giveafike - Tumblr blog

giveafike · 1 month ago

Text

good enough to eat. -B.T.S.

TLDR: You're a brat, did you know that?

Word count + info:4.9k! Dialogue, fem reader x B.T.S

Warnings + Content Ahead: NSFW - MINORS DNI! Box munching, throat f*cking, fingering, unprotected s*x, hickeys - kinda rough? Brat taming + praise kink themes.

Azzie Notes ✚: WHOO MISSED MEE!!! It's been so long, here's some smut to make it up to you all!! i'm sorry!!! we're doing things a bit different to clean up my inbox! So, i'll be combining requests (some are so similar) and I have like 3/5 parts of a long ass story for you guys too, long time coming. I'll upload an image when Tumblr lets me upload a high quality one smh.

Taglist: thank u for all ur support <33! if u wanna join the taglist, head on over here

🌙 - @le-moon-nade @anneioe @maya1the-bee @miss-d-d @hannahbanannax @mfcvbs @egevtntn @the-aizzlee @hello-missunperfect-things @joeybisbootiful @2manytabsopen @luckylzclerc @cassiesmuse @ineedafictionalman

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It had been weeks since you felt like yourself.

The kind of restlessness that started in your skin and sank deep into your chest. Where every sound grated, every face in the world seemed determined to test your patience. The cashier who talked too loudly. The car that cut you off and crawled at 20 below the speed limit. The group chat notifications are pinging nonstop when all you wanted was quiet.

But worse than all of that was him.

Not because he was doing anything wrong. He was just… there.

Everywhere.

His sneakers by the door. His gym bag half-unzipped, the smell of his cologne clinging to the air. That easy grin when he came home, late again, telling you about practice or some idiot or whatever new drama unfolded at the club.

And then? He’d eat. Shower. Drop his bundled-up towel on the floor. Crawl into bed, muscles loose, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. Out cold before you could even try to start something.

You hated yourself for how much you wanted it. Him. The weight of his hands on your hips. The drag of his mouth on your neck. The rough scrape of his stubble where your thighs were aching for friction.

It was primal. Depraved. A desperate need so thick it sat in your throat, sour and hot, threatening to spill over.

So now, standing in front of the microwave, you clutched the island edge, willing yourself to hold it together.

01:37.

Less than 2 minutes.

To your side, Ben leaned against the counter, recounting another story in that lazy drawl.

“-and I told him, ‘bro, that ain’t even a backhand, that’s a war crime,’ but he just kept hackin’ at it like a damn woodpecker. I almost-”

You closed your eyes, jaw tight. Inhale, exhale.

01:30.

“-felt bad for him. Almost. But then he’s got the nerve to say I should-”

Your head cocked a bit. “Ben.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “-Mind my own game. Like I’m the-”

Strained, you let the name push through your teeth. “Ben.”

His voice cut off. “Huh? What?”

“Can you-” your nails dug into the island, your voice coming out more like a hiss, “for once in your life just stop talking?”

He blinked. “The hell...?”

You turned to him, arms crossed tight, trying to hold the rest of you in. “You’ve been rambling since you walked in. I’m two seconds from losing my mind, and you-” you gestured at him, at his infuriatingly relaxed posture- “you don’t even notice.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “I don’t even notice what?”

“Anything! Me! This house! Your fucking mess! The fact that I’ve been holding it together by a damn thread all week while you…” You gestured at him again, words tripping over the heat rising in your chest. “...you waltz in like a loudspeaker and act like everything’s fine.”

Ben let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re actin’ like I left you for dead or somethin’. What’s your issue, huh?”

“Work,” you snapped.

Too fast.

His grin widened just slightly. “Nah.”

You cocked your head again, brows furrowed, confused. What does he mean "no"?

“Try again.” His voice was lighter than it should’ve been, teasing, and it made something in you twist tighter.

“Fuckin' traffic every day,” you said through clenched teeth.

“Uh-huh. That why you’re standin’ there like you’re fixin’ to bite my damn head off?” He shifted his weight against the fridge, arms folding across his chest. His eyes narrowed, glittering with amusement. “C’mon, what’s your real issue?”

“Ben, you're being a dick right now. Just drop it.”

“Nope.” He grinned, and you hated how smug he looked. “I think I’m onto somethin’ here. What’s got you so wound up, babe? Because I know what you're like and this isn't from work or traffic. Maybe…” his eyes swept over you, sharp and knowing now, “it’s somethin’ else.”

“Don’t,” you warned.

“Don’t what?” He was moving closer now, slow and deliberate. “Don’t call out the fact you’ve been pacing this house like a caged animal?”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” He was in front of you now, so close you could smell his cologne, faint, warm, sharp, dizzying. His head dipped, voice lowering to a near-growl. “So what’s your real issue?”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, you do. Say it.”

“I said it’s-”

“Bullshit.” His tone was calm, measured, maddening. “You're clenching that counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”

You snapped. “Fuck! I need you, Ben! Is that what you wanna hear? I need your hands, your mouth, your body- I need you so bad it hurts.”

Ben’s grin turned feral.

The microwave beeped.

“Mmm, there we go.” Ben’s voice barely scraped out of his throat before he grabbed you by the hips and hoisted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

Your thighs hit the cold island with a sharp hiss and shiver, but you barely notice. His mouth was already on you, claiming, crashing, consuming. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a warning. A release. A goddamn possession.

You gasped into it, and he took that moment to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours, one hand fisting the fabric of your shirt like he’d tear it in half if he had to.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he murmured into your mouth. “Knew you were tight and wound and needy.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging him closer. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, low and dark. “You sure?"

