Ben X Reader - Blog Posts

Who Dunnit (Kylo Ren x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Someone left their panties in the control room after what must have been a night of fun and Hux is determined to find out who.

A/N: Small lil thing that I’ve had rolling around in the ol’ hat rack for a while. Hope you like it!

Word count: 643

        “What the hell is this?” Hux’s voice when he was angry was all-too familiar, but today there was an added element of pure abhorrence. 

        Curious, you glanced up from your holopad to whatever the general had screeched about only to widen your eyes at the sight. 

        Panties. 

        More specifically, the black lace panties Kylo had torn off you after last night’s mischievous “rendezvous” in the control room. 

        Fuck.         “Oh-” Hux turned his attention to you and maintained furious eye contact while one index finger continued to point at the pair of destroyed undergarments flung directly behind his main computer. “-Oh, my God, how disgusting!” you choked out, trying to avoid the burning of your cheeks. “Sir, I will take care of that right away for you.” 

        You rose from your chair and took two steps forward only to rethink your plan and grab two number two pencils, reaching for the panties and stabbing them ever so precariously. With pursed lips, you lifted them up at just the perfect height to make awkward eye contact with Hux over the torn waistband. 

        One lone eye twitched while the other was so wide you could almost see your panicking reflection in his cornea. “Burn them,” he hissed, “and never speak of this again.”

        “Y-yes sir,” you nodded, “of course, sir.” As fast and discreetly as you could, you speedwalked over to the doors that led into the hallway.

        “YN, wait!” Hux’s back was to you as you flinched and turned to face him.

        “Yes, sir?” 

        Fuck fuck fuck.

        “You hear any word of who might’ve done this, you bring it straight to me, understood?”

        Hallelujah.

        “Yes, sir.” Without another word, you dashed into the hallway, hightailing it as fast as you could run with your two arms precariously holding your own panties between a couple of pencils before you crashed into something solid.

        “Oof,” you coughed, bouncing back and shaking away the disorientation of the collision, only to meet eyes with the very culprit.

        “YN.” Kylo acknowledged your presence curtly as he had agreed to do for the past few months since your relationship had started. With his mask removed, you could almost see his eyes bug out of his brain when he noticed just what exactly you had been holding.

        “Is that…?”

        “Yep.” You nodded with nervous eyes. 

        “Yours?”

        “Yep.”

        “From yesterday?”

        “Mmhmm.”

        “Where did-”

        “The control room.” 

        “Fuck.” Kylo ran a hand through his hair and breathed out a sigh, eyes still locked on the panties you were currently stabbing. “Who-”

        “Hux.”

        “Damn.” He nodded and gestured to you. “Does he know they’re-”

        “No.”

        “Thank God.”

        “Yeah,” you scoffed and shook your head, trying to ignore the way even the sight of Kylo left you feeling. “Well, I better-”

        “Yes, of course.” Once more, he nodded, gesturing to the panties. “You… do that.”

        Awkward silence settled around the two of you as you watched the other over the outstretched pencils. Kylo’s eyes flickered with something more than you could decipher at such a moment while you squeezed your thighs together. 

        Finally, he made the first move to turn away and stepped aside to let you pass. 

        As you did so, a single hand snagged your hip to stop you in place before a pair of lips planted on the skin just above your collarbone. 

        “Same time tonight?” Kylo whispered, kissing the mark you had tried so hard to cover up. 

        “Yes,” you hummed, tilting your head to let his lips travel further up your already marked neck.

        “Same place?”

        “No!”

His Mask (Kylo Ren x Reader/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After your very first mission for the Resistance goes awry, you can’t help but feel a connection to the Supreme Leader sent to interrogate you. However, when he lets you go after reading the name on your wrist, you can’t help but feel like the mission hadn’t accidentally gone so wrong after all. 

A/N: So like… this was one of the dudes I’ve been drooling over for the past couple weeks. Just a warning, I’ve only watched the first movie of the prequels and even that was like four years ago, so I wish you luck. Kylo is just *mwah* so freaking pretty I couldn’t help myself. Enjoy my first fic about a *non-animated* person, and Merry Christmas y’all!

Word count: 4115

        Hot. Dark. Dank.

        The bag haphazardly shoved over your head blinded your eyes along with your other four senses. Stray hairs plastered to your forehead with ease thanks to the sweat you produced combined with the condensation from your own breaths.

        “Please, let me go,” you sniveled. “I don’t know anything, I swear.”

        Your hands flexed and tugged against the metal clamps strapped over your wrists, doing nothing but leaving behind a rash you yearned to soothe. The chair you were strapped into was more like a reclining board, leaving your head to rest on stiff metal while your feet hovered above the floor, ankles confined akin to your arms. 

        “I think you know more than you’re letting on.” The voice was gruff and modulated, giving signs that this was the masked man you oh-so wanted to be the last person to interrogate you. 

        It was frustrating and terrifying all at the same time. Not only did you have no idea what information they wanted to extract from your brain, you also knew your denial of such would only cause them to hound you more. 

        “Come on,” you whimpered, head slamming back with a clang. “Just let me go. Please.”

        Silence followed your words for a solid minute before a whoosh of fabric met your ears. 

        “Leave us,” the robotic voice mumbled, causing two or three heavy pairs of footsteps to trail out of the room. What you assumed was the door hissed to a close with one final click. 

        More footsteps, these ones drawing closer to you, left you only to tense up in anticipation as the heat of another person took the place of the stale air on your right side.

        The bag over your head was ripped away in an instant, causing you to gasp and swallow as much cool oxygen as possible. The light of the room stung your eyes less than you expected, most likely because it itself was dimmed with hues of deep blue climbing up the walls. 

        Taking in your surroundings, you immediately noticed your interrogator was nowhere near your field of vision--probably on purpose. 

        His presence, instead, was palpable behind you as the heat of his form rolled off in waves. 

        “There’s no one here to save you now.” 

        Though you didn’t need to be told that, the thought still drove a cold stake of fear through your heart. 

        “Come on, I don’t know anything,” you pleaded, shifting your position to try and stare at the man who seemed adamant on not allowing you even a glimpse of his form. 

        “Then perhaps I should stop bothering with the theatrics.”

        The man the Resistance had warned you about was… intimidating. At least you knew you could trust them about that fact. Black leather covered every inch of his powerful figure, save for his helmet and cape, and a lightsaber was strapped to his hip. Watching the way his hand twitched just near the handle of the weapon, you feared he would pull it out and slice you right in half any second. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears but it couldn’t silence his voice. Sweat dripped down your face and clammed your palms when his head tilted to the side. 

