taken aback. “I guess you’ve never had to really try have you? You were blessed with looks and money. Probably never been turned down in your life, even when you should have been.” “What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you actually are as dumb as the rest of them. And here I was thinking fucking your brains out would be an actual accomplishment.” “No, I just….it’s not good flirting. You realise that right?” “What do you mean not good flirting? It works every time.” “No, I think it’s the money that works every time. Being rich means you can get away with a lot of other bullshit.” When he seemed likely to try and contradict you, you spoke over the top of him, “Listen, I know I can’t speak for every woman you hit on but I can tell you that if an average looking guy with an average amount of money tried to flirt the way you do, he would be shot down. Very, very quickly. For the most part women don’t want to be degraded by random guys they go out with. And they don’t want to hear about all your other conquests when you’re hitting on them.” “Well what would you know,” he said, crossing his arms in sullen defensiveness.

You turned up the condescension, “Aww baby, I get it. You’ve never had to learn how to keep a girl interested without buying her attention." Ben was still pouting but his expression had changed, less cocksure. “It’s okay baby, I’ll keep you in line.” Ben gave half a nod but then paused, “Hey, wait. Stop making me feel subby, I’m meant to be domming tonight.” You laughed at how he sounded almost like he was going to throw a tantrum, “but it’s so easy and fun.” “Well turning you into a fucked out cockslut will be fun too.” There was a short pause and then Ben, much more seriously said, “But you really think my flirting is bad?” “I hate to break it to you but, kinda yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not all bad. You just need some work. Sometimes you take things a bit far with the teasy banter.” “Like when?” “Hmmm well, just before when you were bragging about how expensive your suit is – which is pretty unsexy by the way – and then I countered with a joke about having the best cunt in the world. Personally I didn’t mind your come back about making me behave or whatever. It was a little crass maybe but not too much more than what I’d said, and since we both know I’m letting you take charge tonight it was a bit hot. But then you took it too far by inventing a scenario in which you would have the chance to compare me to other women. We went from hot to ick in a matter of seconds.” “I’m pretty sure I was implying that you would win.” “Didn’t really sound like it and absolutely not the point. How can I put it? When you talk to me like I’m a normal human being not something put in front of you for your sexual gratification, when we have a proper conversation with a little bit of banter, that’s fun and enjoyable and makes me want to sleep with you. But then you’ll tell me about some other woman you had sex with or you’ll make a derogatory comment about my friend, whom you’ve not even properly met, or you’ll act like you expect me to get my tits out as, I don’t know, decoration while you eat. Basically anything to imply that the only reason you’re even here with me is to have sex.” “But that was the agreement.” “I know. And I am totally fine with having a night out with the expectation it’ll end in sex. But it would be nice, and it would make me want to fuck you more, if you acted like getting laid wasn’t the only thing you care about. Especially because sometimes it’s like you don’t even care who you have sex with as long as you get off, like you have no interest in if I enjoy it, you just want to use me cause I'm there.” “And that’s bad?” “As a flirting technique yes.” “But it’s a complement? And I’ve been with loads of women who say being used is hot.” “Well it’s not the nicest complement ever. And I’m not saying it isn’t hot in some situations. But not everyone likes it and even women who do enjoy it don’t necessarily want it all the time or with someone they’ve never slept with before.” “Lighten up, it’s a bit of fun and I always get them off." “Yeah but you imply that you don’t care if they cum or not which makes you seem like a bit of an asshole. Plus sometimes it can come off a little rapey. Less like a ‘I don’t care if you cum’ and more of a ‘I don’t care if you actually want it’ type thing. I don’t think I need to tell you why that’s unattractive.” “I- no- how,” Ben spluttered before he finally managed, “I would never!” “I’m not saying you have and I’m not saying you would. But sometimes you can come off a bit like that, even if it’s well intentioned. Last time we went out you pinned me down in the back of your car, your hand on my throat, and told me I was going to do everything you wanted. You were practically a stranger, I didn’t know where we were, I had no quick way of leaving partly because we were in your car and partly because of the stupidly high shoes I was wearing. It was kind of threatening. I mean I know that wasn’t your intention but…” you trailed off letting Ben absorb what you’d said.

