#borhap imagines

Visiting Joe on set was a common thing in your relationship from the moment you both knew it was serious. You loved seeing him work and he loved having you around in between takes or during his breaks, it became such a special thing in your relationship that he proposed on one of your visits. He was lucky enough to be shooting on location that day, a beach to be exact, it was also a night shoot, and he took the opportunity during the first break. It wasn’t elaborate at all, but you didn’t see it coming and were genuinely surprised and, in your eyes, it was the perfect proposal.

However, once you had a baby you knew you had to stop visiting on set as often as you did, he always insisted that your daughter could go and be on set with him that you could stay at his trailer while he was busy, you on the other side didn’t feel comfortable with having your baby in an unknown environment surrounded by strangers, it would overwhelm her and you knew that a quiet set and colicky fussy baby wasn’t a good combination.

“Just let her grow up a bit” you told him “I promise you that once I feel sure enough that she won’t be a bother for the crew we’ll be there.”

“Fine” he huffed holding the six-month-old baby close to his chest.

Joe was about to start a new production, the first one since he took a break during your pregnancy and first few months of Grace’s life. He didn’t want to leave both of you he wasn’t ready but how could he ever be ready to leave his little family?

Time passed and your beautiful baby girl was now three, almost four, years old and she hadn’t seen her dad at work not once due to the agreement you had with Joe. From day one he was more than ready to have Grace on set with him, but he also knew that you had to be same page as him and, so far, you hadn’t changed your mind.

“Okay I gotta go” he said taking one last bite to his breakfast. He had been casted as John Deacon on the Queen biopic, and you had come with him this time before Grace started preschool.

He kissed you goodbye and kissed his daughter’s head quickly “Bye princess.”

“Bye daddy!” she replied with a giggle.

An idea crossed your mind, Grace was old enough to understand what being quiet meant and most of the time she was a well-behaved toddler. Yes, she threw tantrums, was an energetic ball hard and it was sometimes hard to keep up with her, but she wasn’t anything you couldn’t control if the situation needed it plus the most stressful shot of the whole movie had already been done so you wouldn’t be making Joe even more nervous.

“You wanna go see daddy?” you asked her with a smile. Her eyes lit up so quickly and she nodded.

You cleaned up the kitchen and got Grace ready to go. You took one of those set passes that Joe always get you and drove to where they would be shooting.

“Okay baby we have to be really quiet” you told her in a whisper “we want to keep this a surprise, okay?”

“Quiet” she giggled in the same tone as you with her index finger on her mouth.

They were shooting the first concert they ever had with Freddie as a front man and Deaky as bass player. It was a closed set so you couldn’t go in while the neon sign outside said that they were filming.

“And cut!” the director yelled “take a break everybody, I’ll let you know if need another shot.”

On your side the neon sign went off so it meant that you could go inside with your little girl in your arms.

“Do you see who’s there?” you asked Grace putting her down.

“Daddy!” she giggled running to him. Even with a long wig and 70’s clothing she recognized him. He was a daddy’s girl after all.

“Grace!” Joe exclaimed completely ignoring Ben, who was a having a conversation with him, he quickly picked her daughter up. “What are you doing here? Where’s your momma?”

“I thought she was old enough to visit you” you answered walking up to him.

“So, we finally get to meet little Mazzello today?” the blonde man asked. The whole cast had met you but not Grace though they had seen plenty of photos thanks to Joe.

“I-yeah I mean I guess” Joe was still processing the surprise. This is all he ever wanted a ’bring your child to work’ day “this is Grace”.

“Uncle Rami!” she exclaimed once he saw him.

“Want to stay with Uncle Rami?” Joe asked her to which she agreed.

Joe gave Grace to Rami and let him introduce her to Ben and Gwilym while he talked to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked.

“If I had, then you wouldn’t be surprised” you smiled.

“Believe me I’m shocked” he sighed not trying to hide his smile “what made you change your mind?”

“I just thought why not” you shrugged “you’ve wanted her on a set with you for such a long time.”

“I think she likes it here” you said when you saw her play with Joe’s costars.

“Yeah” he smiled “after this scene I have an actual break so we can spend time in my trailer yeah?”

You nodded everyone seemed to be going back to their places, so you had to go fetch Grace.

“Sorry gentlemen but I think we’re not needed here” you said picking up your girl from Ben’s arms.

“Pretty” she squealed out of nowhere. You weren’t sure if it meant Ben or the wigs they were wearing.

“You think I’m pretty?” Ben spoke and she nodded making Joe eyes wide. Ben wouldn’t let Joe forget this one.

You didn’t even read Ben’s fucking résumé.

Which isn’t to say that you weren’t supposed to. Your assistant - Madelyn, such a darling - dropped a stack of papers on the table beside you while you ate breakfast and gave you a bright grin. You returned it with ease and picked up the page on the top of the pile, flipping through it and skimming it. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Read them all, pick apart those who applied, decide the best man for the job.

It was all a waste of time. They surely all had the qualifications to be your bodyguard, so what else would you need?

“I think he’s the best option,” Madelyn began, manicured nails flipping through the papers, reading the names on the front until she landed on the one she wanted. She pulled it out and placed it in front of you, right next to your eggs, and pushed it towards you. “I mean, I read them, of course. And he really seems like he knows his stuff. He used to be Kendall Jenner’s bodyguard, apparently.”

“Wow,” you mused, setting down your fork and picking up the paper. Papers, actually - about ten, probably, stapled together. Extensive. Clearly. “Ben Jones, huh? Good name.”