        He wasn’t shy about observing you, doing so for what felt like hours. 

        “What is your name?” he finally grunted out, posture never changing. You, on the other hand, twitched and shivered every few seconds, itching to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

        Should I lie? Should I tell the truth? Would he be able to know even if I did?

        This man held your fate in his hands. To him, you were just another prisoner to gain information from and deposit into the nearest waste planet when he was done.

        But to you, he was the man who could kill you without batting an eye. It didn’t matter if you were someone’s soulmate or daughter or friend; you were just someone who happened to get involved in this galaxy’s war. A poor soul among many this man was ready to sacrifice in order for him to gain power. 

        You were nothing but another bug to squash. 

        “YN,” you dropped your head to your chest, acknowledging your fate. “YN YLN. And I still don’t know any information that might-”

        Clang!

        You flinched as the lightsaber crashed onto the floor, following its path back to the shaking hand that had dropped it. The man before you now stood stiff as a board but you could hear him suck in a breath between his teeth.

        “Your name is-” he cut himself off and cleared his throat. “What’s your name again?” Unlike the last five minutes, his voice suddenly sounded less sure and demanding. He sounded unstable--one of the many emotions you never expected from one of the most feared people of the galaxy. 

        You hesitated, furrowing your brows before forcing your eyes to trail from his still-trembling hand to his mask. “It’s… YN.” You swallowed, licking your lips before continuing, “Why?”

        “Your wrist. Let me see it.”

        “What?” Suddenly, his every movement had your attention. You reared back in your chair and tensed all your muscles, trying even harder to rip straight through the solid metal. “No!”

        “Show me,” he ordered, his tone now sharper than a blade. 

        To hell with him.

        The second he reached for your hand, you ripped it away, keeping your wrist face down against the metal clasp he had unlocked to reach it. Just when he grasped your hand for the third time and tried to rip it away from your side, you did something that shocked both you and him out of the stupor of war. 

        Spit dribbled straight down the middle of his helmet, sparkling in the dim lighting of the room while trailing down every indent in the silver detailing around his eyes. 

        Oh shit. I’m fucked.

        Ever so slowly, he dropped your wrist and straightened his posture, facing his head towards something just off in the distance past your own. You bit your tongue and watched his every move with a hawklike focus, knowing that a man trained as much as him could kill you in a split second without you even realizing. 

        Even when his hand raised in what you expected to be the last backhand of your life, you never looked away or braced for impact. 

        So you grew confused when his hand traveled up to his mask, which came undone with a small hiss of pressurized air. 

        Oh. 

        Oh okay. 

        Wow.

        He was…. His hair was…. Damn.

        This man, the man before you, was hot. Beauty marks decorated his right cheek as hazel eyes burned into your own. A long, straight nose sat naturally lifted above lips that seemed too plump for their own good and dark brown curls that had never heard the words “helmet hair” just barely reached the end of a pointed chin--all of which made you consider your sanity. 

        How-… how?

        “Sorry about the helmet.” Nice one, YN. Apologizing to the enemy.

        His face never changed; he only looked you up and down, properly this time. You were too caught up in the shock of his surprising allure to notice just where his eyes had landed. 

        It was only when you felt your arm being lifted away from your body that you were shaken from your daze. “Hey-”

        “Hmm.”

        Your brows furrowed. “‘Hmm’?” You tried to rip your wrist from his iron-tight grip but you soon noticed the effort was useless. “What the hell does that mean?”

        “Your soulmate…” he trailed off, cheek twitching as he glanced away. “He is…”

        “What?”

        “He’s…” the man set his jaw and returned his gaze to yours. You only noticed there had been a warmth in his eyes when it was gone; all he gave you now was stone-cold nothingness. “He’s dead.”

        His gloved hand dropped your right wrist and it only flopped down to your side. He’s dead. Whatever emotion you’d had on your face dropped in exchange for a blank slate. Tears pricked your eyes and yet you felt stupid for even mourning someone you’d never met. 

        “Oh.” 

        The logical part of you that had shriveled to the size of a worm still questioned the relevance of this all. How did this man know your soulmate? Why had he been so adamant on seeing his name in the first place? What did he have to do with any of this?

        The man you still had no name for clenched his jaw and turned away as a tear slipped down your cheek. 

        “We have no use for you.”

        “What-”

        “You will be returned to where you were found. Now that we know you have no relation to the Resistance, your name will not be blacklisted and you will be left alone.”

        “Why-”

        He left no room for your confused--albeit broken--questions as he turned away and pressed his hand against a glowing panel near the entrance to the room. The door slid open to reveal a blinding, white hallway guarded by a single stormtrooper. 

        “Hey, wait!” You tugged against the restraints as your eyes stayed locked on his back, only to crash onto the cold floor when the clasps suddenly released. “Oof!”

        Click. With his mask situated back over his face, he finally faced you once more, his soldier standing at attention by his side. 

        “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

                                +++

        “YN, you’re back!” 

        The Resistance leader, Leia, glanced up from the holopad. Her dark brows raised high enough to meet her hairline as her lips separated in shock. 

        “YN.”

        You struggled to meet her eyes or even fake a smile at the one who had greeted you. “General,” you cringed at your raw voice, feeling the onset of crying side-effects attack you all at once, “can we talk in private… please?”

        Leia schooled in her surprise enough to nod at the other Resistance members, gesturing her head towards the exit just behind you. They filed out accordingly, each one more concerned than the last about your distraught appearance. 

        Finally, when it was just the two of you left in the room, Leia directed you to the table she stood at, shutting down the holopad so the only light in the room buzzed from the ceiling, flickering every two seconds due to the overgrown tree roots weaving in and out of each electric wire. 

        “YN, I’m so sorry we got separated on that mission. I never meant for you to be left behind like that.” Leia shook her head at herself in shame, but something told you she was avoiding eye contact for a reason. “Did you-... are you okay?”

        “Yes,” you nodded, dropping into a single leather chair sitting at a computer a few feet away from the holopad’s table. “Yeah, for some reason, I’m fine. They-,” you glanced at your wrist before swallowing and returning your eyes to her face, “-they let me go. I don’t know why they did, but they let me go.”

        “Did you-”

        “General,” you interrupted with a shake of your head, “please, I need to tell you something.”

        Leia got the hint and grabbed the second chair in the room, sitting with a straight back and hands splayed out on her lap. They seemed to twitch for something--something like a weapon to protect herself. You guessed it was a habit of hers, but since you had only known her for six  months or so, you tried not to think too much of it. 