You tugged at his t-shirt like you were trying to rip it off him. “I swear to God, Ben-”

“You gonna threaten me now?” he growled, smirking as he pulled back just enough to yank your top up, over your head, tossing it to the floor. His eyes dropped, lingering on the swell of your chest, the flush crawling up your skin.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were stewin’ like this all week?”

You answered by pulling his head back to your mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip, biting just hard enough to make him groan.

“Damn.” He laughed against your jaw, breath warm.

His hands were everywhere now, palming over your chest, down digging into your thighs, slipping under the waistband of your shorts, dragging them halfway down your hips before you shoved them the rest of the way off with a frustrated huff.

“You gonna talk cocky the whole time?” you panted, tugging his shirt up over his abs.

“ 'Think you like it when I talk,” he said, kissing down your neck now, breath hot against your skin. “You were practically growlin’ at me to shut up, and now you’re whinin’ under me. That’s cute.”

His hand was already sliding between your thighs before any protest could've left your mouth.

Your gasp was instant, sharp, making your eyes flutter shut and he drank it in like a reward, teeth grazing your collarbone.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked,” he muttered, voice rough and reverent all at once. “Is this what all that attitude was about?”

You could barely answer. Your head fell back as his fingers moved slow and steadily, maddening.

“You’re lucky I like you mean and needy,” he whispered, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your breasts, head dipped low, fingers working. “Otherwise I’d be real offended.”

You tangled your fingers in his curls, dragging his face back up to yours, mouths crashing together again, desperate and wet and perfect. And when you broke for air, both of you breathless, Ben's shirt now thrown to the side, the microwave beeped again.

Ben looked over your shoulder and grinned.

“Dinner’s ready.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling him back in by the waistband of his shorts. “Shut up and finish what you started.”

His teeth grazed up your neck like a promise. “Yes, ma’am.”

His shorts hit the floor with a heavy thud, leaving him in his boxers but he didn’t move to press into you, not yet. Instead, his palms spread wide on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy circles against the tender skin as he dropped to his knees.

Your breath hitched. “Ben-”

“I’m havin’ dessert first,” he drawled, his Gainesville accent thick, dripping with heat. “And you’re not gonna rush me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but it died in your throat as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, soft and reverent. Another higher. Then a third, right where your thigh meets your hip. Each one is slow enough to make your toes curl against the counter edge. This would probably be the softest he'll be with you for the next while.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, hands sliding up to cup your ass, tugging you closer to the edge. “Look at you. All worked up, all wet… over me.”

“Ben, don’t-” You whined, shy.

“Don’t what? Don’t point out how desperate you’ve been?” He smirked, kissing along the crease of your thigh. “Baby, you were practically snarlin’ earlier, and now you’re quiet as a mouse.”

His mouth hovered just above where you needed him most, warm breath ghosting over slick skin. You squirmed, hips jerking forward instinctively, but his grip tightened.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he warned, voice low. “You don’t get to set the pace. You told me to finish what I started.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and firm, tongue sliding through your folds in a slow, full, deliberate stroke that had you gasping his name. His tongue traced all the way to the top, quickly circling around your clit before drawing back.

“Shit,” your hands flew to his curls, gripping tight, trying to pull him closer.

He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your clit, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Knew it,” he muttered, his mouth never leaving you. “Knew you’d taste as good as you look all pissed off in my kitchen.”

“Ben-please-”

“Please what?” His tongue flicked teasingly, maddeningly light. “Tell me, baby.”

“Please don’t stop.”

That grin curved against your skin. He buried himself deeper, mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue circling, flicking, delving and sucking until your thighs were trembling against his shoulders. One hand slipped up to your chest, squeezing your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in tandem with the rhythm of his mouth. You began grinding, rocking your hips into his face in an attempt to chase your high even faster.

“Fuck- you're-” you gasped, hips bucking.

He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark and feral.

“You’re loud now, huh? Bet the whole neighbourhood knows how bad you needed me. Say it. Say you needed me.”

“I needed you.” Your voice cracked, raw and wrecked. “I fucking need you.”

“Good girl.” His mouth was back on you instantly, faster this time, tongue lapping in hungry strokes as two fingers slid inside you, curling just right.

Your cry echoed off the kitchen walls, nails biting his scalp as your body tightened, coiling, the edge rushing at you fast and hot. Weeks. Weeks of needing this, needing to be devoured so ferociously, desperately. That familiar heat pooling in your lower belly was now slowly spreading across your body when you felt Ben's ministrations working so desperately for you.

“You’re close,” he said against your skin. “I can feel it. Gonna cum for me like this?”

“Yes-God-Ben-”

“Then do it. Now.”

A flaming white heat spread throughout your body as your orgasm hit you, causing you to flood Ben's tongue. Your hands flew to the countertop, to the edge, to his hair; to anything that would anchor you. And when you came, it was violent, your body arching off the island as he held you down, mouth and fingers relentless, dragging every last wave out of you until you were left shaking and breathless. The noises spilling from your mouth are unholy, uncouth, animal-like roars and whines. Ben continued to suck up the rest of your juices, his eyes glazed over in adoration, watching you as you came down from your high.

Ben finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, that smug grin back in full force.

“Dinner’s still waitin’,” he said, voice low and dark. “But you first.”

Before you could respond, he stood, his hips pressing hard against your core as his hands slid back to your hips.

“Now,” he growled, lining himself up. “You ready for the main course, or you need another appetiser?”

You barely managed a breath, let alone an answer. Your thighs still trembled, sensitive and aching where his mouth had wrung you out moments ago, but Ben wasn’t giving you a reprieve.