“Having a good name shouldn’t be a bonus.” Madelyn wagged a finger at you playfully and turned to leave. You picked up your orange juice, taking a sip as you pushed the papers away from you. “Make sure you look at them, alright? It is really important. I could stay and go over them with you, if you’d like.”

You set down your orange juice and shook your head. “No, no. I’ll look through them, alright?” And then Madelyn left, shutting the door behind her, and you glared at all of the applications you were meant to sort through.

Such a waste of time. Chances are you wouldn’t need a bodyguard, anyway. You’d been doing fine without one. It was one stupid threat that made your security team think you needed someone - a big guy to look after you all the time. And now - all those guys who wanted to dedicate their lives to protecting you - surely they’d all be satisfactory. It didn’t really matter.

When Madelyn asked you later which applicant you thought seemed best, you pretended that you had given it great thought before pushing Ben’s résumé back into her hands.

“I agree. He seems best,” you told her with a smile, and Madelyn gave you a bright one in return, grabbing the papers from your hand, and you hadn’t expected to give it a second thought.

But - well, maybe you should’ve read it. You’d have seen that Kendall Jenner fired him because he was stoic, and cold, and downright emotionless. Perhaps that would have been the point where you set his application aside, opted for a candidate who had smiled once before in their life.

Too late for a change, you suppose.

 --

 Meeting Ben Jones is just short of a spiritual experience, and you wouldn’t mind converting to a religion dedicated to worshipping him.

The truth is he’s beautiful. You’re taken aback just by looking at him. All blonde hair and messy eyebrows - ones you’d, truthfully, love to fix up one day - and piercing green eyes. Nice lips, too. A lot of guys you go for don’t have much going for them in the lip department so Ben is certainly a nice change.

He seems like the kind of guy to have nice teeth, as well.

You wouldn’t know.

“It’s Ben, right?” you question, scrunching your eyebrows together in a way that you’ve learned is sweetly endearing, as Madelyn once put it. You have barely five minutes before you have to get on the bus to begin your tour and you’re desperate for this experience to last every second you have. You hold your hand out for him to shake, looking up at him with a small smile.

He doesn’t return it. His eyes meet yours and then they drop back to your hand, and he removes his from the pocket of his jacket to shake yours hesitantly. His palms are soft, nice, but Ben pulls away entirely too soon for your liking. “Yeah,” he responds, voice low, and it’s barely directed at you. Moreso to the ground. “I know who you are.”

I hope, is what you want to say, but it does feel slightly asshole-y. And you just want him to look at you again, for just a moment. You clear your throat and drop your hand back to your side. “So, uh …” You can’t think of much to say. And you’ve barely been talking thirty seconds. “Anything you think I should know about you?”

It’s so fucking lame. You’re so fucking lame, you think, because Ben makes you feel like some sort of idiot. Like everything you’re saying is too stupid for him to grant you the pleasure of his eyes meeting yours again.

Surely it isn’t intentional. After all, he seems like a good guy.

You wouldn’t know.

“Well,” he begins, and you glance up hopefully. His eyes are still on the ground. “My name is Ben. I’m your bodyguard.” He stops and you’re still waiting for more, raising your eyebrows, but he just shrugs. “That’s the extent of it.”

“No fun facts at all?”

“Why do you want to know?”

You shift uncomfortably. Suddenly all you want to do is get on your tour bus and end this encounter - or perhaps go back in time and read everyone’s applications for someone with more personality than a fucking toilet seat. You’d thought it dramatic of Kendall Jenner to fire a bodyguard for being stoic, but you can only imagine yourself growing tired of the wall-esque behavior soon. “Well, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Just thought we should get to know each other.”

And then he looks up at you, just as your manager yells out the window of the bus that you two have to get on now. “I think that’s all the information you need about me, really,” Ben says, raising one eyebrow, and he turns to get on the bus before you can say anything else.

Watching him go is nearly embarrassing. The outline of a phone in his pocket, the thick black jacket, the combed back hair. Ben looks normal, really, like some guy you’d hook up with once and never talk to again. And he isn’t. He’s your bodyguard who’s colder than an Alaskan winter, and you have to spend nearly every minute with him for four months.

Your manager yells for you to get on again. So you turn and climb onto the bus after him, heading right to your bed and collapsing in it with a characteristically dramatic huff.

The next four months stretches in front of you like a dark cloud.

You wish you read the fucking résumés.

 --

 And in a month it’s barely gotten better.

After shows, Ben takes you back to your room and makes sure you get in okay. You’re so exhausted you can hardly stand some nights, and he wraps an arm around your waist to keep you upright. He opens your door with his copy of your keys and then turns to leave, and he wouldn’t say goodbye if you didn’t call out to him just before he disappeared into the room next to yours.

Sometimes you don’t notice it - just get inside, wash your face and collapse onto your bed. But sometimes you’re so pumped up on adrenaline that you can’t help but notice every single thing he does.

Like how his grip on your waist is always oddly loose, only tightening the smallest bit when you could collapse.

Like how he shifts away from you when you’re driving back to the hotel and your head drops lazily onto his shoulder.

Like how he refrains from looking at you unless it’s necessary, as if doing so is some form of torture to him.

It hurts, a bit. Surely it’s more of a him problem but a tiny part of you had been hoping that - by now - you’d have managed to crack through this cold, stoic thing he has going for him. But it’s … stronger than you’d thought.

You hate how angry and sad it makes you. If he was anyone else the two of you would probably be sleeping together by now, if you’re being truthful, and it’s not an idea that you hate to think about. He is beautiful but - well, that seems out of the picture.

And you still try. Too hard.

“Ben,” you murmur, head resting against the back of your seat as the bus beneath you rumbles with motion. You’ve finished your thirteenth show of the tour and the going and going is starting to take a toll on you, but you knew what you signed up for, with this job. Work. And it is fun. You’d never dare complain to anyone about it. “Don’t you think I should have your phone number?”

