#acrtress!reader

Heyy, thank you for the request!! sorry for taking SOO long! I couldn’t think of nothing with a comedy actor, but she is an actor!! 💕

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Summary: When Benito, your boyfriend of five years accompanies you on a set day, and your co-worker complicates his life…

Warnings: Heavy Smut, dom!benito, actress!reader, chocking, teasing, +18, mdi

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Los Angeles penthouse, casting a golden glow over the rumpled sheets where you and Benito had spent the night tangled together. Five years together, and the spark between you two had only grown hotter, deeper, more passionate over these years. He was Bad Bunny to the world, but to you, he was just Benito, the man who whispered Spanish dirty things in your ear like they were deep secrets, who made you laugh until your sides hurt, and who loved you with a fierceness that sometimes scared even him.

“Despierta, mi reina” (good morning, my queen) he murmured that morning, his voice still husky from sleep as he rolled over and pulled your naked body against his. His lips brushed your neck, teeth grazing the spot he knew made you shiver. “You have that big scene today, and I’m coming with you. No arguments. I want to watch my bebé work her magic.”

You smiled, arching into him, your fingers tracing the ink on his chest. “You sure? You hate early call times.”

“Para ti? Anything.” (For you?) He kissed you slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours until you were both breathless. “Besides, I miss seeing you like this. All confident, sexy, owning every room you walk into.

The drive to the set was easy, his hand on your thigh the whole way, thumb stroking lazy circles under the hem of your skirt. He played one of his own tracks low in the car, singing along off-key just to make you laugh. When you arrived, the crew greeted him like an old friend, but his eyes never left you as you got into wardrobe and makeup.

The scene today was the big one: a passionate, rain-soaked kiss turning into a heated make-out against the wall of the fake apartment set. Your co-star, Marcus —a tall, polished British actor with a reputation for blurring lines between acting and real life—was already there, shirt unbuttoned for the shot, flashing you that practiced charming smile.

“Morning, love,” Marcus said, leaning in a little too close as the director called places. “Ready to sell this chemistry? I know we’ve got it in spades.”

You laughed politely, professional as always. “Let’s make it count.”

Benito sat just off-camera in a director’s chair they’d pulled up for him, arms crossed over his black hoodie, sunglasses on even though the set lights were bright. He looked relaxed at first—legs stretched out, nodding when you blew him a quick kiss before the first take.

Action.

The cameras rolled. Rain machines poured down as Marcus pulled you in, his hands sliding down your back, lower than the script strictly called for. His mouth crashed onto yours—wet, insistent, tongue slipping in deeper than rehearsed. You sold it, fingers gripping his wet shirt, body arching like the scene demanded. But even after “Cut!” echoed through the set, Marcus didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered on your waist, thumb brushing the bare skin where your soaked top had ridden up.

“Bloody hell, you’re incredible,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on yours as the crew reset. “That felt real. We should grab drinks after wrap, talk about how to make the next scene even steamier. Off the clock, obviously.”

You stepped back with a polite smile, wiping rain from your face. “Thanks, Marcus. But I’ve got plans.”

Benito’s face had changed. The easy smirk was gone. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed behind those sunglasses. He didn’t say a word when you walked over, towel around your shoulders, but the energy radiating off him was dark, stormy.

“Hey, you,” you said softly, sliding onto his lap in the chair like you always did between takes. You poked his chest playfully. “What’s with the face, grumpy bunny? Jealous much?”

He didn’t crack a smile. “No estoy celoso” (I’m not jealous) he muttered, voice flat, one hand resting on your hip but gripping a little tighter than usual. “Just… watching that pendejo put his hands all over you. Again. Even after they said cut.”

You grinned, thinking he was just being dramatic like he sometimes got after long nights. “Aww, mi amor is throwing a tantrum? It’s acting, Benito. You know that. You’ve watched me do love scenes a hundred times and never batted an eye. Marcus is just… method. He’s like that with everyone.”

He looked away, jaw ticking. “Method. Sure. He wasn’t acting when he had his hand on your ass like it belonged to him. And that little invite for drinks? Right in front of me, like I’m invisible.”

You laughed lightly, cupping his face and turning it back to you. “Baby, come on. Don’t be like that. You’re the one who gets me screaming your name every night. Not some co-star playing pretend.” You leaned in, nipping his earlobe. “My big, bad guy doesn’t get insecure over a silly scene, does he? Or do I need to remind you who this pussy belongs to later?”

He didn’t laugh. His eyes flicked to Marcus across the set, who was chatting with the director and glancing your way. Benito’s hand slid up your thigh under the towel, possessive but silent. “No me gusta” (I don’t like it) he said quietly, Spanish rolling thick off his tongue. “Not today. Not the way he looks at you. Like he thinks he has a chance.”

You teased again, thinking you could lighten him up. “Ooh, possessive today? Cute. Maybe I should flirt back just to see you pout more. You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

His grip tightened, eyes flashing. “Not funny, mi vida. Don’t push it.”

⸻

The rest of the day dragged. Takes went on, Marcus kept the flirtation going: complimenting your “natural fire,” touching your arm during notes from the director. Benito stayed stone-faced, barely speaking when you checked on him. By wrap time, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

In the car ride home, the silence was heavy. You reached for his hand on the gear shift. “Benito, talk to me. You’re really mad?”