        Ever since she had found you holed up in your home hiding from the First Order soldiers that had attacked your town, she had taken you in. “Something about you,” she had said with a knowing smile, “I just want to make sure you’re safe.” She had treated you like her own daughter, much different from how she’d treat the other Rebels. Every two seconds, she would scan you for injuries or ask if you were okay. She’d even let you stay in her own home, in a spare room. 

        At least, you had thought it was a spare room. 

        It only took her two months of knowing you before she revealed the name on your wrist was her son’s. The very room you stayed in had been his, Ben Solo’s, and she’d wanted to make sure her son’s soulmate was safe and healthy in case she’d ever found him again. 

        She’d told you the story of how she got separated from him during a skirmish with the First Order and ever since she’d been searching for him. 

        It was only today that you knew she needed to give up the search. 

        “Leia, I-,” your breathing grew quicker and your headache grew worse and before you knew it, you were shedding tears. “Leia, I’m so sorry.”

        The former princess tensed up and reached a hand toward you. “YN, what-”

        “He’s gone,” you whispered, shaking your head and pursing your lips, “I found out when I got captured.”

        “Kylo’s dead?” she breathed out, eyes growing forlorn. You paused, raising your eyes to study her face. 

        “What?” You sniffled, wiping away the tears and growing confused at her words. “What do you mean? Who’s Kylo?”

        “The man who…” Leia’s words broke off when a sort of realization dawned in her eyes. “Oh.”

        You were at a loss for words, utterly confused at her silence when you noticed something. 

        Her eyes. Her nose. The hair, the nervous habits, the “lost” family pictures, all of it. 

        “Kylo was the man who captured me,” you muttered, eyes growing wide and thumb running over your wrist, “but he’s not Kylo on my wrist, is he?”

        Leia was trained in keeping secrets and her expression was as calm as one could expect, but it was only for one single reason. 

        She wanted to let you down easy.

        “No, YN. His name used to be Ben Solo.”

        “And it’s not anymore.”

        “No. Now he goes by Kylo Ren,” she closed her eyes and dropped her head. “That’s his name now… in the First Order.” 

        “You knew?” A spark of betrayal flickered in the pit of your stomach. Though he was Leia’s son, he was also your soulmate. Some part of you felt like you had a right to know what had happened to him--especially if he had done something as significant as turning to the dark side. 

        Instead, she had lied to you, omitting just enough of the truth that you would stick around. 

        Lord knows you would have left months ago if you had learned of the person he had turned into. 

        A thought hit you--a terrible, painful thought that had you gulping and biting your cheek. “Did…” your fingernails dig into your palms to steady your breathing, “did you want me to get captured? By him?”

        Her lack of a response was all you needed to know. 

        “Oh, my God. You knew. You knew the entire time. That’s why you took me in. You thought I could save him.”

        “YN, please, I had to-”

        “You didn’t have to do anything,” you clenched your eyes closed, resentment overtaking anguish deep in your chest. “You didn’t have to lead me to him like a lamb to the slaughter.”

        More tears fell, and the one person you thought you could trust in this galaxy only sat by and watched, opening and closing her mouth without a single word escaping. 

        “I just wanted my son back,” she finally whispered, “I didn’t want him to lose himself like my father had.” 

        “Yeah,” you scoffed, licking your lips and rising from your seat. “Well, now you’ve just lost another person.”

        “YN, wait-”

        “I’m leaving,” you breathed out, shaking your head hopelessly, “so please don’t bother coming after me.”

        Nobody said a word to you as you walked to the nearest empty craft and boarded, and the only ones who tried were hushed by Leia. 

        “Let her go. She wants to be alone now.”

                                +++

        The bar was chattier than usual, though you blamed it on being a Friday afternoon. The outside was hot and though you could still feel the beating sun through the glass windows, the tan building was a hell of a lot cooler. Air conditioning clanked and buzzed as you cleaned glasses and bused bottles. 

        “YN,” the bartender of the night handed you a damp rag and gestured to a table just over the bar ledge, “stop moping around or I’ll cut more than your paycheck.”

        You sighed and grimaced, accepting the dripping cloth before tiptoeing your way around the many customers already reaching their alcoholic limits. 

        Only two weeks had passed since the worst day of your life and you still felt the sting of betrayal and rejection. Not only had the man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life ended up being the daunting Supreme Leader of the First Order, but the woman you had almost grown to love as your own mother had delivered you straight into the palms of his hands. 

        You were lost and confused, trying to find some sort of way to keep traveling across the galaxy by making money anyway possible. Sadly, only bounty hunter bars seemed interested in allowing an unknown, unwanted female to wash their dishes and tables. 

        “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you muttered under your breath, wedging a used fork under what must’ve been the third piece of gum stuck to a wooden chair that day. Gambling and poker around the room must have reached an all-time high as cheers and groans ringed in your ears. An all-around unpleasant buzz settled directly between your temples as you bit your lip, scraping at the gum harder and harder until finally--finally--the last string of green tore away from the seat and gathered around the fork’s prongs. 

        Forearm burning, you almost permitted yourself a small cheer in success until you noticed a change in the bar’s atmosphere. 

        Everyone was dead silent as the bell atop the entryway stopped jingling. The wooden door creaked to a close and five to ten pairs of heavy footsteps thumped against the dusty concrete of the bar’s floor. 

        Panic froze you like a deer in headlights, hoping your location in the back corner of the bar hid you from whoever had entered. You didn’t even dare raise your head for fear of drawing attention to yourself. 

        The person who had the power to silence a crowd of former soldiers, bounty hunters, and drunk mechanics was not someone you wanted the focus of. 

        More footsteps pounded on the floor, drawing closer before a familiar voice spoke up. 

        “Clear everyone out,” Kylo ordered. “Then leave us.” 

        Your heart jumped at his firm, mechanized tone and a warm wave of fuzzy feelings washed over you. After being by your bitter self for so long, you suppose the new emotion wasn’t completely unwanted. You just… weren’t sure if you were happy about its cause. 

        Eyes still locked on the tabletop, you listened as people filed out of the building without question, more than likely at gunpoint with hands raised above their heads. A solid five minutes passed before the room was left completely empty aside from you and your soulmate, and you chastised yourself for deriving some sort of pleasure out of the opportunity of getting to see him again. 

        “YN.”

        “Why are you here?” You spun around to face him, surprised to find his hand outstretched and reaching towards you. Almost immediately, it dropped to his side as he straightened his posture. 

        Deep down, your heart glowed at his presence, and you hated it. You hated that even after everything that had happened, everything you had learned, that you still wanted to see him. You wanted to feel his touch and see his face again. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to see your own name in your own handwriting on his wrist. 