Ben sighs. It’s one of the few flickers of emotion you get from him - noises, mostly. “Why do you need it?”

“In case there’s an emergency.”

“But I’m always with you. It’s part of the job.”

You gnaw on your lip. Rain patters softly outside, and as the two of you fall into silence again it’s all you can think about. “But what if something happens? I just think it’s useful.”

There’s another beat of silence. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

You sit yourself up, turning to look at him. The bus is mainly dark but you can see the shape of him, at least. A silhouette in the dark. “How isn’t it? You’re supposed to be keeping me safe, you know. And if there’s some sort of instance where I’m not with you, having your phone number is important.”

“This is a business relationship. If I do my job properly - and I do - you won’t be apart from me in any sort of situation where you would need my help.”

“Business relationships often require online communication.” You couldn’t place your finger on why this is important to you. Other than feeling at least one step closer to having some resemblance of a friendship with him. Friends have each other’s phone numbers. And, sure, he has about as much personality as a mannequin but you still feel slightly confident in your ability to break him open.

Ben throws his arm over the back of the seat, and you cross your arms over your chest. Neither of you can see each other’s faces, but you’re sure you’re making the same expressions. “Listen, sweetheart,” he begins, and your stomach turns at the nickname. “I have a feeling you aren’t going to stop until my number is saved in your phone.”

You nod.

“It’s emergencies only,” Ben tells you, and you feel a rush of relief at having won him over. You turn and pat the seat for your phone, finally finding the device in the dark, and you turn it on before handing it to him. His fingers fly over the screen, and you lean your head over eagerly to see what he’s doing.

And then you roll your eyes. “Bodyguard? That’s what you’re saving yourself as?”

“Well, that’s what I am.”

You grab your phone from his hand and delete the word he’s written, replacing it with ‘ben,’ all lowercase. You’d add an emoji but you know he’d hate that, so you go to save it and then stop.

“I need a contact picture,” you inform him, which is a complete lie. None of your friends even have contact pictures, but Ben has no way of knowing that.

“No.”

“Please?”

You tap open the camera and point it at his face, turning the flash on. You see his face briefly illuminated in the dark before the picture pops up on screen. His head is back against the seat, expression blank, eyes dull. Well, it certainly isn’t - nice - but he does look attractive.

He always does. That’s the problem with him.

You point the phone towards him so he can see the picture, and then you ask, voice soft, “Can’t I get one when you’re smiling?”

“Nope.”

You didn’t think so.

 --

 True to your word, Ben’s number stays in your phone without use for nearly three weeks. You go on tour and explore the cities you’re performing in, and Ben is always with you. Of course he is - it’s his job - but it does make having his number utterly useless.

And that interaction remains just about the most you’ve ever spoken. It’s so goddamn irritating, a super sexy bodyguard who never smiles and rarely talks unless you plow through the conversation with the force of a bull, and you can’t even text him.

Your phone lies on your chest, the alarm clock on the nightstand beside your hotel bed brightly announcing that the time is 12:46. And you’d gone to bed two hours ago, promising that you’d fall right asleep, but you hadn’t. Had just pulled the covers up over you and washed your face and so you’d been lying for hours.

Thinking, mainly.

You’d opened Ben’s contact to send him a message so many times and you hadn’t gone through with it. Fuck, it’s annoying. It is so annoying. Anyone else and you’d already have their affection in the back, having them kiss the ground you walk on, but you’re too nervous to even reach out to Ben.

Would he be mad if you text him?

Only one way to find out.

You open your phone again, typing in your password, and open a new message with him. Your fingers dance over the keyboard for a minute, contemplating what to write. What does someone write to their bodyguard they want desperately to bone - or, if not that, then at least be friendly with?

are you awake?

You send the stupid message before you can even think about it again. And it’s such a stupid one, too. You sound just about thirteen years old, giggling at a sleepover and texting the boy you like, nearly crying with nerves after sending the message. God, should you follow up? Surely he won’t reply and you’ll see him tomorrow and he’ll know that you, essentially, tried to hit him up, and it’ll be even more awkward.

When you look down at the screen there’s three bubbles, the indication that he’s typing, and you look across the room in the dark. On the other side of that wall - that’s where Ben is. That’s where he read your message and where he’s replying.

You’re so close.

It’s unnerving, almost.

Ben’s reply comes in in a moment. What’s wrong?

Your eyebrows furrow. Nothing, technically. But this is an emergency only phone number, you know, so surely he thinks something is wrong.

You contemplate what to say again, and then type out, i’m lonely.

It’s the truth, anyway.

That doesn’t sound like an emergency.

it is, i promise. I’m very lonely and all of my friends are asleep because we’re halfway across the world.

Alright, then it doesn’t sound like the kind of emergency I’m trained for.

He’s fucking right. What were you hoping to accomplish here? You don’t know, and you don’t know how to continue this conversation now. It’s going to fall flat like so many of your other attempts. And you just want to delete the conversation, forget it happened, maybe take a pill to fall asleep.

Your phone vibrates with the incoming of another notification, and you look at it lazily.

Is there any way I can help?

yes, you type immediately, and then give yourself only a moment’s pause. what’s your favourite color?

You send it and a grin spreads across your face, imagining Ben consciously deciding to double text, after not seeing you respond. Did he think he was harsh? Did he, perhaps, just want to text you again? No, surely it’s the former. But it’s still an improvement from you always initiating every interaction, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest.

Ben replies within a minute. This is going to make you less lonely?

of course. having someone i know on tour would help.