“I really didn’t realise that’s how I sounded, I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. I was never scared or anything, I didn’t think you would rape me. And I don’t say this to accuse you of something or to be mean. I’m just sick of some of the things you’ve been saying, and I think you deserve to know that what you think is cheeky flirting can come across differently to the women you’re flirting with. "Um, well, thanks I guess. ‘Spose it is better for me to know. Don’t want to get cancelled or whatever, father would kill me. So, do you want me to take you home now?” “What? No, not at all.” “I don’t want you to think you have to sleep with me. If you want to end tonight early, I’m okay with that.” “Oh, baby, no, that’s not what I want. I came here knowing I’d end up in your bed and I think we can still have fun. Besides, I’m still eating.” “Are you sure? Wouldn’t think you’d still be up for it after everything you said.” “To tell the truth I'd really love to dom you now. Punish you for some of the gross bullshit you’ve said, put you in your place again. But we made a deal and I’m very happy to hold to it.” “Really? I think you killed my boner.” You giggled, “Well if you don’t want to, we can just finish dinner and you can drop me home. But I think I can get you back up.” Ben eyed you suspiciously, “How?” “I train you to behave better.” He shifted surreptitiously but didn’t say anything. “We stay here, finish dinner, finish his bottle of champagne, talk for a bit. But every time you say something I would consider bad flirting technique, I will do something to remind you to be better. Pull your hair, maybe edge you, whatever will get the message across.” “I guess that could be fun.” Ben said, trying to sound as if he didn’t mind and failing, “Not really the deal we made though.” You laughed, “Are you telling me that wouldn’t make you want revenge? Being edged and teased when you were meant to be in charge. Wouldn’t that rile you up. Make you want to turn the tables, show me who’s boss. I mean, all your cocky dom behaviour is what got me wanting to tie you up last time, but maybe it doesn’t work like that for you.” “Oh! I hadn’t thought of it like that.” “Because you like when I tell you what to do.” “No. Well maybe a bit. But mostly because I feel bad and thought I should just do what you want so you’d know I wouldn’t, like, hurt you or whatever. I mean, I would have expected another night for you to make it up to me but…” “It is tempting but I’ll admit I might have some ulterior motives for letting you dom me,” you leaned closer to Ben as if you were about to reveal a big secret, “You can learn a lot about how to control a guy by letting him control you. So I’m happy to let you do virtually anything you want to me. With a few exceptions.” “What sort of exceptions?” “I don’t mind anal play,” you dropped into a more serious tone rather than the sultry one you’d slipped into, “but I haven’t done any prep for it so none of it tonight please. Also, I would prefer any marks left are in easy to hide places. Concealer can be bloody expensive and I don’t want to waste any on whatever hickeys and bruises you want to leave. And I’m not super into choking. I don’t mind a hand on my neck but no squeezing if possible.” Ben hummed, “But everything else is on the cards? Mouth and cunt? Spanking? Hair pulling? Tying you up?” “Mmhmm. Whatever you want. As soon as we’re back in that car of yours. Of course, if you’re feeling all subby then that could be what you want.” A low rumble emanated from Ben’s throat as if he were growling and it made you intrigued and a little wet. But you did your best to play it cool, “See, looks like we’re fixing your boner already.”

Fortunately for you, it seemed to take Ben a little while to grasp just what you considered inappropriate flirting. At first you kept your reminders small, giving him firm taps and small pinches, maybe cutting him off to tell him to try again. But, when the lessons didn’t seem to be sticking, you ramped it up a little. By the time you were finished with the food and had moved on to finishing the champagne, he once again tried to describe a night he’d spent with another women, going into unnecessary detail about her figure in less than polite terms. You let him talk as you undid his zip and reached into his pants. Ben hummed as your fingers stroked along his already semi hard length, easily pulled free since he’d not worn underwear either, “Your gonna try and outdo her now are you?” he asked, seemingly having forgotten your threats, “Hope you know how to suck properly cause she was an expert.” You didn’t respond, just kept focused on the handjob as Ben went back to describing what the young woman had done to him. His voice became strained as he got more excited, his cock well and truly hard within your grasp, beads of precum at his tip. “Why’d you stop?” he groaned when you removed your hand before he could finish. “I told you I’d edge you.” “I thought you were bluffing,” he admitted, his face flushed. “Oh I never joke about edging baby. Especially when I’m using it to correct bad behaviour.” “What’s to stop me just finishing myself off?” “Well then you obviously wouldn’t need me at all tonight.” Ben’s hand hovered over his cock for a moment before he moved it aside. “Good boy. Now tell me more about that art show you mentioned. Did you say there was an auction?”

“Um, yeah.” He blinked like he was trying to get his brain to switch thought, “Father thinks I should be seen at fundraisers and charity events more than at clubs and restaurants so I mostly went to keep him off my back. It was mostly pretty boring but I ended up winning this stunning painting, only good piece of the night. Very detailed nude. The tits on her, phwoar. I even met the model who posed for it. Wanted to com-” Ben cut himself off as you began wanking him again. “Sorry.” “Thank you for apologising baby,” you sped your hand up, figuring since he’d caught himself before he said anything really bad you wouldn’t draw this one out. “You can stop, I didn’t say anything.” “Aww baby, I still have to edge you. Otherwise you’ll never learn.” Ben swore when you did release him, his breath heavy as he said, “That wasn’t fair. I wasn’t even going to say anything bad. Besides your tits are better. Not as big but I’ve touched both and yours are better. No, no, please.” “You can come up with a better complement than that.” You sighed, as if edging him was a chore you didn’t enjoy. “Fucking bitch. I know this is just cause I’ve got the best cock you’ve ever had and you wanted an excuse to touch it.” “Amazingly, that’s worse. And it’ll cost you another three edges. One for calling me a bitch. One for being so far up your own ass you think I couldn’t possibly have had better. And one because I know you’re enjoying this and that’s why you keep saying the douchiest shit.” You pulled your hand away, “Thats one.” Ben whined when you started on the next, the break between only short. “Don’t cum,” you reminded him, “it will not stop me, I’ll just overstimulate you instead. Maybe then you’ll really learn your lesson.” “Please, please, close,” Ben managed to whimper, and you pulled your hand away again to reward him. Ben whined and pounded his fist against the ground once, but he managed to keep whatever thoughts he was having to himself. He was clearly learning. “Just one more, okay baby?” Ben nodded, leaning back on his elbows. His cockhead was dark and precum dripped down his shaft. He wouldn’t last if you began another edge too soon so you decided to toy with him in other ways while you waited. Pushing yourself to your knees, you gathered the hem of your dress in your fists and slowly began to raise it. “Wasn’t sure I believed you,” Ben said, not quite managing to sound as cocky as he had before the edges but making a valiant attempt “Good to know you can follow instructions.” He reached a hand out as if to touch your naked pussy but you tutted and grabbed his wrist. “Not yet, baby.” you shuffled closer, keeping the front of your dress lifted as you placed a knee on either side of his legs. “Now edge yourself for me.” Ben groaned with longing as he looked at your cunt, but then he switched to glaring at you as he did as you’d said, slowly working his hand along his shaft, aided by precum and a little of his own spit. You’d been fully prepared to rub yourself along his cock or even against his thigh if he’d made a fuss, but he hadn’t even tried to argue. He was clearly planning your demise, if his expression was anything to go by, but you had expected that and only minded in so much as you were missing out on the subby little face he made when you’d had him last and he’d given in completely. But you let him go, occasionally instructing him, but mostly just watching his reactions, seeing if you could pick when he was close. It didn’t take long for him to get there, whining as he pulled his hand back. “Good boy,” you let your dress drop again, leaning forward to carefully tuck his leaking cock back into his pants, hoping that just your touch wouldn’t set him off.