        You cursed at whoever had placed his name on your wrist, because you were falling for the man before you before you had even seen his face twice. 

        Kylo’s hands raised from his side, pausing midway for just a second before reaching up fully and removing his helmet. Like before, it clicked and pulled away with a hiss and, of course, his hair looked untouched. 

        That said nothing of his appearance, however. 

        His eyes held dark circles you didn’t quite remember from your last meeting and his lips seemed paler. The brown locks, as you took a second closer look, seemed more flat and dull than you remembered. 

        Maybe it had been the glory of your first meeting, or maybe it just so happened to be that he was feeling as bad as you had been without having your soulmate by your side. 

        No, it wasn’t physical, like a stabbing pain in your side. It had been more like a piece of yourself had been missing; like there was a hole in your heart that ached and ached, but you just didn’t know how to solve it. 

        Seeing Kylo now made it fade just a little, but just as much time together would be needed to heal how much time you had spent apart. 

        The Supreme Leader set down his helmet just next to your forgotten rag and gum-fork on the table before returning his attention to you. With a twitch of a muscle in his jaw, he met your eyes and spoke. 

        “I thought tracking you down would have been hard, and yet you decided to find home in a place where information can be bought at any price.”

        “Maybe I wanted to be found.” The words slipped from your lips without volition but you couldn’t deny their truth. You wanted to see him again because, though your first meeting had only lasted minutes, you found it hard to focus on anything else.

        His lips twitched at your confession and he took that as an invitation to step closer. “I’m glad then.” 

        “Kylo-”

        “Because you’re coming with me,” he latched a hand around your wrist, “willingly or not.”

        Your eyes widened and some part of you screamed to pull away; maybe it was the logical part of your brain, or perhaps it was your brain altogether.

        Either way, you didn’t care to listen.

        “I’ll go with you,” you nodded, “but only on one condition.”

        Hazel eyes met yours and he nodded curtly. “Anything.”

        “Let me see my name.”

        His brows furrowed for a split second before he released your wrist and removed his right glove, tugging up his sleeve and flashing just the minimum amount of bare skin. 

        YN YLN. Same easy handwriting, a little too heavy in the beginning but lighter in tone at the end. Your name was a bold black, a stark contrast from the rest of his paled wrist. 

        Without a word, you reached forward and snagged his hand, running your index finger over the name and smiling at the quick breath he sucked in. 

        You felt it too--the rush of pure endorphins travelling down your spine, through every nerve ending in your body. 

        Unconcealed happiness. Sheer pleasure. You shivered a tad at the giddiness running through your veins. 

        Kylo was much better at concealing his emotions, allowing only a small tilt of the corner of his lips while his pupils widened at the feeling. 

        “I’ll go with you,” you nodded, a small grin making its way onto your face. “I want… I want to be with you.” If possible, his eyes glowed even brighter and a hint of adoration creased the corner of his lids.

        “Good.” Ever so hesitantly, he reached a hand up to cup the side of your face. “Then we shall rule this galaxy together, my empress.” You leaned into his hold and pressed a hand against his own, intertwining your fingers with his against your cheek.

        “Just one more request.”

        “Anything for you.”

        “Stop wearing that goddamned mask.”

Negative One. [ SISTER]

Ben Hargreaves x Sparrow! black reader,NOT A CHAPTER.

......._........_........._......._....._..._........_.............._........._....._._........_...._

This is Sam Hargreaves, the twin of Diana Hargreaves, just a lot more sensitive. This is not it's on story. This is a character introduction for the story. [ Number Zero ]

Sam is a siren and a part time, Witch Sam died two years ago, and Diana, like Klaus and Ben, can see her ghost.

Sam can breathe under water like it's normal.

She can swim every well and she can't grow a tall.

Sam can sing every well like movie star good some would say like Arianna Grande?!

Sam only knows how to make things with her Witch hobbies.

Sam in siren form:

Previous chapter:

"Cheating" BEN_Drowned Oneshot

---------------->

“Oh, come on! You’re totally cheating!” Y/N shouts, roughly standing up and pointing at the screen that said she lost with her controller. BEN only grinned and exited out of Super Mario Kart, returning to the menu screen.

“Nuh uh! You just suck at gaming.” He stuck his tongue out at her and yelped when she threw a pillow at him. “Woah, chill out!”

“I’m gonna beat your ass!” Y/N tossed her controller onto the couch cushion and tackled him, rolling them both off the couch.

He held onto her hands and screeched, trying to push her off of him. He failed miserably, though, granted her wrath was much stronger than what his twiggy arms could handle.

BEN kept screaming for help as she threatened him repeatedly, and looked over at the stairs as Jeff ran down them.

“Help! Please! Oh my fucking God, help me!” He yelled over at Jeff, and the rugged man only snickered and took a picture of them. 

“Nah, I’ve got shit to do. Funny as fuck, though.” Jeff shoved his phone back into his hoodie pocket and went into the kitchen, no doubt grabbing a beer. 

BEN continued to shout until he kicked her knee and she fell off of him, and he took his chance to run behind the couch. He and her played an odd game of ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ with it, and she looked for any opening she could to get to him. 

“Just admit you cheated!” She shouted, and threw another pillow at him.

“Just admit you suck ass at Super Mario Kart!” BEN shouted back, and Y/N stopped chasing him around the couch and stared at him. He also froze, unsure of what she was doing.

“Oh, fuck!”

Y/N climbed over the couch and jumped onto him, tackling him down again. They both rolled around and continued to fight, her threatening him and him taunting her. 

Jeff stood in the kitchen and watched at a distance, sipping his beer.

“They’re really going at it, huh?”

“Fuck!” Jeff jumped and spilled his beer, and looked over to where Clockwork had randomly appeared next to him, and she laughed lightly as he grabbed a towel and cursed her out.

/ᐠ-˕-マ~ master list for...

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 !

《 ♡ 》 𝐣𝐚𝐲

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐦𝐚𝐥

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐛𝐞𝐧

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐠𝐢𝐥

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐮𝐦𝐚

nothing here yet :(

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《 ♡ 》 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

nothing here yet :(

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 : [active] [hiatus] [offline]

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 : [open] [closed]

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 :

idk why some of them have last names and some don't, but if anyone wants to help me find/make up some, I'm open to that :).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ...𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ...𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞

Dear God x Ben Shelton

In-short: lovers-to-exes-to-fwb inspired by Dear God from Tate Mcrae (+ a little angst)

Word Count: 6k bc apparently i have too much free time

Warnings: NSFW

Noties: wrote this when the So Close To What album just dropped and i had Dear God on loop. ngl it feels weird to write about Ben now that he has launched his relationship lol, but i digress! i do this for the girlies and the gays.

the story is in 1st POV bc i can never write in 2nd. wattpad did numbers on my back in the day haha. first time writing in a long time, so pls enjoy and lemme know how you like it <3

Author: my twt is @hyunhocrumbs if you wanna be moots >.<

- Dear God - Ben Shelton -

“You’re really red now.”