“Guess that’s a no,” he muttered, voice thick with heat, one hand gripping your ass to tug you closer across the cold marble of the island. The other wrapped tight around his cock, boxers slipping down his legs then tossed to the side as he stroked himself lazily before he pressed the blunt head against your entrance.

“Too bad. I’m fuckin’ starvin’.”

You should’ve been ready for him, you thought you were ready, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he pushed in, slow, deliberate, inch by devastating inch.

You sucked in a breath, back arching instinctively. He was thick, stretching you until the tension in your body threatened to snap. It wasn’t enough. It was too much. It was everything, all at once.

“Fuck,” you whispered, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Uh-huh.” His drawl was low, controlled, but you could feel the tight coil of restraint in his muscles. “That’s the sound I been waitin’ for.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze. Not when he was staring down at you like he had you in the palm of his hands, like he was watching every inch of your resolve peel away under his hands, his cock, his filthy mouth.

It had been too long. Too many nights lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, hot and aching, listening to him breathe deep beside you. Too many mornings biting back your irritation when his towel was on the floor, his sneakers by the door, his grin flashing as he told another practice story you couldn’t bring yourself to care about because all you wanted, needed was this.

This brutal, deep push and pull that made your toes curl against the slick marble. This stretch that burned in the best possible way. This overwhelming sense of animal satisfaction, finally being filled.

“Jesus Christ, Ben,” you gasped, gripping his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Mmm?” he muttered, that cocky grin cutting across his face. “Try again.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, his soft grunts hot in your ear, and the words dissolved into a sharp, choked moan.

But he didn’t give you time to adjust. His hands locked around your thighs, holding you in place as he pulled back and drove forward again, harder, rougher. The marble chilled your overheated skin as he set a punishing rhythm, every thrust jolting you across the island, palms splayed wide to brace yourself.

“You feel this?” he growled, his voice low and ragged against your ear. “This is what you've been needin’ all this time?”

“Yes, God-” Your voice cracked, breath catching on another sharp snap of his hips.

“Say it again.”

“I-fuck-I needed you-”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, almost smug, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing rough, fast circles that made your whole body jolt. “Whole week been actin’ like a brat ‘cause you needed this cock to straighten you out.”

“Ben-” Your cry came high and desperate now, your body wound tight as a wire.

“Say it again.” His pace didn’t falter. If anything, he pushed harder, deeper, like he wanted to ruin you.

“I needed you. I fucking needed you, Ben-”

“Atta girl.” His teeth grazed your jaw, a low growl rumbling from his chest, breath hot and filthy. “Look at you now. So fuckin’ sweet for me. So wet I can hear you every time I slide in.”

And by God, you could hear it too.

The obscene, slick sounds filling the kitchen, each wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the tile and marble, throughout the place, blending with your ragged, desperate moans.

It was too loud. It was everywhere. It was perfect.

Your mind felt split wide open, thoughts scattered like shards of glass. So much frustration, holding yourself together, biting your tongue while the world scraped at your nerves, now melting into nothing under the relentless rhythm of his hips. Every deep thrust, every grind of his pelvis against your clit made the knot in your belly tighten, sharper and hotter than before.

God, this, this is what I needed. Not yoga. Not wine. Not some half-assed attempt at masturbating. Not a hot bath with lavender bullshit.

You’d been trying to soothe a hunger that only he could feed, and now, finally, you were being devoured whole.

“Ben-” You tried to form words, but your voice broke again, cracked under the weight of him.

“Yeah, baby?” His pace never faltered. He dragged out, slow enough for your walls to clench helplessly, then drove back in fast and hard, forcing a cry from your lips.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Could only feel, the stretch, the burn, the slick glide of him splitting you open again and again. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulders, hips jerking on instinct, trying to meet his thrusts and failing as he pinned you firmly in place.

“Listen to that,” he panted, a feral edge to his voice now. “Soaked for me. Fuckin’ music to my ears.”

He’s right, your brain whispered uselessly. You’re soaked. You’re a goddamn mess. You’ve been a mess for him since the second he walked through that door and opened his mouth-

Another sharp snap of his hips cut your thoughts in half, your mouth falling open on a strangled moan.

“Ben!-I-”

“You what?” His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling fast and tight, as his cock drove in deep enough to make stars dance at the edges of your vision.

“What’s that baby? You can talk all that shit earlier but now you’re too fucked out to finish a sentence?”

You could only manage a broken whimper, and he grinned against your throat, suckling a hot, wet stripe up to your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp. You can only imagine the hickeys that'll be left for you to discover in the morning, across your breast, neck and jawline, the thought of that alone made you see stars as you let out a shaky moan.

“I know, baby,” he growled, holding you against him. “Gonna cum for me again, huh? Mess up my cock like you did my tongue?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your brain was gone, pleasure overtaking every nerve ending as your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails in their wake. He knew this all too well.

“Do it,” he ordered, thumb working your clit in ruthless tandem with his thrusts. “Cum for me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you did with his permission, under his eyes, harder than before, vision going white-hot once again as your body convulsed under him, a sob of his name breaking from your throat.

“F-fuck-! look at you,” Ben hissed, hips stuttering as your walls clamped down tight, milking him. “So perfect, so fuckin’ perfect-”

He buried himself deep one last time, his groan guttural as he came, head falling to the crook of your neck as he was spilling inside you, heat flooding your core.

For a long, quiet moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing and the faint hum of the microwave still flashing END behind you.

Ben didn’t pull away right away. He stayed pressed against you, forehead moved to rest against yours, his hands still gripping your thighs possessively.

“Guess your dinner’s cold now,” he murmured with a weak, breathless laugh.

You let out a hoarse, incredulous sound and smacked his chest. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah.” He kissed your nose, then your jaw, then your lips. “But I’m yours.”