Settling back onto the rug you continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, sipping at your champagne. Ben drank his a little faster, still staring daggers at you from over the rim of his glass, even when responding to you. But he seemed to have learnt his lesson. Once or twice he started to say something but cut himself off and changed tact, and you ended up having a genuinely pleasant chat. He was still flirty, still explicit about how much he wanted to fuck you, just less obnoxious about it. You didn’t have to hear about any more of his previous sexual escapades at any rate, and he was attentive enough to make you feel like sex was only most of what he cared about. Finally, you decided to put him out of his misery and see what he had in store for you.  “Bottles empty."  “I’ve got more back at the hotel” Ben said, catching on instantly – the bottle had been empty for a little while.   “Perfect,” you smiled and let him help you to your feet, collecting the rubbish in the bag from the Thai place and dropping it into a bin out on the street as he hurried you back to the car. The driver stubbed out a cigarette on the road when he saw you approaching and was holding the door open by the time you reached him. 

You were barely inside when Ben put his hand on your knees, pushing your legs open. “Already?” you asked, breath hitching as he exposed you. “Are you kidding? After what you did tonight, you think I’d wait?” he leaned in closer, one hand sliding up your thigh as the other remained firm on your knee so you couldn’t close your legs again, “After last time you really think I wouldn’t be itching to get my hands on you? You got something no one else has had and I’m so fucking annoyed that I liked it. I went home so pissed off after we docked because I know that you could have me on my knees, at your beck and call, in an instant. And I can’t have you out there bragging about it, telling anyone else, or I’m ruined. Especially because I also love domming sluts. Now, we did your quiet little dinner thing, I listened to you criticise me and imply I don’t satisfy my women. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I let you have some fun at my expense. You were obviously so desperate to get my cock out that you had to make up an excuse to touch me,” his fingers stroked against your cunt and he smirked as if your wetness was proving him right, “but that’s okay. I like my whores desperate.” You wanted to interrupt him, to tell him that he was wrong, or better yet to steal control from him again, but as soon as you opened your mouth his palm was covering it. “Shhh no, it’s my turn to talk. I think it’s time for you to have a lesson, a hard lesson, in what it means to be my whore. That was our deal anyway. So you’re going to be quiet and do what I want. Nod if you consent.” You decided you must have got through to him at least a little bit since he was now trying to make consent clear, it was a far cry from when he’d last had you pinned down in his limo anyway, and you had agreed to it beforehand. So you nodded. “You’re going to be an eager and willing slut for me aren’t you?” You nodded but it wasn’t enough for Ben who moved his hand away and ordered “repeat what you are.” “You’re eager and willing slut. Sir.” “That’s what I like to hear. And you will enjoy everything I do to you. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise. Now show me your cunt again.” He sat back and you readjusted yourself in the seat, hitching your dress up as you spread your legs wider. Ben hummed in appreciation, “Touch yourself for me.” You swallowed thickly and did as he asked, stroking your fingers over your lips, already a little wet from teasing him. But Ben expected more, “Do it properly. You know how big I am, get yourself ready so I can fit.”

It made you want to roll your eyes but you resisted the urge, ready to play along like you’d promised. Instead, you kept eye contact with him as you stuck your fingers in your mouth, slicking them up with saliva before moving them back down to your cunt. On another day you might have been able to use the position to your advantage, make him so eager for you with your display that you could take charge before he realised what was happening. You were certain that if you’d made Ben watch you fingering yourself last time he would have turned submissive before you even made it onto the yacht. But he seemed determined to give you a taste of your own medicine today. He made a pleased sound and just watched. There was definitely a tension to him – something in the way he sat back from you and how his hand rested on the edge of the seat as if he were about to dig his fingers into the soft leather to keep from giving in – but he kept up the appearance of nonchalance. Which made you less sure of your assessment, and more worried about what he had in store for you. By the time you were adding a third finger, you felt very flustered and warm. Ben hadn’t looked away once. He’d relaxed more, content with watching despite how he was straining against the fabric of his pants. He’d made a couple of comments to either instruct you more specifically, or to gloat about how following orders suited you. “You like to play at taking charge, but we both know you want a man like me to control you.” You shook your head but your defiance was undercut by a whine. Ben just laughed, “you’re cunt agrees with me. I can see how wet you are. I can hear it. Don’t think you’re wet enough to handle my cock yet though. Guess I should give you a hand.” He’d been slowly rolling up his sleeve as he spoke but once it was up he quickly moved to take over. His body boxed you in against the seat and he pulled your fingers free, replacing them with his own. You half expected him to reach for your throat like last time but he didn’t. He did however shove three large fingers into your cunt, making you whine a little at the extra stretch of them. “Knew you needed help,” he smirked as he began fingering you relentlessly, his movements shallow and fast but reaching deeper. After a few rapid strokes he added in a little curl of his fingers against your front wall and you moaned suddenly. The look Ben gave you was his most insufferable yet, entirely too pleased with himself, but there wasn’t much you could do since he was making you feel so good.