Coming from the other side of the net, his voice has a hint of enthusiasm interlaced in it. Dear God. I let out an annoyed breath, while my doubles partner, Arthur, chuckled from the baseline.

European clay court season on a late May afternoon felt like an early summer. Our breath was ragged, footsteps heavy and what was supposed to be a simple hit session with two other players had turned into a full practice match. Arthur had insisted we hit with Taylor Townsend and Ben Shelton, although they weren’t even running for mixed doubles in Roland Garros that year.

So, we did, and it was fine. It was casual. Until I saw Ben and the way his eyes twiddled with amusement every time I had something to say. How he strolled into the court, curls bouncing on his head in the humid heat, and nonchalance rolling off his shoulders. How he flew these little playful comments my way and followed through with deep cross shots. 

To me, this was a simple hit session - clean footwork, clean shots. In and out. To him, it was entertainment, amusement, and even a little competition.

Normal baseline hits turned into strong, deep forehands. He was intentional in the way sent the ball flying, wanted to know how well I would take it. How competitive I could get with it.

Once I ignored it. Twice I entertained it. The third time around I let it fly past me and instead approached the net.

He was already grinning. “Sorry ma bad. Need a little break?”

It was funny how our partners were just there. However, I was the only one he was interested in talking with. “Thought this was going to be a hit session.”

Taylor asked if we wanted to switch it up a little. I could already see Arthur jumping in agreement. Ben’s brown eyes were fixed on mine, observing, anticipating. “C’mon, afraid of a little competition?”

Something about how he had said it, the playfulness resting on his tone. That smirk toying at the edge of his lips. It irked something in me.

A practice match has very low stakes. But I liked a good game.

“It’s on then.”

From there it was always on with him– bumping in the player’s lounge, his curls sticking to his forehead and a coy grin on his face when he would congratulate me on my win. The little smirks he threw here and there while passing on the corridor, playful comments about my game and how he could not stop staring when I was playing. The way he would purposefully lean in closer every time we were talking. How I could feel his breath on my cheeks and see his dazzling brown eyes up close playfully staring at me.

Ben made it so easy to like him. He was charming - so awfully charming that he had everyone wrapped around his little finger. He would flash them his gummy smile or his sassy smirk and people would swoon in a puddle. He was soft, witty, funny and so annoyingly aware of what he was doing.

He would joke I’m his lucky charm and manage to bring me up in interviews I was not even part of. Mid-game when I would raise my eyes to the crowd, it was his gaze that would always be following me. 

Ben would search for me right after his matches, head full of damp curls, and his arms still glistening in sweat. Mid-sentence, his shirt would come off and nothing could make me miss his smirk as he would catch my breath hitching.

“I watched your last set today.”

His toned arms would twist and flex as he searched in his bag. “Oh, yeah?”

I rolled my eyes. Dear God.

“Sorry, pretty hot out there.” He would say and not mean it in the slightest. He would look at me as if to let me know that he wanted me to see, wanting me to gauge at him, to play his game.

“You were playing like shit.” I would raise at him.

Pulling the new shirt over his head, he would flash me a mischievous grin. “Wanna give me some private lessons later then?”  

Before I knew it, we were having dinner, sneaking out of hotels late, calling until the sun met us again. I would watch him drown to sleep, his curls covering his features as they softened, exhausted from the intensive training. Watch him again flex his giant limbs lazily and flash me a witty grin in the morning.

He was ferociously flirty and such an incredible sight to see, it was impossible to deal with him. We would rush to one of our hotel rooms right after gym, mouths colliding and hands rushing to touch, to feel. Chuckles and giggles as he would struggle with my sports bra and then hoist me up easily.

Dear God, how I loved feeling his body pressed against mine, skin to skin. How Ben’s soft lips would find my neck, while his fingers trailed my chest to then hook under my knees. How he’d make me see stars like it came easy to him.

Always afterwards, he would hold me there, pressed against him. I’d smile at his silly jokes and tug at the silver chains resting against his chest just to make him go again, and again and again.

There was always breakfast with him, rushed warm hugs at the player’s lounge with him, late nights at masters’ events with him. Bustling through the cameras as we rushed to his car, dodging questions and comments from all sides. It was the way he’d kiss my shoulders and say goodnight. How he would cross continents on his free time just so he could say ‘I love you’ in real life.

A lot of people loved Ben, but at the end of the day, he would only come home to me. It felt addicting to have his smiles and grins all to myself - his soft teasing comments and his stupid dork moments. To have him obsessed with my scent, trailing behind me in everything I did.

“You look gorgeous today.” He’d say and lean it to capture my lips.

I would dodge, smiling at his failed attempt. He would release an exasperated sigh like it hurt him for me to even consider not allowing him a kiss.

“I’ll beat you today. Then, it’ll be more than a kiss that you owe me.” Always a game with him.

But no matter what, he was always there. I remember when I lost one of my biggest finals and how he held me as I could not stop shaking from crying. Roland Garros was supposed to be mine, my first grand slam victory coming home. Yet it slipped out of my grip, and I watched it happen. I couldn’t stop it.

I sat for the debrief, went to the team dinner, had a call with my parents even. I told them I was fine. They saw me angry and frustrated, but my composure was straight, my shoulders squared up and my chin high, unwavering.

Later that night, Ben found me curled up on my hotel room couch. Crouching in front of me, he reached out his hand to trace circles on my cheek. “Hey, love.” It was so soft, so delicate. His eyes knew, and that broke me.

“You can let go now. It’s just me.”

I did. The first tear fell down and then the other. They kept on coming, pouring violently down my face in streams. Ben hugged me tight in his chest, his hands caging me in as my body kept shaking. Pressing his lips against my temples, he let me have it and kept whispering sweet nothings into my ear as I poured out all my vulnerability.

When the crying and shaking stopped about 3 hours later, he had me still in his arms, drying away the tears with his thumb. All I could feel was the warmth of his solid body grounding me as his voice lulled me to sleep.

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That year’s Roland Garros changed everything. I started chasing another grand slam high, while his ego started dangerously brewing. Ben had more titles under his belt, he was getting greedier, his mindset shifting and his competitiveness growing.