But you do know me.

i know nothing about you, though

is telling me your favourite color too much of a task?

It’s blue.

You push yourself to sit up against the headboard. In your side vision the alarm clock informs you that it’s 1 am, now, and you have no intention of putting your phone down as long as Ben is still replying.

You reply quickly, heart beating fast. a good choice. I’ve always liked blue. and yellow.

Yellow’s good, too.

Yes, it is. The color of flowers and the shine of the sun, and lemonade, your favourite drink. A color so associated with happiness, and that particular emotion is the one bubbling in the depths of your stomach. Ben talking to you feels like an accomplishment, almost, and the fact that this conversation is fairly normal is - wonderful. Really wonderful.

You realize you’re taking too long to respond. Thinking for only a moment about what to say, you type, you never seem like you like me very much. It seems bold and you backspace, deleting the last two words, and then you retype them.

There’s a pause. It’s been three minutes since you replied and it isn’t very much time at all, but you need to say something. So you send the text without giving it another moment of thought, and then you toss your phone in front of you, heart pounding frantically.

It seems like an eternity goes by before you see the dim light of your phone in the darkness. A new notification dazzling your screen. You hesitate before reaching and picking it up, and you open the message with your eyes squeezed shut and you don’t open them until you think you’re ready to see the response.

I like you plenty.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s so plain. You were hoping for something more, for some explanation of why you rarely talk, of how you spend every single moment together and Ben hasn’t even smiled. Every ounce of worry you’d had over that message drains away, and your fingers fly over the screen at lightning speed as you formulate your text.

you certainly don’t seem like you do.

You stare at the screen defiantly until the three bubbles pop up, and then there’s Ben’s reply: Well, here I am saying it. I like you.

The words make your stomach turn. Even if you know the context.

that’s good to know. i don’t want this to be a one sided friendship, you know.

I’m your bodyguard, not your friend.

why can’t we have both?

It’s 1:30 now and you’ve never felt less tired in your life. The thrill of talking to Ben gives you an adrenaline rush like no other - a high that could never be obtained from a drug. And you just want to keep going and going.

Another response comes through, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the light grey text bubble. Lol.

Boring.

did you actually laugh, or are you lying?

Does it matter?

i’ve always wondered if you’re capable of smiling.

I promise I am.

i’ve never seen it.

Would it help if I told you I’m smiling right now?

you could just be saying that.

Your eyes flit up to the wall again, looking through the darkness to where you know Ben is, texting you. Perhaps this is a normal thing to him but you wouldn’t think so, not really. You rarely see him texting anyone, and you’ve never seen him with a girl. Maybe he’s as into this as you are. It’s hard to imagine but it makes you feel good.

Are you still lonely?

less so now.

Then I think you should be getting to bed. You have a show tomorrow and it’s late.

A glance over at the alarm clock confirms this. 1:42. Your show is at 9 tomorrow night but it is worth it to get some rest. After all, you don’t have unlimited time to sleep in tomorrow.

It’s nearly painful to type out your goodnight but you do it anyway. You want nothing less than to talk to him until the early hours of the morning, but you sent the fucking text and he responds with his own goodnight a moment later. You lie down and reach over to plug your phone in. The battery had been getting dangerously low during your conversation, and you can practically hear your iPhone’s sigh of relief at being charged.

With your phone off everything seems so much drearier. New York is a bustling city but with your curtains drawn you can’t see the buildings. All you can see is the darkness surrounding you, the dimming light of your alarm clock, and as you close your eyes to fall asleep - nothing at all.

 --

 You’re the first person to say that you’re a little bit tipsy.

In fact, a little bit is an understatement, because you’re fairly positive you’re wasted. Your brain is swirling and the glass in your hand keeps looking so inviting, no matter how many times you get it refilled. There’s no real reason you’re celebrating, except to just fucking have fun in the middle of the tour, and god it really is fun.

And Ben is here. That’s always a bonus, especially how he accompanies you to the bar every time you want to get another drink, and he wraps his arm around your waist when the crowds of people gets too dense. His hand on your hip is ever so comforting, warmth even through your dress, and his thumb rubs circles into the fabric. Probably without him even noticing, because you doubt you would if you weren’t hyper aware of every single fucking thing he does.

Your friends have left to go dance, because their bodies are too full of energy to sit in your booth at the very back of this nightclub. Ben chose it, actually, claiming that obscurity was your friend right now. He’s certainly right. Being you and being in crowded places sometimes doesn’t work out very nicely, but you typically don’t dwell on it.

Especially not now. The other people in this club could be zombies, for all you care. All you notice is Ben. Blonde hair and white t shirt and jeans. It’s more or less his unofficial uniform, but he looks so much better in it through your alcohol-hazy vision.

Not that he doesn’t look positively spectacular in it everyday.

“Ben,” you lean your head back so your mouth is closer to his ear, shifting in the booth. “I’d like to get another drink.”

He looks at you, and your faces are oddly close. Almost uncomfortably so, but neither of you move. “I think it might be time to cut you off, sweetheart.” Your eyebrows furrow together, and Ben sighs lightly. His breath is hot against your face. “You’ve had a lot.”

“And?”

“Too much.”

You cross your arms over your chest, and you - surprisingly - don’t notice Ben’s eyes flit to your cleavage. “How wonderful I didn’t ask you, then. Are you going to come with me?”

Ben drops his arm from the seat to over your shoulders, and your skin grows hot at his touch. “Give it a rest, Y/N. You’re gonna be miserable tomorrow, and I have to spend every minute with you.”

“You make it sound so horrible.” You slump down in your seat, eyes scanning Ben’s face. His cheeks are pale pink and sweaty, and you’re sure you’re sporting the same damp look. “Is it so horrible?”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Am I more fun than Kendall Jenner?”