When he finally pulled out, you shivered at the loss, and his hands steadied you instantly as your legs wobbled against the marble like they’d forgotten how to hold you.

“Stay there,” Ben said, his voice low and commanding as he pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh.

“Why?” you whispered hoarsely, body thrumming, every nerve raw and buzzing.

His lips curved against your skin, hands tightening on your trembling legs.

“Because I’m not done,” he murmured, dragging his mouth higher, warm breath ghosting over where you were still aching.

Your stomach flipped, muscles tensing. “Ben...”

He chuckled darkly, his drawl dripping with satisfaction. “Relax, baby. Just admirin’ the view. Can’t believe how good you look and taste… almost wanna go back for seconds.”

A shiver ran through you, your breath catching as his teeth grazed the soft skin of your inner thigh in a teasing bite.

“Almost?” you managed, trying for levity, though your voice shook.

He looked up then, eyes dark and gleaming with intent.

“Almost,” he echoed, his grin slow and sharp. “But you don’t get to just lie there lookin’ pretty and stewin’ in your own attitude all week, sweetheart.”

Your brows furrowed, but before you could respond, his hands slid from your thighs to your hips, gripping tight. “Get down.”

“W-what-”

“Off the island,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And on your knees. Since you like havin’ that mouth runnin’ so damn much, let’s put it to better use.”

The words alone made heat pool low in your stomach again. Your body moved before your brain caught up, shaky legs lowering you to the floor as he stepped back from the island.

“That’s it,” Ben murmured, his fingers threading into your hair, gripping firm enough to tilt your head back. You blinked up at him, still dazed, still wrung out from before, but his cock twitched where it hung heavy and slick in front of you, streaked with both of you.

“Now, be a good girl and clean up your mess.”

Your lips parted, a whimper escaping at the taste of yourself still lingering in the air. He chuckled low, thumb brushing across your bottom lip.

“Look at you, about ready to drool,” he teased, voice dropping. “Could’ve saved us both a lotta trouble if you’d just opened this pretty mouth earlier instead of stompin’ ‘round my house like a brat.”

“I didn't mean to-” you tried, breathless.

“Shh.” His thumb pressed against your tongue, his drawl thick as honey. “No excuses now. Open.”

And when you did, his hand tightened in your hair, guiding him into the wet heat of your mouth. You moaned around him, tasting yourself on his skin, the mix of salt and sweetness making your cheeks flush hot.

“That’s it,” he praised, low and rough. “Fuck, you feel so good. Knew you’d take me like this.”

His hips moved slowly at first, deliberate, his hand guiding your head as his other thumb stroked across your jaw.

“You’re gonna remember this next time you’re wound tight. Instead of snappin’ at me, you’ll ask for it like a good girl, yeah?”

You tried to nod, but he held you still, the pace picking up, shallow thrusts that had you gagging around him in the filthiest way.

“That’s my girl,” he rasped, his grin turning feral as he looked down at the mess of you on your knees.“Bet you taste even sweeter when it’s mixed with me, huh?”

You tried to hum in agreement, but were cut short as his hand tightened in your hair, forcing your head still as he fed himself deeper into your mouth. You gagged around him, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your tongue flattened helplessly against the heavy weight of him. This satisfied every craving you'd been building up.

“Fuck, yeah,” Ben growled, his voice dropping to a wrecked rasp. His fist in your hair held tight like reins, controlling the angle of your head as his hips rolled forward again, slower now but no less devastating. “That’s it, babe. Gonna make sure you know how to use this mouth next time instead of runnin’ it.”

The stretch burned, your jaw already aching, but your core throbbed with every wet, slick sound filling the kitchen. It was obscene, the way drool mixed with his slickness, streaking down your chin, dripping to your chest, sliding further down to the pool of mixed arousal on the floor between your legs.

God, it’s so filthy. So fucking good. Why does it feel this good?

“Look at you,” he rasped, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, sweat darkening the curls at his temple. “Eyes all glassy, cheeks flushed… lips stretched so wide for me.”

You choked as he pushed deeper, sounds of your throat filling the room as the tip of him nudging the back of your throat, and for a moment his hold in your hair softened, letting you take a shallow breath through your nose.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek almost tenderly before his fist tightened again. “That’s it. You can take it. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

I am, your brain screamed, dizzy with need. I can take it.

“That’s my girl.” His hips snapped forward harder now, his movements more erratic, the wet smack of each thrust echoing off the tile, his head thrown back, curls plastered to his forehead with a sheen of sweat.

“Goddamn, this mouth… fuckin’ made for me. You were made for me.”

Your nails dug into his thighs for purchase, but he didn’t slow, didn’t let you pull back. His pace grew punishing, each thrust forcing little choked sounds out of you as more slickness slipped past your lips, drooling down your chin in sticky strands.

“Jesus Christ-” he panted, his voice breaking into a growl. “Gonna cum down that pretty throat. You’re gonna swallow it all, yeah? Gonna take every fuckin’ drop.”

You whimpered around him in agreement, your eyes watering, and the vibration sent a shudder through his frame.

“Fuck-fuc-right there, don’t you stop-”

He held you flush against his pelvis as he came, cock twitching on your tongue, the first hot spurt hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed instinctively, desperate to take it all, but there was so much, thick and salty, spilling out past your lips to run down your chin and drip onto your bare chest.

“Shit-” Ben’s voice cracked as he cursed, his body shuddering above you. His fingers flexed painfully in your hair, holding you there even after his hips stilled, his cock softening but still heavy and warm in your mouth.

“Don’t move,” he muttered hoarsely, hips giving a shallow roll. “Not done yet.”