Entirely too quickly he stopped and you looked around confused, wondering if you’d arrived already.  Ben didn’t answer, more concerned with getting his pants undone and pushing them down.   You were about to suggest that maybe he was the desperate one when he sat down and beckoned you over.   “You wanted it so bad, whore, here you go.” When you didn’t move straight away he clicked his fingers, “I know it's a monster but your cunt can take it. C’mon.”  You moved closer and Ben grabbed your hips, manhandling you onto his lap, groaning as you sank down he shaft.  Your back was to Ben, so you braced your hands on his knees, assuming you were meant to ride him. But he stopped you, wrapping an arm around you to keep you still, “no don’t move. You can warm me for a bit while I explain the trouble you’re in.”  You squirmed, not out of a strong desire to exhaust yourself riding him, more to show he wouldn’t have it too easy, even if you had agreed to submit. Ben’s grip remained tight but his other hand did slip down to your pussy, his fingers finding your clit with surprising ease and rubbing it lightly. Not firm enough to get you very far but enough to make you want more.   “You’re going to get a taste of your own medicine. I’m going to make you wait, and I’m going to make you beg, and I’m going to have you as much as I can tonight. And maybe again in the morning if you’re lucky.”  “How do you know I’ll beg?”  “Well if you don’t that’ll be your problem. Because you won’t be cumming until you do. But, see, I’ll get off as much as I want. Your little edging game means that even just being in you has me close already. It gave me some ideas too.” That was when he started rubbing your clit properly, his fingertips pressing against it, pulling you closer to the edge.   You knew it wouldn’t last, that he’d stop before you got anywhere near orgasm, but that didn’t change how disappointing it was when he did. Especially because you involuntarily clenched around his cock at the sudden lack of stimulation, and heard Ben groan in your ear.  “God you feel good when I deny you,” he said as he started again.   You quickly lost track of how many edges you had and how long you’d been in the car.   Ben hadn’t had the satisfaction of hearing you beg, but he’d made you whine and whimper. And he’d had more actual satisfaction than you, managing an orgasm just from the wet warmth of you tightening around him a few times. He’d gone rigid for a moment as he reached his release but then he’d recovered himself and gone right back to edging you. You’d tried to clench around him more intentionally, hoping to overstimulate him a little, but if he felt much he didn’t let on. Which meant that by the time he pushed you from his lap you could feel a combination of his cum and your slick on your thighs and dripping from your cunt.   The car pulled up as Ben said, “Clean yourself up,” tossing you a few tissues from a pocket inside his suit jacket, “Can’t have you dripping through the foyer.”  That felt more humiliating than anything else he’d done or said, especially because of how horny and wet you were, but Ben didn’t seem to notice as he tucked himself away again and smoothed out his suit.   Once you’d straightened yourself up as much as you could in the confines of the limo, Ben helped you out, once again acting the gentleman as he offered you his arm.

You tried to act as normal as possible as you walked through the foyer of what was obviously a five star hotel, an ambitious goal considering what had happened on the drive there and how fancy the place seemed.  "Do you live here?” you asked, hoping that having a conversation to focus on would help with the image you were attempting to cultivate.   Ben shook his head as you approached the lifts, “No, I have a house. Father bought it for me when I turned 18. He thought it would do me good to live on my own or something. But I never take the women I fuck there.”  You blinked, surprised, “why not?”  “If I was dating them it would be different, and in fact one of my exes did move in there with me for a while. But one night stands don’t get to see where I live. I permanently keep the penthouse suite here for getting my dick wet. That’s how you know you’re one of my whores.” He didn't give you a chance to respond, pulling you into a demanding kiss, his hands roaming over your arse until the elevator dinged at his floor.  