Ben laughs humorlessly but it still sends bells going off in your mind. Wedding ones, perhaps. You push yourself up more and examine the sight of it. The smile - small, admittedly - stretching across his face, the way his eyes crinkle. “You look surprised at something, sweetheart,” he says.

“I didn’t know you could smile, Benny.”

Your bodyguard cringes. “Ben does just fine. And I told you I can smile. We had a conversation about this.”

You grin, reaching up to pinch his cheek. He removes his arm from your shoulder to swat away his hand and you hate the loss of his touch, but you manage. “I like Benny. S’cute, you know.”

“I think nicknames have to have a mutual agreement involved.” you lean back against the booth, your body dangerously close to his, just on the verge of being pressed up against him. You suppose you’ve been inching closer to him but - really - you hadn’t meant to. It just happened. And now your thighs are nearly rubbing together. It feels good. Ben sighs and then adds, “I think we should get going. You look sleepy.”

He pulls himself out of the booth before you can protest, and you groan out. He can’t hear it, surely, the music pulsing through the club acting as a cover up. “Wait, Ben, but -”

“Come on.” He reaches down and takes your wrist, fingers gentle against your skin yet firm, and tugs you out of the booth. Then his arm is around your waist, tight, and you don’t really mind leaving, suddenly. Especially with his pretty smile still stuck in your mind.

 --

 Your energy usually spikes after shows, but you don’t think you’ve ever been more exhausted.

For the last song you felt like you were on the verge of passing out, eyelids droopy and mind absent even with the screams from the audience and the thumping music in the venue. When you’ve finished blowing kisses to the audience and yelling out your thank yous and finally headed backstage, you press your sweaty palm against the wall and blow out.

Steady. Steady. Steady.

When’s the last time you’ve slept? Had a good rest? You can’t remember the last time you went to sleep before 2. And you typically have to wake up at 7 and that’s 5 hours of sleep, and how many articles has your mother sent you about how girls your age should be getting 8 hours of sleep a night? You never read them, but you absorbed the message.

Getting home will be great. Collapsing in the king bed in your hotel room, wrapping yourself in the cozy blankets, getting the rest of your life.

“Come on, Y/N.” a British accent draws you out of your thoughts, and you turn to see Ben standing just a foot or two behind you. He’s holding your jacket, your thick sherpa one that’s fuzzy and warm, and you grab it from him, pulling it on gratefully.. “You don’t look very good.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, bringing an arm up to run your fingers through your tangled curls. God, what a mess. Brushing them will be a pain later, quite literally, but what else is new? “I’m fucking tired.”

“Ah.” Ben takes a few steps toward you and snakes his arm around your waist, and you lean into his embrace ever so slightly. So slight you doubt he’d consider it to be intentional. “Go right to sleep when we get to the hotel, then.”

You nod lazily, feet moving of their own accord as Ben leads the pair of you to the door heading outside. The noises surrounding you - people chattering and yells still coming from outside in the venue - feel like a weight slamming into your scalp, and a headache forms almost immediately. You groan and push your head into Ben’s side, forehead pressed against his cotton shirt, and the pace he’s walking the two of you slows slightly.

“Is this comfortable for you?” Ben questions, and you open an eye to look up at him. His brows are drawn, looking down at you with an expression resembling confusion, and you shrug. Your eyes squeeze shut as Ben reaches forward to open the door leading outside, and the crisp air hits you like a fucking wall. It’s cold and goosebumps pop up all over your skin. It’s oddly soothing, though, like an icepack on your brain for the dull pain pulsing through it, and Ben keeps walking you two out to where the bus is parked. “Why haven’t you been getting enough sleep?”

“Just been busy.”

“Sleep comes before work, you know.”

“God, Benny, you sound like my mom.”

Ben stops when you’re just in front of the door to the bus and spins you so you’re facing him. You raise your eyebrows expectantly at him. “Your mom is really smart, isn’t she?”

You smile slightly. “Extremely.”

“Then I’m taking that as a compliment. Come on.” He holds out an arm towards the open bus door, but instead of walking on you just cross your arms. “What?”

“You aren’t mad that I called you Benny?”

“I’ve given up on making you stop, sweetheart.”

You fucking hate the way your heart swells at the sound of that. God, the nickname he’d given you a month ago makes your stomach turn in unpredictable ways now. You’ll never be able to hear the word the same again. “So is this a free pass to call you Benny all the time?”

Ben shakes his head, and his lips briefly turn up. You still rarely get smiles out of him but sometimes you can see an inkling of one - like a ghost of the expression you’ve seen once before. “Don’t you dare. It’s Ben to you.”

You take a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around yourself to preserve any bit of warmth you can. “I prefer Benny.”

“Mutual agreement.”

“Who says?”

You’re close to him, now, faces inches apart, and all you want is to close the tiny bit of distance between you. Press your lips to his because they look so soft, like he religiously uses chapstick, and you’re fairly certain he does if the cylinder shaped imprint in his back jean pocket gives you any clues but you really, really just want to kiss him. To see what he’ll do. And you’re fairly certain he’ll reciprocate because he’s making no fucking attempt to move away, and all you have to do is lean in a little bit.

A little little little bit.

Let’s hope this works out, you think, and then you do. You lean your head forward, pushing yourself onto your tippy toes, and then your lips are against his. His breath smells of mint and tastes of it too, slightly, and his lips are soft against yours. So soft, softer than yours, and you’re certain every romance novel has told you it should be the other way around.

You’re supposed to have the soft lips, silly! But it feels so good.