You whimpered again, your jaw slack, throat raw, but he didn’t let go.

“Gotta make sure you’re clean,” he said, his drawl rough and low as his thumb wiped at the corner of your mouth, smearing a mix of saliva and cum across your flushed cheek. “So damn messy, baby. Look at you… dripping all over these floorboards. Fuck.”

You flushed hotter at his words, the humiliation sharp but twisted up with dark, sticky pleasure.

“Next time,” Ben continued, his tone shifting softer but no less commanding, “you need somethin’? You ask. Don’t stew. Don’t snap. You use that bratty little mouth.”

“Yes,” you whispered, or tried to, it came out garbled and rasped with his length still resting heavy on your tongue.

“Good girl.” He gave a few more shallow thrusts, coaxing out the last remnants before finally easing himself free with a wet pop, his grip in your hair loosening.

You gasped as cool air hit your swollen lips and clit, your chest stained, rising and falling as you swallowed the lingering taste of him. Cum slicked your mouth and chin, some of it dripping down your neck to pool in the hollow of your collarbone.

Ben smirked down at you, thumb hooking under your jaw to tilt your face up.

“Messy little thing,” he murmured, voice low and almost fond. Ben smirked down at you, thumb hooking under your jaw to tilt your face up. “God, look at you. Beautiful even like this… maybe especially like this.”

Your lips parted to reply, but your throat was too raw, your body too spent. You just blinked up at him, flushed and dazed, and his grin softened into something warmer.

“C’mere,” he said, tugging you up by your hands. You stumbled a little, legs still shaky, and he caught you easily, strong arms wrapping around your waist.

You started to open your mouth and find words, but he shook his head, leaning in to kiss your temple.

“Shh. You did good,” he murmured, voice all low drawl and fondness now. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

You slumped against his chest as he guided you toward the counter, grabbing a dish towel on the way to gently dab at your mouth and chin.

“Let’s get some food in you before I end up starvin’ and makin’ a mess of you again,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your sticky hairline. “...though I gotta say, I might need a second serving of dessert later.”

#azzie asks #ben shelton #benshelton #ben shelton x reader #atp tennis

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giveafike · 4 months ago

Note

hey, can you write a Ben Shelton oneshot based on Doja Cat's song Casual but with a sweet ending, with yn being a professional tennis player and his mixed doubles maybe

TLDR: Casual - Doja Cat inspired doublestennisplayer! reader x Ben! speaking of doubles, Ben seemed to have a good run with Bopanna 😭 i thought this would be the most fitting one to share with you all :)

Word count + info: 4.1k + dialogue.

Warnings + Content Ahead: lyrics added in between plot! Kind of angsty, alcohol mention, slightly suggestive towards the end (i can't help myself)

Azzie Notes ✚: LONG time no see my loves! Sorry to leave you for so long, I've unfortunately had very little creative power or time to write consistently so it's all been veryyyy touch and go :( But I've got some stuff going now, can't wait to complete and share!! I've been on twitter mostly or at work/at home studying or doing coursework :/

Taglist: thank u for all ur support <33! if u wanna join the taglist, head on over here

🌕 - @starlitf0x <3 🌙 - @le-moon-nade @anneioe @maya1the-bee @miss-d-d @hannahbanannax @mfcvbs @egevtntn @the-aizzlee @hello-missunperfect-things @joeybisbootiful @2manytabsopen @luckylzclerc @cassiesmuse @ineedafictionalman <3

leave me alone - B.T.S

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Tennis is second nature to you; a sanctuary where instinct overrules thought, where the rhythm of the game drowns out the noise of everything else. It’s cathartic, almost meditative, the kind of release that pulls the tension from your shoulders and replaces it with something electric, something alive.

Exhibitions were a different beast, though. Less pressure, more showmanship. It's a stage to entertain rather than survive, but you have got to juggle both. But tonight, under the floodlights of the court, with a packed chattering, excited stadium watching, the thrill felt just as potent. Winning still mattered, especially when you were playing doubles alongside someone like Ben Shelton.

You hadn’t expected to be partnered with him, no, not at all. The tension between you and Ben had always been touch and go, an undercurrent in passing moments, a lingering glance during a dinner, a teasing remark that would make you double-take and leave you wondering if there was more beneath the surface. It's always like this with him But when your usual doubles partner pulled out at the last minute, the tournament organisers stepped in with an easy solution: Ben Shelton.

He had agreed without hesitation, no doubt. That familiar, cocky grin tugged at his lips as he jokingly teased, “Why not? Could be some fun.”

It was casual, effortless for him like he hadn’t noticed the way your breath caught for half a second before you nodded. But you had noticed, you caught yourself and shook yourself back into place. And now, here you were, on the court with him under the floodlights, the tension simmering hotter than ever.

At first, you hesitated. You never played alongside Ben in this kind of way before, with so many eyes watching, waiting to analyse your dynamic. You were different players, your game was built on precision and discipline, his on raw athleticism and intuition. You weren’t sure it would work. And yet, match after match, you had fallen into an unspoken rhythm. There was something about the way he moved, the way he reacted, the way he grinned at you after a ridiculous shot like he knew you’d be there to back him up.

The thrill of it only multiplies when you have a partner on the court, someone who moves in sync with you, a presence you can rely on without words.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Right now, it’s impossible to ignore the weight of Ben’s presence beside you. The match has been fun and easy-going, full of ridiculous shots and even more ridiculous banter. Unlike a regular tournament, there’s no need for hushed whispers behind cupped hands to discuss strategy, you and Ben have no game plan beyond vibes, and somehow, that worked out.

“Y’know,” Ben drawls, shifting his racket from one hand to the other, “if I’d known playin’ with you would be this easy, I’d have been your partner sooner.” His thick accent makes the words come out slower and smoother like he’s making a lazy promise.