He glanced at you, eyes dark. “Mad? No. Celoso? Sí. That cabrón was eye-fucking you the whole time. And you let him. Laughing at his bullshit like it’s nothing. I know it’s your job, bebé, but today… today it felt like he was trying to take what’s mine. And you teased me about it. Like my feelings don’t matter.”

Your stomach flipped. The teasing had backfired. “I was just playing, amor. I didn’t mean—”

“We’re home,” he cut in, pulling into the underground garage of your building. The elevator ride up was pure silence. His hand was on the small of your back, but it felt like a brand, hot, claiming.

The second the penthouse door clicked shut behind you, the jealousy exploded.

Benito spun you around, backing you against the door with a growl. His mouth was on yours instantly, rough, hungry, nothing like the scripted kiss from earlier. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, yanking you against the hard line of his body.

“Enough of that shit,” he rasped against your lips, voice low and dangerous. “You’re mine, ¿entiendes? Only mine. Not his to touch. Not his to flirt with. Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to keep.”

“Benito—” you gasped, but he swallowed it with another kiss, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch of your mouth like he needed to erase Marcus’s taste from your memory.

“Say it,” he demanded, one hand sliding up to cup your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race. “Dime que eres mía, mi reina. Only mine.” (Tell me your mine)

“I’m yours,” you breathed, heat pooling between your legs at the possessiveness in his voice. “Only yours, Benito. Always.”

He smirked against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “That’s right, bebé. That pendejo can act all he wants. But this” His free hand shoved under your skirt, fingers finding you already soaked through your panties. He groaned, circling your clit roughly. “This pussy? It gets wet for me. Only me.”

You moaned, hips bucking into his touch as he pushed your panties aside and slid two thick fingers inside you without warning. He curled them perfectly, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes, all while his hand stayed on your throat, thumb stroking the side in a rhythm that matched his fingers.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he pumped faster. “So fucking pretty when you’re falling apart for me. You think he could make you drip like this? Think he could choke you just right and have you begging?”

“N-no,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Only you, mi amor. Please—”

He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could protest, he took you to the living room, bending you over the back of the couch. Your skirt was shoved up, panties ripped down your legs in one swift motion. You heard his belt buckle, the zipper, then the thick, hot press of his cock against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget his name,” he growled, one hand fisting your hair, the other wrapping back around your throat from behind. He thrust in hard—all the way to the hilt in one stroke, stretching you wide with that familiar, delicious burn. “¡Ay, Dios mío, tan apretada para mí!” (Oh ny god, so tight for me)

You cried out, pushing back against him as he set a punishing pace, hips slamming into yours. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and filthy. Every thrust drove him deeper, his balls slapping against you, his hand tightening around your neck making your head spin with pleasure.

“Benito—fuck—harder” you gasped, voice hoarse from the pressure on your throat.

He obliged, pounding into you relentlessly, the couch creaking under the force. “You feel that, mi vida? My cock owning this tight little pussy. Say it louder. Tell me who you belong to while I choke you like my good girl.”

“I belong to you!” you moaned, the words breaking as he squeezed a little firmer, stars dancing in your vision. The possessiveness, the raw need in his voice it sent you spiraling. “I’m yours—only yours—Benito, please, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” he snarled, pulling out and flipping you onto your back on the couch like you weighed nothing. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, sliding back in even deeper this way. His hand returned to your throat immediately, eyes burning into yours as he fucked you slow and hard now, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough with lust and leftover jealousy. “Eyes on me while I ruin you. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you moan my name like a prayer. ¿Me oyes? You’re my woman. My actress. My everything.”

Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked your eyes as he hit that perfect angle again and again. His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped into your mouth. You sucked it greedily, tongue swirling, and he groaned.

“Fuck, you’re perfect. Mi reina sucia. Come for me now—let me feel you squeeze my cock while I choke you.”

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as he kept the pressure on your throat steady. You screamed his name, body shaking, vision blurring at the edges from the intense high.

Benito followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan. “¡Mierda—te amo, mi amor!” Hot spurts of his release filled you, pulsing as he rode it out, hips stuttering.

He didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he collapsed over you, hand loosening on your throat to cradle your face gently. His forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling.

“Te amo tanto,” he whispered, kissing you soft and slow now, all the roughness melting into tenderness. “I’m sorry I got so crazy today. Seeing him touch you… it just hit different. You’re my world. I don’t want to share even a second of you with anyone who looks at you like that.”

You smiled, fingers threading through his hair, legs still wrapped around him. “I love you too, Benito. My jealous, possessive, amazing man. No one else could ever compare. Marcus was just a scene. This—” You squeezed around him where he was still inside you. “This is real. Us. Forever.”

He chuckled softly, nuzzling your neck. “Good. Because next time I’m on set with you, I might have to remind that cabrón who you go home to. But right now?” He kissed you again, deeper, already hardening inside you for round two. “I’m not done claiming what’s mine, mi vida. Not even close.”

The night stretched on—slow, lazy kisses turning heated again, his hands exploring every inch of you like he was memorizing it all over. By the time you both collapsed into bed hours later, sweaty and satisfied, wrapped in each other’s arms, the jealousy had burned away into something warmer, stronger.

“Sleep, mi reina,” he murmured against your hair, one arm possessively around your waist. “Tomorrow, we do it all again. But you’re coming home to me. Always.”

And as you drifted off, safe in the circle of his love, you knew he was right. No co-star, no scene, no amount of acting could ever touch what you had with Benito—the man who loved you loud, jealous, and completely.

⸻⸻⸻