Ben opens his mouth slightly and you bring an arm up around his neck, pulling him down to you and his hand finds the small of your back, pressing you into him. Every single moment leading up to this, from ignoring his résumé to dry conversations and freaking out over texting feels so completely worth it.

“God,” you murmur against his lips, and he tugs his mouth away from yours but you can tell he doesn’t want to. Can practically feel his regret as soon as he does. “God, that was good.”

He nods, the motion short, and then clears his throat. “We should go. You need to sleep.”

You’ve nearly forgotten about your crippling exhaustion. In fact, the only thing you really want to do is sleep with him. But you relent. Ben has a way of doing that to you.

 --

 You barely get four hours of sleep when you’re awaken by harsh fists banging on the door to your room, and you shoot up in bed with the speed of a raging bullet.

The clock says it’s 5:12. You can recall a time you’ve ever woken this early, and by - whatever’s going on. Knocking. Furious knocking.

You pull yourself out of bed and wrap your arms around yourself. You’re in a sweatshirt, legs bare, and you regret the choice immensely for the goosebumps erupting all over your skin. You reach out and throw the door open as soon as you can, coming face to face with Ben, and even in what you assume to be a dire situation, you can’t help your cheeks heating up. “Ben? What -”

“We need to go,” he says, and he pushes his way into your room, eyes scanning the mess you’d made in the past three days. “Pack. Not everything, just stuff you need. We can come back for the other stuff.”

“Wait, what?” your question falls on deaf ears as Ben reaches onto the ground and grabs your backpack, holding it out towards you. His expression - like usual, though you suppose you’d hoped that would change - holds little to no emotion and yet it’s worse than it usually is. “Ben, what?”

“I’ll explain later. Just pack your stuff, Y/N. Fast. I’ll help,” and he begins picking up random articles of clothing and shoving them into the bag. You’d get mad about him wrinkling your clothes if you weren’t so confused and - scared, a bit, because you’ve never seen him like this. Ben looks up again after a moment and sees you standing there, watching him with your eyebrows furrowed together, and then exclaims, “Come on!”

You jump and then turn, leaving Ben to where he’s at and making your way to the bathroom. You grab your toothbrush and toothpaste and then a hairbrush, which is all that’s on the counter and - you don’t know where you put your deodorant or your hair products, not that Ben would probably consider those a necessity, but your mind is drawing to a complete blank, and you can still hear him moving around outside in your room.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’ll explain. There’s a - a car outside. Put that stuff in the bag.” You turn and Ben is at the door to the bathroom, holding open the bag he’d packed, and you absentmindedly drop your things into it. He swings it over his shoulder and reaches down to grab your arm, tugging you along and towards the front door.

You wrap your hand around his wrist, trying to pull him away. “Wait, Ben, my - my phone. Shouldn’t I -?” It seems like a necessity, to you. Something you should have if there’s an emergency, and it’s beside your bed, charging.

“It’s better if you don’t have it.” This isn’t a sufficient answer, and it only makes you more scared, and only when Ben has pulled you into the hallway and towards the elevator that you realize you’re fucking naked from the waist down. Sure, you have panties on, but your legs and thighs are on display for everyone to see.

You’ve done photoshoots in less than this, really, but there’s something - worse about it now. When the elevator lets you both out at the hotel lobby you’re uncomfortably aware of every single pair of eyes on you as Ben leads you both from the elevator. Instinctively you make your way to the front door of the hotel but Ben tugs on your arm, and he isn’t going to the front door - he’s going to the back, you assume, based on the way he moves around the hallways towards the back of the hotel.

You can’t fucking go out the front door? Worry works its way into every vein of your body and tears prickle your eyes. You’ve never been one for stress like this, and if Ben is panicked then you know you have absolutely every reason to be.

Bare feet pad against tile as you walk quickly to keep up with your bodyguard’s pace. With the way he’s holding you and pointedly not looking at you, any smooching that happened four hours ago seems utterly forgotten. And, truthfully, you’re barely thinking of it.

Ben pushes open the back door of the hotel, to a nearly empty street. The only sign of life is a black car parked, and you know it’s for you even before he leads you to it and opens the passenger side door for you to slide into.

Within ten minutes you’re on the road. It’s only 5:23 and it’s odd to think that twenty minutes ago you were sleeping peacefully in your hotel bed, and now you’re - on the move. And Ben doesn’t even look at you, and you wish he would. Just so you can feel even the tiniest inkling that things are okay, that something isn’t wrong.

You’re focusing on calming yourself down. You draw your legs up to your chest and rest your cheeks on your knees, breathing in and then out and in and out and iiiiiin and ooooout …

“I’m sorry for - uh -” Ben doesn’t seem like he knows where his apology is going. You turn your head to look at him and pointedly glare at the side of his face. His jaw is tight and his eyes are set on the road ahead of you, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck is happening?” your voice cracks on the last syllable, and the tears that have been lurking behind your eyes keep threatening to boil over. “Ben, what’s going on?”

He pauses. “You got a threat. Your security team thinks you should go to a safehouse. Your shows for the next two weeks have been cancelled. Maybe more will be, too.”

You ball your fists up. “Seriously?” He nods. “I’ve gotten threats before, Ben. They haven’t done this before. What was it?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Ben sighs. “I can’t tell you. I would if I could but - I can’t. Okay?”

One tear finally drips down your cheek, and you hastily bring your sweatshirt sleeve up to wipe it away. You don’t want him to see it - the mix of sadness and anger and fear resulted in one single tear. You don’t want him to know. “Ben, please. Please, please. I’m really - please.”