It was a short walk to his door and Ben already had the keycard out by the time you reached it, clearly eager for more. He took just enough time to place a do not disturb hanger on the door handle before he pushed you to your knees right there in the entry way. When you looked up he was working on unbuckling his pants again, his cock already hard as he pulled it out, his quick refractory time a result of the edges, or so you assumed.   “I’m sure you’ve got some little plan to get on top going on in your head right now, Y/N,” he said as he worked on his pants, “But I assure you it won’t be happening tonight, so I think a little test is in order. You need to prove you can submit before you go any further.”  You nodded meekly, already horny and resigned to your fate.   “Well go on, suck.”  You shuffled forward, feeling Ben’s large fingers twisting softly in your hair to guide you. Bracing yourself for his fist to tighten or for him to force you down his shaft, you pressed your lips to his tip. But he defied your expectations, his hands leaving you altogether once he had you in place. It was strange but you didn’t complain, focusing instead on his cock.  Ben sighed in pleasure as you brought a spit wet palm up to stroke his shaft, your mouth busy becoming acquainted with his tip, but otherwise he made little acknowledgement of your actions. Instead he preoccupied himself getting undressed.   You felt more than saw him shimmy out of his jacket, flinging it unceremoniously to the floor behind him. Next came the sound of his wristwatch being placed, much more carefully, on the hall stand beside you. A moment later his cufflinks joined it. When he took off his dress shirt you had to pause your bobbing, letting him fall from your lips as you pulled back to watch. He did have a very nice chest, you remembered that from last time, and you were sure he’d take your looking as a complement.   Ben flashed you a pleased look as he noticed you, allowing you to watch as he slipped the shirt from his arms and dropped it to the floor, but once it was off he considered the show over. His fist was once again in your hair, this time much more forcefully tugging you back towards his cock.   “I didn’t tell you to stop.” he drawled as you got your lips around his tip and felt his palm pushing you further down his length.   You managed okay to start but without being able to control your pace as much you couldn’t keep from gagging as you took Ben deeper.   Ben hummed, clearly satisfied with the sound, his hand loosening a little as a reward.   You took the hint and found a rhythm that pleased him, working yourself up and down his shaft, your hand stroking whatever wasn’t in your mouth. You gagged a few more times as you pushed yourself further, but Ben definitely enjoyed it when you did.  All of a sudden he stopped you, both hands in your hair to keep you from moving.   “I think you’re ready now, hands off.”  You had no idea what he thought you were ready for but you did as he said, partly because you wanted to prove him wrong about your ability to follow orders, but mostly because you were very turned on and wanted to hurry up and get to the bit where he’d fuck you for real. The thought was distracting enough that you were caught off guard as he pressed his hips forward, pushing more of his cock than you were ready for towards your throat. You gagged again and Ben groaned. 

“Good girl, just take it.” He said grunted as he thrust into your mouth again, and then again, not worrying about going slow.  Your hair was tangled tight in his fingers, keeping you from moving too far from where he wanted you. Instinct made you try to lean back a little but aside from Ben’s grip, you were too close to the door to get very far. You heard Ben’s knuckles bump against it, the solid wood an intimidating barrier behind you that made it clear you had little choice but to do as Ben wanted. You assumed that if you’d tapped out, Ben would have let you, but you didn’t want to. Ben had been right when he’d said it was hot to be used. You were already very wet but your pussy ached as he fucked your mouth, denying you what you really wanted so he could take what would satisfy him. Each shift of his hips made indecent wet sounds as saliva built up and dripped onto your chin and he pulled more gags from your throat. Tears pooled in your eyes but Ben didn’t seem to care. He kept up fucking you for longer than you might have expected if you’d been able to think clearly enough to guess. Especially with how turned on he must have been, just based on the groans and moans he made as he used you. But finally Ben seemed to reach a limit of just how much pleasure he could withstand. His hips sped up, and he grunted each word on a new thrust as he said, “Gonna fucking cum. You better fucking swallow.”  You blinked more tears from your eyes which Ben took as compliance with his wants as he got himself off, rutting against your tongue until he stopped, keeping you pinned between his hips and the door as he filled your mouth with cum. Ben pulled out quickly which you were thankful for. You’d been able to steal breaths throughout the blowjob but had unwittingly held your breath as he finished, and were eager to be free. He took half a step back, hands rising to his hips as he stared you down, daring you to recoil at the taste of his cum or worse still to spit it out. Between heavy breaths through your nose your swallowed, fighting the urge to wipe your eyes or face.  “Good girl,” Ben cooed as if he’d expected a brattier display, “I knew that fem dom shit was just a cry for attention. This was what you really wanted all along.”  You shook your head so that you could at least say you tried to disagree, but Ben was more concerned with tucking his cock away again and missed the display of defiance altogether. Once he was sorted he helped you up, taking a moment to examine your face before dragging his thumbs under your eyes to clear up the mascara that had transferred there.  “Pointless,” he muttered softly when he realised he was mostly just spreading the mascara around, “I’m sure it wont be the last you cry tonight. Unless of course you want to admit you’re nothing more than a desperate whore and beg for my cock.”  “I’m not begging,” you frowned, sure he’d be quicker to give in once he got close to your pussy.   Ben just smiled, “You will. For now I want you on the bed.”  You made to move down the hall but he stopped you before you made it more than a step.   “Wait. There’s a rule I have. Whores aren’t allowed to wear clothes past this point. I might make an exception for nice lingerie but not tonight. Not for you.” He didn’t even give you the satisfaction of stripping for him, pulling the zip of your dress down and tugging on your dress until it slipped down to join the mess of discarded menswear on the floor, quickly followed by your bra. “Mmmm,” he hummed as his eyes raked over your naked body, “Perfect. Bed, now.” A spank landed on your arse cheek and you hurried ahead of him, able to feel Ben’s eyes on your arse for the whole length of the corridor.  