There were fewer late-night calls then. Less joint practices. Sometimes I would not hear from him for days. But his charming voice would be all over social media, his laughter light-hearted, gum smile flashing at interviewers. After his matches, he would wink at the front rows filled with girls who adored him; get the crowds to scream his name.

It drove me crazy. Made me feel as if I had something to worry about.

“Didn’t think you’d be so jealous.” He said and I could almost swear to him this was just teasing.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and doing my best not to let my voice rise to levels I would regret. “You were out there forever.”

“I was just signing some stupid tennis balls.” Ben’s hands were already reaching for his tennis bag. His tone unfamiliarly dismissive.

“Well, you could have spent those stupid minutes with me.”

He sighed like this conversation was such a burden to him. “I can’t do this right now; I have to go to physio.”

I heard the door slamming before I could even concoct a retort for him. Ben loved to leave like that. Middle of the conversation, no accountability. Hitting balls was easier than facing responsibilities for him. I’d feel the walls caving in and a tear or two drop. It was exhausting.

He was everywhere on the news, on the court, in the lounges. Just not next to me.

But then he would come around apologising, saying how he would do better, try harder. For us. How his lips would search mine, teasingly at first, but then impatiently, intensely. As if eager to prove that he missed me so much, that he always thought of me. In the shower, in his car, on his bed - moaning my name.

He would pull his shirt off and suddenly I would forget how I cried for hours because he wasn’t there when I won. His lips would trail my neck, and my hands would find their place in between his curls to tug him even closer. As if it would make up for the distance that already existed between us

It grew. It only grew deeper and sharper. We started fighting more. He would lose and we wouldn’t speak for weeks. I would lose and he would be my first target. We would end up slamming the door in each other’s faces after the entire staff and tournament had heard us screaming.

“Can’t you just listen for a moment?” He was pacing in front of me, my legs hurting as I chased him down, the weight of my bags cutting my shoulder.

“I’m not a fucking kid.” Ben hissed.

“Well, fucking act like it then.”  

When he turned around, he was fuming. Chest rising rapidly, his eyes a fire so dangerous. His head dipped as he leaned close to me, and it took all my strength not to push him away.

“You will shut that pretty mouth up right now, Y/N. You’re not my fucking coach, so stop treating me like I’m one of your little projects.”

The door shook from Ben’s forceful impact. A few heads perked around the corner. I couldn’t even blame them for wanting to know. Hot tears streamed down my face and my cries were silent. Muted. I couldn’t even bring my feet to turn away and go somewhere to be alone in peace.

Always, after 15 minutes, he would unlock the door and leave it open so I could shamefully sly into our room. Late at night would be the only times I would feel him again. In all darkness, laying in bed. He would lie down, and I would pretend sleep had already taken me.

The mattress would dip, and his warm breath would send shivers down my spine. I hated it. A beat or two would pass in complete silence. Then I would hear him sigh and feel his lips press tenderly against the skin of my shoulder. I would wait for him to say anything, do anything. Instead, he would roll over, our backs facing each other to wake up to another day fighting.

Not even an ‘I’m sorry, goodnight’ anymore.

Then the Australian Open mixed doubles draw came. Our coaches thought we had a chance at winning. How cruel, to have your distance attempted to be fixed by forced proximity.

Practice started, yet we were still seeing each other less. It was all nerves, fumes, exhaustion. Day in and out. The season was brand new, yet we were already losing it. We would scream at each other like crazy and then fuck numb as if that would fix how fragile our team play was.

R1. Joint effort.

R2. We were tolerating.

The deeper into the draw, the more competitive we started getting. The easier he made it for me to pick at his mistakes, the easier I made it for him to pick apart my confidence. I would savour every moment we were at peace off the court, and that was not a lot – because despite playing doubles, I did not trust him to have my back anymore.

Quarters. We had a close call.

That evening there was no debrief. Just dreaded silence.

There were cameras everywhere on us. Not that they weren’t always, but now there was something special worth watching for them. Two young singles players geared up to make a run for a Grand Slam final. Ben and I were walking on eggshells.

Semis. We had two close calls.

His backhands were hitting the net one after the other. Double faults. He was playing with anger, and I could not tolerate it. I threw irritated glance after irritated glance at him. My volleys marked out. Higher court coverage and we would end up bumping. Moon balls. Dear God, could I not even trust him to play reliable tennis. We barely scraped the last set and yet no one was celebrating. 

Finals.

I breathed his cologne that morning when I walked into the bathroom. I usually let him shower alone now, but today I needed to prove myself something. Ben was lying in the tub, water hiding his body all the way to his chest. His arms spread on the edges, silver chains sticking around his neck. His features were soft, an unreadable expression resting on his face.

His eyes followed me as I closed the door behind and, for a moment, I forgot. The memories, the pain, the screams. The fact that we were aimlessly hunting for a gold trophy. It was just me and Ben. My old Ben.

Crouching next to the tub, I reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Hey there.”

Even now his voice would take my breath away. I stared at him just like I used to stare when he would bump into me on the lounge after my plays. When he would look at me with that stupid grin of his and flirted his way into my lunches and my dinners, my hotel room even.

I sat on my knees and my other hand reached under the water. His breath hitched when he felt me on him. When I started stroking him his eyes were on me. Up and down, feeling him twitch under my touch. His mouth parted a little, his tongue wetting his lips. I looked at Ben as his head leaned back and eyes darted from the ceiling at me.

I would feel him grow hard around my fingers, feel the blood coursing through his length as my pace grew. “God, Y/N.” How I loved it when my name rolled off his tongue like a prayer. He grabbed my other hand, burning my skin with his touch as he brought my fingers to his mouth.

Fuck, how I loved it when he was a mess. When we would do this more often when I would be inside the tub with him, and we would laugh and giggle as I struggled to place my knees somewhere comfortable. How he would look at me like I was the only thing that could fulfil him.

His breath was heavy, chest rising and falling at the pace of my strokes. His moans filling the damp air as with one last stroke, he chased his release with my hand wrapped still around him. Ben relaxed against the tub wall, his body disappearing further underwater. A beat skipped before he moved towards me and gave my shoulder a kiss. “Thank you love.”

He didn’t use to call me love anymore.

I smiled.

He thought this was for him. But this was for me. Because whatever happened on court that day, reminiscing about the past was more secure than worrying about whether we would even survive the future.

Later that night, we lost the Australian Open mixed doubles final. Ending our intense Grand Slam run and together with it, our relationship.

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Two years. In two years, a small knife can turn into a seething sword.

Training, practice, gym, sleep, repeat. There was something so refreshing when your most important point of focus became success.  

Photoshoots, campaigns, new friends.  I was no longer a new kid in the draw. I was a force to be reckoned with.