Perhaps you thought your pleading would break him down but you were terribly mistaken. “Sweetheart, I would. I promise I would. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

“I don’t care that I’m safe now! What -”

“If I’m allowed to, I will.” you know that’s the end of the conversation and you hate it. Hate how you have so little information, how your phone and all of your stuff is back at the hotel, how all you know is that there’s a threat. And there’s been a thousand threats - none have been treated like this.

It doesn’t make sense.

You reach down next to your seat and adjust your seat so you can lie down, and you turn on your side, back facing Ben. He sighs again and then says, “Don’t be mad at me for doing my job.”

“Don’t you care about my wellbeing?”

“I think you’re doing better not knowing.”

You turn around and sit up quickly, nearly banging your head on the roof of the car. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

What a dick.

 --

 You wake up at 7:31 by Ben gently shaking you, and you’re so sore all over from sleeping in this stupid fucking car. It’s unbearably uncomfortable, and your neck is aching, and your hips hurt.

And you’re immediately annoyed when you see Ben’s stupid fucking face.

You’re so pissed you could scream.

“We’re here,” he says, and you sit up, opening the car door and climbing out of it without speaking to him. Silent treatment tends to suit you best in terms of holding grudges, and God, does he deserve it. It’s still insane for you to imagine that just a day ago you were hopelessly in love with him - and you suppose you still are but all of that love is overshadowed by the mixture of negative emotions burning inside of you.

“Sweetheart, don’t be mad at me.” Ben appears at your side with your stupid backpack swung over his stupid shoulder. You cross your arms over your chest and look up at the safehouse, which is merely a regular house, though there aren’t many others nearby - a spread out neighborhood. It’s small, smaller than any house you’d lived in, and you scrunch up your nose at the sight of it.

It also looks - dirty, a bit. Ben grabs your arm and you tug it away, following him to the door. He brandishes a set of keys and opens it and you step inside first, looking around, and the interior is just about as appealing as the exterior.

Not at all.

“God, this is the best they could do?” you hate how arrogant you sound but you don’t care all that much. You look around the living room, connected to the kitchen, and then meet Ben’s eyes with a glare. “Looks like it’ll fall apart if I blow on it.”

“Haha,” Ben says, and there’s not an ounce of humour behind it. “I didn’t choose it. I don’t know how good reception is or anything -” but then he pauses. You don’t have your phone. Reception is meaningless to you, and you have positively nothing else to keep you occupied, because there’s not even a fucking television. “Well.”

“Come on, Benny.” you use the nickname in hopes of softening him up. Maybe he’ll remember what you two did last night - maybe it’ll persuade him to tell you. “Please. I was so scared, Benny. Please.”

Ben drops your bag on the ground and takes a step towards you, and then he reaches out and pulls you right into his arms. It’s warm and soft and the best hug you’ve ever gotten, and you hate the way you just about melt into it because you know very well this is just Ben’s way of making up for the fact that he isn’t going to tell you.

It fucking works, too. When he pulls away your anger at him is chipping away, and you resist the urge to smile with great difficulty.

Damn Ben. You hate how he does this to you, even now, because all you want is for him to hug you again. It made you feel quite a lot better.

 --

 At night, rain patters lightly on the roof of the house. You’re in bed, covers pulled tight over your body, and it still does little to alleviate the brutal cold. The sheets are thin and scratchy, and your body feels like an icicle, and you’ve been battling tears for the past hour.

You’re so fucking frustrated. And you’d be on your way to Dallas today to prepare for a show tomorrow but instead you’re lying in the worst fucking safehouse you’ve ever seen, and your poor fucking fans. God, it sucks so much and you don’t even know why you’re here.

The mattress is hard beneath your back. Your hair is brushed but it’s already getting tangled again on the stupid pillowcase, and you’ll be surprised if you don’t leave this place with lice. And that’s disgusting.

You haven’t seen Ben since you finished dinner, which was just heated up pizza that was in the fridge - Ben promised it wasn’t old but it certainly tasted like it was. You don’t know where he is because you hadn’t seen another bedroom, but if there had to be one bed you wouldn’t let him share it with you, anyway, unless he told you the truth.

Which it doesn’t seem like he will. He’s so fucking loyal to his job, and for your bodyguard that should certainly be a good thing, but it just annoys you. You wish he’d be a little more lax with the rules he’s given. Your mind hasn’t stopped racing since you had to leave.

You think about your friends and family, surely blowing your phone up with texts and calls. Does the general public know there was a threat? Do they know what kind? Does the public know what the threat is before you do? You pull the covers off of yourself and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your toes graze the cool floor and your legs are immediately freezing again. Ben had packed possibly the worst clothes he could have, the pants consisting of jeans, mainly, and one pair of fleece shorts. The ones you have on. And they may be fleece but they certainly aren’t warm, and your legs burn with cold.

Would one say you’re being dramatic?

You don’t really care.

You stand and stretch your arms above your head. The oversized sweatshirt you’d worn to bed rides up to expose the tops of your thighs and then falls back down when your arms drop, and you make your way out of your room and down the hall to the kitchen. Surely you can get a glass of water, assuming it isn’t contaminated, and that certainly feels like a possibility. The kitchen is dark and you have no clue where the light switch is, so you run your hands along the wall until you find it, and you switch it on with an embarrassing amount of relief.

Light floods the kitchen and living room. You pad your way to the sink, shifting through cabinets to try and find a cup, any kind of cup, and just as you pick one up there’s movement in your peripheral vision.

Oh, shit.

You whirl around to look at whoever’s there, and the cup drops to the ground. Glass - you realize that as it shatters, and you jump back to avoid the shards of it from cutting into your feet before looking up at Ben with venom flashing through your eyes.

“What the hell?”