The upside of being on the bed before Ben had even entered the room was that you had ample time to admire how good he looked without a shirt. You openly ogled him as he moved to the cupboard, taking a moment to dig something out, though his delicious back was blocking your view of what it was. Although your preoccupation with his naked chest also meant you weren’t as observant as you might otherwise have been. You were too distracted to notice him tuck something into his pocket, and you entirely missed it when he began speaking, only realising when he seemed to address you.  “-only fair I get to do the same to you, right?”  You blinked, knowing you’d missed something but not wanting to let on because you knew he’d be a dick about it.   As it was he raised his eyebrows and prompted you to respond, “Well? It’s a simple question. You’re not normally this ditzy, did sucking me off make you too horny to think?”  You shook your head, “No Sir, I thought it was rhetorical.”   For a moment you weren’t sure your gambit had worked but then Ben laughed, “Almost a shame you’re not so cockdumb yet. But maybe you’re right,” Ben strode around to the top right corner of the bed, squatting slightly to pull something from under the mattress, “My expectation was that you’d agree.” He grabbed your wrist and tugged it back, fitting a black loop around it.   As he tightened the restraint you realised what he’d been talking about. That this was pay back for when you’d tied him to the yacht’s bed. He’d been eager for it then, practically walked you through tying sailor worthy knots with the rope, but you couldn’t blame him for wanting to see you bound to his bed in the same way. So you just wriggled yourself into a little more comfort as he rounded the bed and restrained your other wrist too.   “Now what are you going to do to me?” you pouted at him coyly, feeling a little like you were poking a bear.   “I already told you.” he said, kneeling on the end of the bed, “I’m going to make you beg.”  That was when he revealed what he’d taken from his cupboard and tucked into his pocket. The vibrator wasn’t huge but it was powerful, making you jolt as he pressed it to your clit.  You squirmed but the wrist cuffs kept you from being able to move too far from its buzzing and you couldn’t help but moan as your long denied orgasm built.   Ben quickly stopped the toy, replacing it with his fingers, dragging them through the wetness between your lips, “Go on whore, tell me you want my cock in this needy cunt.”  You shook your head, biting your lip to keep from moaning again as his fingers entered you easily. He thrust them in and out of you a few times before bringing the vibrator back to your clit. Whenever Ben sensed you were getting close he’d stop touching you entirely. Sometimes even before you were close, preferring to hedge his bets and stop early rather than risk giving you the orgasm. It would undercut his dominance if you came earlier than he wanted, even if he ruined it. So he was careful with how he edged you. He alternated between his fingers and the vibe. When he felt you were enjoying yourself too much he’d intentionally ignore your clit. You’d be left with three of his fingers pumping into you, hearing Ben make pleased little hums when he found spots within you that made you whine or gasp. When that didn’t seem to be enough to make you give in he upped the ante, pressing the tip of the vibrator into you. It didn’t stretch you as much as his fingers (or his cock) did, but the patterns of vibrations when he turned it on made up for what it lacked in size.

While you’d already decided you’d let Ben have it his way, part of you still wanted him to have to work for it. Unfortunately, any ideas you had about withstanding his onslaught went out the door very quickly. You were way too worked up to hold out and the combination of his fingers and the toy he was fucking into your cunt had you begging in only a few short moments. At your first, “please Sir,” Ben laughed. “Embarrassing how easy that was,” he smirked, “I expected more but I guess you really are just one of my whores.” You whined as he removed the vibrator and his fingers, worried the edging would continue all night. “S’pose it’s about time I fuck you properly. Lord knows im stiff for it.” You watched as he undid his zip and finally removed his pants, his cock semi hard again, and you couldn’t keep yourself from begging again. “Only one question left. How should I do it? Flip you over and take you from behind?” He wrapped his fist around his cock and you whimpered as he stroked himself harder, “Make you ride me? I know how much you like being on top. Think I like the idea of seeing you under me too much for that. This time anyway. No, I know what I want.” His breath came a little harder as he moved onto the bed, cock still in hand as he pushed your legs open again. “I want you to watch me while I fuck you. I want you right where you are, tied up, incapable of dominating me. You’ll soon see how much you like it.” As he spoke he pressed against your hole, teasing you one final time before he finally gave you what you wanted. His cock slipped in easily, and Ben’s groan was nearly as loud as yours. At another time, with free hands and a clearer mind, you might have enjoyed that more, knowing Ben was as desperate as you were. But after so much edging and teasing, you could only focus on how good and full you felt. Ben’s eagerness extended beyond just sounds of delight too. Any plans he might have had to draw it out, go slow and deep to torment you more, went out the window as soon as he felt you clench around his shaft. His hips jolted forward, cock sinking into your audibly wet cunt, and he couldn’t help but do it again and again, falling into a rapid rhythm. Barely half his length made it in you, his thrusts too rapid to allow him to get much deeper, but it didn’t matter. The feeling of him dragging against your walls would have been enough, but Ben also added a thumb to your clit. He rubbed you messily, more concerned with how it felt to be inside you, but you didn’t need much stimulation to get close again. “Cum,” he said simply when you moaned about how good he felt. He fucked you through the first orgasm, praising you for being such a good whore, not even relenting when you were panting, no longer arching under him. “You’re going to cum again, sweetheart” he ordered, pounding into you with a particularly hard thrust that made your head spin. A slight breathlessness was the only sign he was at all worked up, which just added to his control, and all you could do was nod in agreement, sure you would cum as many times as he wanted no matter how hard it became. Ben chuckled, clearly pleased with how fucked out and compliant you were, but focused his energy into fucking you rather than any banter. You squirmed a little more, a touch sensitive after your first orgasm, but not uncomfortably so, and your second came up quickly too, your body eager for release after being denied it for so long. Ben didn’t last much longer either, the feeling of your cunt tightening round his cock again enough to undo him. He groaned more and more as he got closer, finally pressing himself as deep as you could take him as he hit his release with a satisfied moan.