You scoff, adjusting your grip on your racket. “Easy? I’m carrying you, Shelton.”

He smirks, his boyish, brown eyes twinkling. “Oh yeah? Your back looks fine.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips when he taps your foot with his own, a small, unnecessary touch that lingers longer than it should. The ball is in play before you can come up with a retort, forcing you to focus, but the charge between you doesn’t dissipate, it just weaves into the game, into the rhythm of your movements, until it’s hard to tell where the thrill of competition ends and something else begins.

The final point is fast and decisive. Ben’s showmanly overhead smash seals the win, and before you can react, his arms are around you, lifting you in a hug, slightly off the ground in an adrenaline-fueled hug. The world tilts for a second, his laughter vibrating against your skin.

“Hell of a way to close it out, huh?” he says, voice warm against your ear before setting you down.

You shake your head, grinning up at him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you have your moment.”

The on-court interviewer approaches, and you both straighten up as the camera zooms in.

“That was some incredible teamwork out there,” the interviewer starts, mic moving between you two. “What’s the secret?”

Ben doesn’t miss a beat. “Good chemistry.” His eyes flicker to you, amusement dancing there. “She keeps me on my toes.”

You arch a brow. “I think it’s more brain than brawn that got us here.”

The crowd laughs, and Ben places a hand over his heart, feigning offence. “Wow. And here I was, about to say you’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”

Your stomach flutters despite yourself, but you smirk. “You better say that.”

“So, no plans to split up this team anytime soon?” the interviewer presses.

Ben shoots you a sideways glance, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I dunno… think we make a pretty good duo, tight?”

There’s something in his voice, something playful but edged with something deeper. Your skin buzzes, heat curling in your chest, but you keep your cool.

You tap your racket against his. “As long as you can keep up, Shelton.”

The interview wraps up, the energy high as you wave to the crowd. The applause fades behind you, replaced by the low hum of behind-the-scenes noise; zippers, sneaker soles on concrete, murmured radio chatter and conversation. You and Ben fall into step down the tunnel, your footsteps echoing. The space is wide, but somehow, not wide enough.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither do you.

You fumble with your water bottle from your bag, twist the cap too tightly, and then curse under your breath as it sticks. Beside you, Ben doesn’t look, but you catch the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“Solid teamwork out there,” he says eventually, voice light.

You nod. “Felt smooth.”

There’s a beat. Then,

“Could’ve been worse,” his voice casual. “Thought we might trip over each other the whole time.”

You glance over at him. “You saying I’m bad at doubles?”

“Mmm, tha's not what I said.”

You hum under your breath, unconvinced. “You were late to net coverage, like, twice. Just saying.”

“Once,” he corrects. “And I made up for it. You didn’t seem too mad.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching a glance at him. “Should I have been?

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Nah. But you’re hard to read sometimes.”

That catches you off guard, not because it’s pointed, but because of the way he says it. Like he’s still trying to figure it out. Figure you out. Not your game. You.

You look forward again, the hallway stretching ahead of you. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he says, a little too quickly. “Just… makes you interesting.”

The word interesting lands differently. It’s not the kind of compliment someone throws out carelessly, but it’s vague enough that you can’t pin it down, either. It’s harmless. Just a comment. But something about the way he says it, almost soft, makes your stomach dip, just slightly. You grip your water bottle tighter. You tell yourself not to read into it. You do anyway.

You try to deflect. “Well, you didn’t do too bad for a last-minute sub.”

His mouth quirks. “High praise.”

“You want a medal?”

“Nah.” He scratches the back of his neck, gaze still ahead. “Just didn’t wanna mess up your rhythm.”

That makes you look at him again. He doesn’t return it. Just keeps walking looking head-on, like he hadn’t just said something weirdly… thoughtful.

You falter for half a step. “You didn’t,” you say, a touch too quickly. “Mess it up, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That silence creeps in again. Not awkward. Just thick with something you can’t name.

Then,

“Oh, before you go,” he says, like the thought just came to him. “There’s a thing tonight. Rooftop, players only thing. You going?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Haven’t decided.”

“Right,” he says. A pause. “Just saying...y'know. If you’re there.”

You blink. “If I’m there… what?”

He scratches his jaw, not looking at you. “Uh, nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

You stare at him for a second longer, waiting for him to finish the thought. But he doesn’t. Just keeps walking.

And then she appears.

“Ben!” A female voice, breezy, extroverted, confident, familiar. You glance up and spot one of the tournament brand reps approaching, all big smile and blown-out hair. “That was so fun to watch. I swear, you were just, what’s the word? Explosive.”

Ben laughs, already switching gears, that easy charisma flicking on like a light. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They fall into step on his other side, her hand brushing his arm as she leans in to say something else, and he grins. Not at you. At her. You slow down instinctively, just a half step, giving them space without really meaning to.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. She’s got him laughing now, that rich, boyish kind that always seems to draw people in. He doesn’t even look back.

You swallow and walk to the locker room. You weren’t expecting anything. You tell yourself that. You weren’t. He’s your doubles partner. For this one exhibition. That’s all. Still, the silence feels different now. Like a door that had just started to open. And then slammed shut again.

By the time you’re back at the hotel, you don't even register the last few moments since you’ve left the grounds. The bag dropped at your feet. Hoodie was still damp at the collar from your shower. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, groggy, hair dripping, the city beyond the window stretched in a light golden haze, but it barely registers.

You didn’t want to go to this stupid party. You keep saying that. You repeat it like it’ll make it true. Like you didn’t hear his voice earlier, low and easy, almost shy: “You’ll be there, right?” And you had shrugged. Said maybe. Said you’d think about it. But you already knew.