Porsche, Nike, Cartier.

Glittering image of a new star who cemented her place. Not sharper and reckless. But sharper and brighter. I played with confidence, having conquered the Australian Open a year before. Consistently being in the Top 5. It was ruthless but in a kind way. A motivating way.

I had more control, but less at the same time. Training intensely, practising hard. Then, fooling around. Sometimes.

Two years since the Australian Open mixed doubles final. Two years since I did not see his face, did not hear his voice. This was tennis, a small world, and we were bound to see each other. However, I made sure we wouldn’t.

No social media, no interviews about each other. I blocked not only him but his entire team. When Bryan would walk the corridors, I would only greet and change my way. He understood. There were no mutual friends' hangouts, no funny jokes about getting us back together.

There was no accidental sight in the player’s lounge, at the player’s gym or during hit practice either. My team made sure we wouldn’t even cross paths outside of arenas; far apart hotels, private dinners, and separate transport. The only thing I could not control was the draw. Yet, we found a way to also make that work. Scarcer doubles, and pull-outs when we would be in his and his partner’s quarter. 

He left my life. Yet, we still breathed the same air, and I hated it.

I hated that sometimes his image would burn into the back of my head. How I would curl up after losses and I would wish, even for a little bit, that he was there. How I would sit and think about how he looked now. How his kisses would feel now.

It took only a split second of distraction. Two years and I made no mistakes. One thoughtless decision and we were standing on opposite sides of the net at the US Open mixed doubles semi-final. My team saw us on opposing sides of the draw. We didn’t give it a second thought. There was no way he would make it that far.

But one thing about Ben is that that lucky bastard can crawl his way up in incredibly disadvantageous situations. Next thing I knew, it was afternoon in New York, and I was preparing to return his serve.

I tried not to stare. Not to seem taken aback by how much he had changed. How he had grown bigger, stronger. His shoulders lean and sculpted. His black ON shirt clung to his figure for life, emphasising his every curve, every muscle. His legs moved at a speed I had never seen before.

Ben would hit his cross forehand with a precision that made it hard to even reach for a return. My backhand was spectacular, but he knew how to go deep and fast on a new level. He had gotten quicker, swifter, more intelligent and more precise.

While I was too busy reminiscing the old Ben, this Ben in front of me was hitting winners like it was his pastime. I could not read him. But I decided I didn’t need to. On the second set, Carlos and I started advancing with confidence. While Ben’s forehand might have gotten sharper, so did my backhand and my drop shots.

He would cross and I would return with equal loathing. Carlos would volley back to Iga and we would go into long, intense volley-rallies like psychos. Crazy shots and crazier saves. Push and pull. Running cross-court like every point was a match point for all of us.

The game lasted 2h and 49 min. Three sets, all three tiebreakers. By the end of it, all four of us were breathing like madmen.

Carlos was sprawled on the court floor, while I was resting my forehead on my racket, barely being able to focus. Sweat dripped from my forehead as I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. On the other side of the court, Ben and Iga were equally exasperated. Both panting as they hugged each other for the last time on their run.

Carlos and I had scraped the victory narrowly.

The crowds were roaring. This was tennis, this was fire and passion and high-level performance.

Carlos got up and I followed his suit to the net. I hugged Iga, still unable to regulate my breathing. She had been phenomenal. Carlos then reached for her, and I went behind him. It had been 2 years. I could be civil. I had to be civil.

I looked up at him with my face burning, and my heartbeat drummed in my ears again. Dear God, how much he had changed. Ben’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks red and his damp curls sticking all over his forehead. When we shook hands, his fingers brushed against my wrist.

His eyes lingered on me for a second too long. Why was he always like this?

Carlos and I waved at the crowd and approached the interviewer. My eyes were on the camera, yet my mind was holding on to the image of the man I was meeting for the first time in two years. I could only hope his eyes were lingering on me too.

But the adrenaline of the match did not stop there. We had played like crazy, given it our all. I was on the bike, yet I felt like I could go another time. My heart was pounding, my thoughts were racing. Cross backhand, then drop-shot. Carlos’  volleys. Iga’s dunk. Neutral rally. My backhand again.

Ben’s forehand. Ben’s arms. Ben’s curls. Ben’s lips. Volley. Volley. Volley.

I cursed under my breath. Fuck. I was going too fast even on the bike. When we went back to change and debrief, my legs were still restless, my mind still racing, my feet still pacing. My blood was coursing through my veins like I was running in the woods.

I made my way to the players’ lounge for dinner. Another thoughtless decision. He was there - of course, he was there. Sitting next to Iga and across from his team. His hair was still wet from the shower. Someone must have said a joke as he threw his head back grinning.

The morning of the Australian Open mixed doubles finals ran through my brain. Dear God!

Our last time together, and the first time I craved him like a crazy woman.

I was staring at him like a hawk, yet he didn’t even bother to spare me a thought. I even walked directly next to him to get to the food line, yet he did nothing. Didn’t stare, didn’t look. Didn’t even turn his head.

My legs sped past his table. I didn’t hear his breath get caught up like mine did. I didn’t even know what I needed from him - to look at me, to acknowledge me? To tell me he sent all those forehands my way with persistence because he wanted to prove a point?!

It felt infuriating to be upped by a man who did not spare me two cents of his undivided attention.

Back to the hotel corridor, my mind was racing. I was sprinting to my room. Struggling to get rid of this feeling, of this match. I needed to rest. I need to forget this. Pump this out. I had a final coming up and I was going to win it.

Until I saw him. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall next to my room. The dim lights cast shadows on his face as he played with his feet. I stopped dead in my tracks near him. It was 11 pm. Why was he here? 

He was biting his lip as he looked up at me and it took me a second to gather myself. I began walking past him while he silently followed me with his eyes as I made my way to my door.

“Hey.”

I stopped. 11 pm after our mixed doubles semis match. 11 pm after nearly 3h of hell. My heartbeat was up in my ears again. My thoughts were racing like a tornado. One thoughtless decision and we were on opposite sides of the net. One thoughtless decision and he was at my door at 11 pm.

I swallowed and looked up at him. How his shoulders had widened, how his jaw had sharpened, his lower fade and his curls pouring over his forehead.

“Ben…”

His fingers circled against my wrist. The way they did at the end of the match. His eyes lingered on my face and then on my lips. My eyes darted to his silver chains, to the way his chest rose and fell. To his eyes, searching - thinking of a way to stop this.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

What’s one more thoughtless decision?

His lips crashed down on me. My back hit the door. At first, his kisses were lingering, full but tentative. As if searching to make sure I was here for them, the way he was here for me. He was barely doing anything, and I was already suffocating. My hands reached for his silver chains, and I tugged at them urging him closer.