Ben collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you comfortingly into the mattress as his lips found your neck. He was breathing harder now, the puffs of warmth tickling your skin.   You groaned as you tried to shift under him, your thighs aching from being spread open, but you found you couldn’t close them since Ben was still filling you.   “Uh uh uh,” he tutted into your skin, “Didn’t say you could shut your legs.” He pushed himself back up, leaning back to look at himself disappearing into you, “You look good like this.”  You shivered as he ran a finger around where you were stretched around his length, your wrists jolting in the bonds.   Ben remained thoughtfully silent for a moment, absentmindedly touching your pussy and your thighs, as he took in your dishevelled and restrained appearance.   “I think I want to see you cum again.”   “Again?” you whimpered, partly from his touch and partly from his tone.  He answered by reaching for the vibrator again, pressing it to your clit and holding it there until he’d forced a third orgasm from you, just because he could.  It was good but a lot, your body more sensitive now, and unable to move as freely as you’d have liked. There was no escaping the stimulation, no shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrations or to spread them over more of your cunt than just your clit. You had to take it the way Ben wanted you to, the vibrators setting higher than you would have chosen, pressed firmly in place until your toes curled and your thighs shook.   Ben pulled out as you neared the climax, so that when you came he could watch his own release dribble onto the sheets, grinning cockily at the sight.  When he was finally satisfied, he turned the toy off and let you collapse, chuckling as he leaned over to free you from the restraints. Gently he rubbed your wrists, making sure you were okay as you gathered your senses.   “What was it you said about me not caring if my whores get off?” he asked, flopping on top of you again.  You wanted to come back with something clever but your brain was still too hazy to manage anything more than, “Oh shut up.”  “You beg real fucking pretty by the way. It’s obvious I’m the best you’ve had.”   You rolled your eyes at his smirking, the insufferable way he was speaking reigniting your desire to put him in his place, “Keep being such an ass and I’ll have to pick out a toy to use on you.” You squeaked as Ben cut you off, grabbing your cheeks so your lips were pushed into a pout.  “No. Eager and willing sluts don’t threaten their Sir’s. While you’re here, you’re mine,” his hand covered your cunt possessively, “I’m going to want you again tonight and I expect you to keep being the good girl I know you secretly love being.”  You swallowed thickly, nodding in his grasp.  Ben let you go and, as if to soften his words or placate you, added, “But maybe tomorrow I’ll let you tell me some of your silly ideas, see if you can convince me they’re more fun than fucking my new toy brainless.” 

[live-at-the-rainbow]

Saturday night's the night I like

Pairings: Ben Hardy x fem!reader, Taron Egerton x reader (platonic)

Summary: Ben gets a little jealous. 2k words.

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You had worked with Taron before on Kingsman and had become quite good friends. You hadn’t seen him in a while because you were both off working on different projects, him on Rocketman and you on Bohemian Rhapsody. That is, of course, where you met Ben and hit it off near immediately; and though normally you avoided dating coworkers, Ben and you made it only a month and a half into production before you ended up in each other’s arms and have been inseparable since. It was good though, it wasn’t weird and the rest of the cast was very supportive, a little too much in fact. They were more than pleased when you shyly announced your coupling and you heard more than a few grumbles of finally or about time. Since then it had been a whirlwind of filming, press tours, premieres, and award shows. Your new little group becoming like a family as you spent so much time together, but you still kept in touch with Taron especially when he called you to excitedly gush about working with Elton again.

Now you were hurriedly slipping on your heels as Ben stood in the door frame of your bedroom, he is teasing you that the event you are getting ready for will be over by the time you finish. When you look up he is smiling at you, the event doesn’t start for another hour so you shoot him a mocking glare. Nevertheless, you grab your bag and stand moving to scurry past him, but he stalls you once you reach him with a hand of each side of your waist. He hums as he looks into your eyes, lowering his face to press his lips against yours. As he does so he slides his arms further around you and pulls your body flush against his. You break apart soon enough and you sigh resting your arms around his neck, but when he leans back in you pull your face away.

“I thought we were going to be so late, hmm?” You question him and he only groans in response dropping his head into the crook of your neck.

“Let’s just stay here, sod the whole thing, have I told you how good you look?” He says against your neck, placing a kiss on your collar.

“Yes, a few times.” He is still kissing your neck and showing zero signs of stopping, not that you necessarily want him too, but you take his face in your hands and bring him up to meet your gaze. You press another kiss against his lips, “we’ll finish this later, promise.” He grins at you and with one more stolen peck he agrees, breaking from you to reach for your coat.

By the time you get to the event it has nearly began, throughout the car ride you have been texting away with Taron and chattering on with Ben. You know Taron is going to be there and are excited both to see him and to introduce Ben, you have a hefty feeling that they will get along splendidly. The actual event itself doesn’t last very long, a quick ceremony for some production company, the real meat of the evening was in the after party. It takes over the top two floors of a luxurious penthouse with a flowing bar and spacious dance floor. Ben has brought you a drink and the two of you mill about speaking to some attendees about Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s very crowded so when you first feel a hand against your back you assume it is just someone trying to pass by.

“Well look who decided to turn up,” the familiar voice causes you to swivel around to find Taron behind you with a large grin on his face. You cheer, throwing your arms around him and he crushes you in a hug, “there she is!” You laugh and pull away, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and looking at him.

“Look at you mate! Looking fancy in your sharp suit,” he bats a hand at you and dramatically dips his head.

“Oh stop it,” he says in a put on voice but laughs along with you.