You hate how he makes things feel perfect in person. Like it’s not a game. Like it could be more than what it is. He holds your gaze a little too long, or his small comments like how you look when you’re not trying; was that about the game? About you? And then the next moment, he’s all fist bumps and “Good match, partner." Like he didn’t make your heart pound.

You’re not trying to pressure him. That’s the truth. You just want something that makes sense; something sweet. A man who knows what he wants and doesn’t say sweet shit just to fill silence in small talk, or is charismatic with no emotion or intention behind it. You need someone who can stand and fight for you, not just show up when it’s easy.

Your phone buzzes. It’s not him. Of course it’s not. It never is when you need it to be.

You stretch out across the bed, bare legs tangled in the sheets, and let the quiet wrap around you. You’ve been patient. Tried not to want too much. But every time he holds you a little longer, you wonder: Is it casual? Or is he just scared of taking it further? Or worse, was it all in your head?

You drag yourself upright and pull open your suitcase with a sigh that feels heavier than it should. You grab the dress you told yourself you weren’t going to wear. The one you packed just in case. You smooth it out like that might fix the knots in your chest, the ones you’ve been ignoring since the first time you laid eye on him, entering this weird back-and-forth, push-and-pull tango.

You’re not dissing his freedom. That’s never been your problem. You like that he’s easy to be around, to talk to. Fun. Wild in an unpredictable way sometimes. But there’s a difference between being free and acting like you’re for everybody. And if he wants to mess around, dedicate himself to some random women for the night, hell, he should just stay with them then.

You glance at the clock. The rooftop party isn’t for another hour and a half. Still time to back out. Still time to wash off this feeling. Still, time to lie to yourself and call it chillin’. Say it’s just another Friday night, Tecate in hand, surrounded by people you don’t care about pretending you don’t care about him.

But you’re tired. Not the kind of tired a nap can fix. The kind that comes from wanting something simple and getting everything but. From being told this isn’t serious by someone who makes everything feel so goddamn serious when he’s looking at you.

He says one thing, but the next? He acts so different.

So yeah, you’re going. You’re gonna show up. Not for the music. Not for the drinks. Not even for the view. You just need to see if he’ll stand still when he sees you walk in, or if he’ll look away and keep you wondering.

Because at this point, you're not asking for promises. You're just asking for clarity.

And so, you walk in with your shoulders squared and chin high, not because you feel confident, but because you refuse to let him see anything else.

The rooftop party spills golden light and half-spilled cocktails. Neon outlines against the now dark sky, strung lights glinting like stars, a DJ tucked in the corner mixing a smooth beat. It smells like perfume and a little too much cologne, like the kind of night someone writes a song about and pretends it never happened after.

You don’t even make it ten steps before you spot him.

Ben’s leaned back against the bar like it’s a throne and he’s the reckless kind of royalty. He’s got that smile on, the one that’s a little too casual and easy, like it was rehearsed. There’s a drink in his hand and a girl on his arm, or maybe she thinks she is. There are other people too, but you're more zoned in on the way she’s laughing too loud and standing too close. You take in the way his hand brushes her lower back as he shifts, the casual lean of his shoulder toward hers, like the moment belongs to them.

Maybe it does.

You force yourself not to care. Smile at someone you vaguely recognise from juniors, and say something bright and empty. The dress hugs your waist, your heels click with purpose, and your face says you’re untouchable even if your stomach says otherwise in the way it twists.

You drink to keep yourself from looking back. Something dry and sharp with gin that bites at your teeth. One becomes two, then three, then a few more. You circle the party like you own it, like you don’t notice how your voice is a little louder than it needs to be. How every story you tell is just a little more animated. How every new guy you talk to gets just a bit more of your undivided attention.

You catch glimpses of Ben through the noise, in hopes maybe he'll look your way but he is still over there, still magnetic, still letting people orbit him like he doesn’t know any better. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s what he wants. And god, if that’s who he is, if he’s that guy, that cliché, that player who lets his gaze linger on whatever gyrates near his peripheral, then you want no part of it.

“If he's a player,” you murmur to a girl next to you, barely audible over the music, “then I don’t think I’ll play with him.”

The girl laughs, slurring her words as she raises her glass. “Sooo true!! Wait..who?”

You clink hers with yours, throwing a hand to dismiss her question but your eyes are already darting back, traitorous and soft like a desperate puppy. Hoping, deep down, that he’s not. That he’s not that guy. That he’s not gonna be another almost. That he’s not going to leave you questioning your own worth in the mirror later.

Then, he moves. Your eyes dart back to your company instead of gawking at him. Out of your peripheral, you see him push off the bar. He excuses himself with that soft charm, and your breath catches without permission.

He’s coming toward you.

And you’re drunk. Dizzy, teetering in your heels. The music’s swirling around your head like fog, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of your heartbeat, of how hot your skin feels, of how quickly your mask might slip.

“Hey, didn't think you'd stay,” he says, quiet, once he’s close. Too close. You smell cologne and regret.

You tip your head, smirk messy and sharp. “Oh, so now you wanna talk?”

He looks at you for a beat, eyes squinted, then past you, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re alone. “Thought you were busy.”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you lie. “But I also didn’t think you were gonna spend all night playing mix-and-match with whatever’s got lashes and an invite.”

His brow furrows again. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” you say, voice thick with heat. “Didn’t look very inclusive from where I was standing.”

Ben steps closer. Close enough that you have to tilt your head to keep eye contact. His voice lowers, almost teasing, but underneath it, there’s a thread of tension.

“You been watching me, huh?”