It sent him feral.

His kisses were not caressing anymore. They were devouring. He was aggressive and confident and rough. Just like he had been on court today. Ben kissed me like I was his last breath, like he had meant it for a long time. His hands were already everywhere, touching, grabbing with intensity. My eyes fluttered shut, my heartbeat rising to my ears again as I could feel the adrenaline pumping through me.

Two years and this man was starving.

We barely made it to my bed before both of us were stark naked. My back tattoo flashed in the mirror, and I knew his eyes caught it. I knew he would love it, would go crazy for it. He traced it with his fingers, his touch burning every single piece of my body like it was hell. I savoured the sight of him like I would no longer see the light of day. 

There was no fiddling, no giggling. Just pure commitment to this. To this bit, to burning whatever this was off.

Dear God, how much I had craved this Ben.  

The one whose lips touched in all the right places. The one whose movements were fuelled, demanding. Hands pushing my thighs apart without a doubt that this is what I wanted. His hot mouth leaving bite marks up my tits and my neck. His breathy grunts filled my ears as my nails dug into his back to pull him impossibly closer.

It was maddening. Whatever this was that we were getting off our chest, whatever we couldn’t say out loud, it was excruciating. Pushing us further, deeper. Dear God, I didn’t want him to stop.

He fucked like a man now. His body all muscle, hard like an anchor. He made me see stars. Fucked me until I went numb. Fucked me like he meant every single thrust.

In. Out.

In. Out

In. “Ben!”

Out. “Oh, fuck, like that yeah.”

Then, we did it again the next day after I won the final. And the tournament after that. And the one after that.

It became our new routine. No commitment, no complications. Just the man I used to be in love with buried deep inside me every now and then. Then, silence. Radio silence. Then he would reach out again. Sex on his car. Sex on my shower.

God knows, I left Christianity a long time ago, but he’d bring me to my knees in one breath.

How I would milk him dry. How he would breathe against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You take me so good.”

How he would fit in me like he belonged there.

How Ben would go down on me in the middle of the room, let me ride his face until I could take it no more. His pace would tear me to pieces. Stronger. Rougher. Deeper. How he would press his hand against my lower belly while I took him just so he could feel himself in me. 

His name would roll off my tongue like a charm. My name would hitch in his breath like a curse. Dear God, how I hated to admit that I missed him like this. I liked him like this. When he was in between my legs, in the locker room, and we’d grunt as I took him full. When we would sneak out so I could feel his lips on mine. It was almost fun.

No love and it was almost working.

Almost.

Because at times, I’d fall asleep to the warmth of his chest and his arms wrapped around me, and wake up to the coldness of the reality that he was not mine. That this was a temporary fixture. Two athletes pumping out adrenaline. It was convenient.

Yet when he’d stay, I would be lying if I said a part of me was a little bit happier. He’d kiss my forehead like it was second nature and cook us breakfast because now he was not so terrible at it. We would joke around, fool around. I’d even wear his shirts again.

He’d flirt his way into my bed as if I wasn’t already waiting for him to consume me.

No one knew. No one needed to know. There were no cameras because this was no longer a love story. This was meant for the backstage, for the locker room where we would sweat it out, high on the adrenaline of getting caught.

In the player’s lounge, we would not even spare a glance at each other. Tables apart, separate entries and exits. No interactions, no unnecessary shared spaces. I hated him in public and moaned his name in private.

No love, and it was almost working.

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As the new season started, our old habits stayed. It was hotel room after hotel room. Silence. Sneaking out. But now, there was not just sex. I’d run to Ben whenever things became too much. He’d hide in my arms whenever his losses would weigh his shoulders down.

It became intoxicating, how I would wait for him to show up and wish for him to stay after - stay longer. This was convenience, yet I conveniently wanted him next to me at all times. “No one else makes me feel like this.” He’d whisper into my hair, and I would almost believe him.

It was fine.

Apart from when I would see his face plastered on social media with a new girl he was talking to. Flirting with, charming his way into whatever he wanted with her. It was fine. Apart from the drop in my stomach - how I felt a little sick, a little pissed, and a lot of anger.

So much for someone who wasn’t even mine.

Later when he’d show up to my room, it was ice waiting for him. “Not tonight, I’m not in the mood.”

Ben would raise an eyebrow. Rolling the leather jacket off his shoulders, he’d approach my bed in slow strides. “Is that so?”

I would barely look up from my phone from where I was sitting. “Thought you had company tonight.”

He would smirk, his eyes glinting with confidence. His hands would snake around my bare legs while his lips left an unforgiving trail up my thighs. Slow, measured, tempting. It would stop right before it reached my core. Ben would rest his face in between my legs and look up. “You know…in you is the only place I belong.”

Fuck him. It was the way he would say it, with such ease, with that raspy breath and glinting playful eyes.

“Then show me.”

It was all he always needed. He’d take me like he was starved. Put my panties away and eat me until my body was shaking. I’d fist his pretty curls, and his name would roll off my tongue like a prayer.

After Miami Open that year, we didn’t see each other for long. No sight of him with only a towel, water droplets decorating his glazed skin and tight pecks. Couldn’t feel his back muscles flexing at my every touch. His shoulder was not there for me to cry on when I felt exhausted. His lips could not soothe my nerves away.

It was fine. It didn’t matter. That he wasn’t calling or texting. Radio silence was usual for us.

“You look like you’re about to scream.” My physio said handing me a bottle full of electrolytes.

“I am not?!” I scoffed at her while downing the liquid all at once, almost too fast.

She shook her head. “Has that boy still not texted you yet?”

I shrugged, maintaining a calm expression. “Does it matter?”

“Y/N, do you miss him?”

“What?”

She was looking straight at me. “I said do you miss him? Because last time you told me this was not serious.”

“It’s not.” I answered almost too quickly.

My physio did not seem convinced. I did not like where this was going with her. “Yet, here you are checking your phone every 5 minutes. Make sure that boy does not ruffle your feathers too much.”

“He doesn’t, don’t worry.” I smiled, tight-lipped.

I didn’t miss him. My brain was simply just burning with the memory of us pressed together, his lips smiling against mine. How he’d use to whisper sweet nothings into my ear for me to fall asleep. The faint smell of cologne that Ben would spray right after a shower.

Dear God, I hope it ain’t him I’m missing. Just his body and his touch and his voice. It hadn’t even been that long since…

Strong arms wrapped around me, and I felt the notes of cedarwood in the air. “Hey, baby.”

Fuck.

Dear God, I hope you’re listening.