“Though I was expecting the Elton kit, where’s all the feathers and jewels?” He teases you back, telling you it’s at the dry-cleaners. He adds on that you look beautiful as well and you thank him before turning slightly back to where Ben is stood watching the exchange. You grab his hand tugging him forward slightly and turn back to Taron with a large smile as you introduce the two.

“Taron, this is Ben,” you say gesturing between them, “Ben, Taron.” They reach out to shake hands, each giving a hello. They had both heard about the other from you, you had told Ben all about working with Taron and had told Taron about your new movie and relationship. You quickly jump back into the conversation to catch up on everything that has happened since you’ve last seen each other. The banter flows as usual, even Ben is involved as you joke around about all the shenanigans that were had by the BoRhap cast. You feel like things are going really well, which fills your heart, you are also a few drinks in which means your bladder is filled as well. You excuse yourself to go to the restroom, but when you come back you find that the conversation has stalled, Ben has his phone out and Taron looks away from him out over the crowd, you can’t help but pout a little as you return. Taron catches your eye and leans in to speak over the loud music they have started to play.

“I’ve got to see go see someone I’ll catch you later, yeah?” You nod and he throws Ben a cheers mate as he leaves to move through the crowd. You turn back to Ben still frowning a bit as he puts away his phone, but carry on with your night.

It has been about an hour since and the two of you find yourselves nearing the edge of the bar, with you swaying lightly to the music and Ben chuckling at you. You spot Taron nearby and call out to him, he smiles and makes his way over, you don’t miss how Ben’s expression falls slightly. The three of you resume the conversation you had been having earlier, however Ben is a bit quieter. When a familiar song starts over the speakers you squeal and jump a bit, both Taron and you launching into the first verse of Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting.

“Come on!” He tugs you with him out onto the dance floor, you call out a hurried be right back! to Ben as you weave through to the middle of the crowd. The two of you jump and dance around like a pair of fools, belting the lyrics at the top of your lungs, several people around you joining in on the mirth. You stay out there for quite a few songs laughing and egging each other on, you’re also a little out of breath so you motion to Taron.

“I’m gonna go grab Ben, see if he wants to dance.” He gives you a thumbs up and continues to do some horrible dance move from the ‘80s. Weaving back through the crowd you spot Ben closer to the edge of the dance floor, but as you approach you notice he looks a bit sullen. He still smiles when he sees you but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You grab his hand and pull him to you, “come dance with me.” His eyes move past you for a moment then drop to the ground and he shakes his head a little.

“Nah, you look like you’re already having a good time.” There isn’t any malice in his voice but you can tell he is upset.

“What’s wrong?” You question him but he isn’t budging so you grab him and pull him off onto a terrace. The music isn’t as loud here and it’s mostly empty due to the frigid temperature. “Ben?” He looks up and his cheeks have gone a bit red, which normally happens when he is worked up about something.

“It’s just- I don’t-” he huffs and you raise your eyebrows at him, waiting for some sort of explanation. “I just didn’t expect you to get on so well with him.” He mumbles it so you don’t even register at first what he has said.

“With Taron? Well, yeah, we are good friends, I’ve told you this Ben.” He is shaking his head a little more.

“I know, but I didn’t think you’d be so close with him and kinda...touchy?” Even as he says it he knows it is just his own insecurity and hates that you look a little disappointed.

“That’s because we haven’t seen each other in such a long time.” You can’t help but sound defensive, Taron is your friend and you aren’t going to hide that. Ben is already scrambling to correct himself.

“I know I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that,” he puts his hands on the sides of your arms and looks down at you, “I just got a little in my head because it reminded me of us before we got together.” You sigh and place your hands on either side of his face.

“You know I love you,” he interrupts you with a quick kiss and an I know, “I don’t want you to feel upset or left out. Taron’s my mate but you are my love, okay? I do miss Taron and was excited to see him tonight but I also was really excited for you two to meet because you are important to me and I want all my friends to love you too.” You give a slight shrug and your hands drop to Ben’s neck, pulling his forehead to yours. “I was hoping you’d get along, you like the same football team.” You added as an afterthought and Ben chuckles leaning down into a kiss before returning his forehead to press against yours.

“Thank you, I love you too.” It’s whispered, his eyes are closed and he feels his anxiety drain from his body.

As the wind picks up and the sweat you had worked up from dancing vanishes you were reminded of the chilly weather and the warm party just a few feet from you. Ben notices the chill that passed through you and pulls you into him wrapping his arms around you and rubbing his hands over your sides.

“We should head back in before you freeze.” He suggests and you hum into his warm embrace.

“Will you dance with me if we go back in?” You ask and he smiles kissing the top of your head.

“Course.”

Back on the busy dance floor the two of you find Taron who whoops at your return, you sling an arm around Ben’s neck as you return to jumping along with the music. You end up dancing for nearly the rest of the night both with Ben and Taron, the two even shared a dance when Sugarhill Gang’s Apache played over the speakers. As the night ended and you made your way out you were more than delighted to find the boys in an animated conversation and you parted with plans to get together for a karaoke night soon. Waving goodbye to Taron you wrapped your arm around Ben’s and rested your head on his shoulder as you walked back to the waiting car. You couldn’t help but smile deeply as Ben looked down at you and brought his lips to yours. When he draws back he smirks suggestively but his voice is soft.

“Didn’t we leave something unfinished at home?”

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AN: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think.