Your stomach flips and tightens into a tight coil as you scoff, sipping from your drink like it’s armour. “If I was, it was only to confirm a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you’re not who I thought you were,” you say. “Maybe you’re just good at pretending.”

Ben breathes in sharp. “What if I’ve been doing the same?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Pretending?”

“No,” he says, gaze flicking down to your lips. “Watching.”

Another twist and flip. There’s silence. Just the pulse of the bass and the press of his stare and your heart in your throat.

You blink slow, biting back every fragile piece of hope clawing its way forward, confidence taking over instead. “Well, if you’ve been watching,” you murmur, “you’d know waitin' around isn't me - being shy just isn't my style.”

His jaw flexes, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “I figured that out real quick.”

The tension’s stretching, drawn like a bowstring between your chests. People are still dancing around you, bodies brushing past, music thumping like a second heartbeat, but none of it seems to matter. Not when he’s looking at you like this, like he’s just now realising you’re not something he can brush off. Not anymore.

You take a step back. Just one. Just enough to break the tension, to breathe.

“So what now, Ben? You watching me for sport or just keeping score?”

He follows. Of course he follows. “No,” he says, tone dipping low, almost dangerous. “I watch because you don’t know what you do to people. What you do to me.”

You laugh then, sharp and unexpected, but there’s no humour in it. “Don’t gaslight me. You've been too busy for me all night! With the way you were with that girl earlier?”

“She grabbed me.”

“And you let her.”

That silences him. His mouth presses into a line, and for a second, he looks like he might say something honest. Something that matters. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he scrubs a hand through his curls, a tell. I didn’t mean to touch her like that,” Ben says, softer now. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like you were...less. And listen, I didn’t think you were coming. You brushed me off earlier, remember?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you were that fragile to just find a quick replacement to entertain you.” You shake your head and swallow hard. “God. I didn’t come here for this. I came to have a good time.”

“You think I’m having a good time?” he says, voice rising just enough to give him away. “You think any of this feels good, seeing you walk around like you couldn't care less about me?”

"Maybe I don't. Maybe I don't want to be casual."

You don’t realise you’re trembling until the words leave your mouth. Until you catch your reflection in the chrome of a drink tray, shoulders stiff, lip bitten raw. The word sits heavy between you; casual. You’re not used to this version of him; this Ben is vulnerable. And it's almost worse.

You inhale slow. “If this is just some tour fling for you, I’d rather walk away before it turns into something I’ll regret.”

For a second, it feels like the whole room holds its breath. Ben doesn't say anything.

Not right away. His mouth opens, then closes again. And you watch him hesitate, eyes darting to yours, lips parted like he wants to reach for the right words but comes up empty.

And that? That hurts more than if he’d just rejected you then and there.

You laugh then, sharp and unexpected, but there’s no humour in it. “Right,” you mutter. “Thanks, Ben.”

You turn, heels scraping the floor, weaving your way toward the drunken bodies and out from the rooftop garden. It takes a few seconds for your legs to find their balance again, and when you push into the bathroom, single occupancy, thankfully, you don’t expect to breathe again, but the door shuts and you finally let it out.

Your palms press into the counter. The mirror stares back, unkind and unforgiving in the lighting. You look like the kind of girl you always swore you wouldn’t become, lipstick blotched, eyes too glossy with heavy drops ready to fall, anger masking something softer underneath.

And the worst part? You basically just told him how you feel. Not directly. Not in those little words. But between the lines, subliminally in the way your voice cracked. You admitted to watching him, wanting him to be more - and while it wasn't poetry, it was a part of you most hidden, split out into the night sky. And now you’re in here alone with the weight of it settling in your chest like an anchor.

You hear it before you feel it. The door clicks. Then creaks open.

You whirl around. “Occupied!-”

But you don’t get to finish.

Ben closes the door behind himself. His hand slaps over the lock with a sharp click, and then he just… stares. Like he doesn’t know how to begin.

You’re breathless. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Seriously.” His voice is lower now. He’s not playing.

You cross your arms, leaning back against the counter like armour. “You following girls into bathrooms now? That your move?”

He flinches, biting back a small amused smile before a serious tone washes over him. “Well...no, I- I don't do this,” he says, stepping forward. “And you’re not ‘girls.’ Don’t ever lump yourself in with them.”

Your laugh comes out half a sob. “Then what the hell am I, Ben?”

Silence. His gaze drops. Then lifts again.

“You’re the reason I haven’t looked at anyone else for longer than a second since I've met you"

Your heart skips. Fumbles.

“I didn’t come to the party for her, or for anyone else. I came because I... I thought you might. You said maybe and I couldn't regret it so..”

He’s in front of you now, barely inches away, eyes darting from your face to the floor, hands twitching like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. You’re burning. Inside and out.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you whisper. “Why let me think I was just imagining all of it?”

His jaw tenses. “Because it scared the shit out of me. I couldn't follow up on stuff without feelin' like maybe I'd be coming on strong or somethin'.”

That cracks something inside you.

He exhales, stepping in, finally letting his hands find your hips like they’ve been trying to all night. “But if you're done pretending,” he murmurs, “I am too.”

He leans in. Pauses. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You reach for his face instead, and his lips find yours with all the tension of a hundred what-ifs and almosts exploding at once. It’s not fragile, gentle or delicate. It’s desperate. He hoists you up onto the sink, fingers gripping your sides, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He takes one hand off to quickly turn the lock which clicks behind him, and when his hands find your waist again, it's with a certainty that wasn’t there before.

He was a man ready to stand and fight for what he needed. Maybe it isn't casual anymore, maybe Ben is trying to spend his life with you.

#azzie asks #ben shelton #benshelton #ben shelton x reader #atp tennis

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