Ben sucks in breath and - ignoring your exclaim - says, “Sit on the counter - I’ll clean this up.”

You obey. Your anger at him has risen considerably over the past 20 seconds but you’d rather submit to him than get a cut foot. Ben walks away and returns just a moment later with a broom, working at the pieces of glass on the floor, and you watch him without speaking for a moment.

But only for a moment. “You scared me so fucking bad. You’re doing that a lot lately, you know?”

He glances up at you, working the glass into a dustpan. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were.”

“I didn’t either.” And you’re in silence again as he throws away the glass, and then he leans back against the counter, looking down at the ground.

All you wanted was water, but it doesn’t seem as important anymore.

“Where are you sleeping?”

Ben points to the living room and then drops his arm back to his side. “Couch. It’s more comfortable than you imagine but the rain is … loud.”

You laugh humorlessly. “More comfortable than the bed, I’m sure. S’like rock, really. I can feel my back getting worse by the minute.”

You’re quiet again. You don’t want to leave, really. Not go back to that shitty bed with the scratchy covers, even if your legs are freezing, practically crying out in protest as you stubbornly stay in the kitchen. Ben’s thumb is in his mouth, nibbling on his nail, and you’d tell him to quit that because it’s a gross habit but you find you don’t really care.

“The threat wasn’t just against you,” Ben speaks after a moment, and you turn to look at him. What? “I mean - it was. It was really, really harsh, but it was also about - your venues. So they didn’t want you to know.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly you wish you didn’t. God, you’d been so mad at him for not telling you but it makes you fucking sick to know it. You’d prefer it just be about you.

You say, “You’re not going to tell me what it specifically said, right?” Because you don’t want him to. Not anymore. And when he shakes his head no all you feel is relief.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be here. Not long, I assume.” Ben drums his fingers on the counter. “I hope. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Boring and cold.”

“Freezing.”

You cross your arms over your chest, swinging your legs from where you’re perched on the counter, and then you sneak a look at Ben. “I felt pretty warm when you hugged me.”

He smiles. In the dim light you can see it, and your heart thumps in your chest. Second time. You’d consider it impressive, really. “Are you asking me to hug you?”

“Only if you want to.” You hold your arms out anyway, though, and Ben takes a step forward until you can wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his body close to you. His arms go around your waist, keeping you tight against him, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

Ben is such a good hugger.

His hand rubs circles into your back and his breathing is steady against your ear, and you’re sure your curls are tickling his face but he doesn’t complain. You press your cheek to his shoulder, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself to just - be here, in the moment, in his arms, in this shitty safehouse where you’re freezing and tired and sore.

He’s like a remedy for every single thing. How convenient.

After a moment Ben moves to pull away, but you brace your hands on the back of his neck and keep him anchored, just a few inches away from you. His hands go from your back to the cool countertop beside you, and internally you’re whining at the lack of his touch. “Don’t move, Ben. I’m still cold.”

Maybe his lips turn up into a grin but you can’t really see - Ben presses a palm to the back of your head and then leans in, and then he’s kissing you, slow and sweet and soft, and you’re so surprised you can barely move because you hadn’t thought this would ever really happen again, not now, but he initiated it and clearly he wants to do it and he’s moving his hands to your neck, wrapped around the back, and -

“I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t realized you weren’t reciprocating until Ben moves away with a quiet apology. Your lips tingle from the kiss and you bring a hand up to press your fingers against them.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, this isn’t the time.” Ben brings an arm up to run his fingers through his hair and you watch him with narrowed eyes as he turns to leave the kitchen, to go right back out to the living room, and you jump off the counter and practically bolt to stop him.

“No, no, Ben. Don’t. I want to.” You press your hands against his cheek, eyes meeting his, and you can practically feel his gaze tearing into your soul. As if looking to make sure you’re serious, that you’re okay with this, and it’s better treatment than you’ve gotten from any other guy you’d been with.

Ben’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, and you pull his face down towards yours, meshing your lips together once more, and it’s different from before but not any less good. He presses against your back and then moves his hand down to your ass, squeezing it through the fleece of your sleep shorts, and you whimper in surprise.

“Did you like that?” His voice has dropped an octave, it sounds like, and wetness pools at your core at the mere sound. You nod desperately. God, it’s so good, and you don’t realize you’ve been walking backwards until your legs hit the counter, and you pull yourself up onto it again. Your shorts have ridden up and there’s more of your thighs exposed to the cold countertop, but it doesn’t matter.

Ben situates himself between your open legs and you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer to you, and then he’s kissing you again. Your hands move to his back, grasping at the thin cotton of his t shirt, and you pull it up ever so slightly and trace your fingers along the bit of his exposed back - so toned and warm, and he shivers when your nails graze his skin. You move your hands up his back, pulling his shirt up more, and then you break your lips apart and pull his shirt right off.

God he’s so fucking hot. This should be illegal, really, because you’ve been spending so much time with him for so long and you’ve never seen this. All ultra toned torso and muscles, and your cheeks heat up just at the sight.

“Aw, sweetheart. What’s going on?” His voice is teasing and with more emotion than you’ve heard before, and you look up at him with wide eyes, tightening your legs around his waist so he’s forced even closer to you.

“You’re hot, Ben,” is your simple reply, and Ben chuckles before leaning in to kiss you again. More intense and more passionate, and you fall backwards a bit, bracing yourself on your elbows. Ben leans over you, gripping the end of your sweatshirt, and he pulls it away in one fluid motion. Your chest is bare and his eyes focus on your tits, mouth moving soundlessly, and you give him a small smile.

“God,” he murmurs, resting his palm against your breast, and then he squeezes. You moan out and then he’s focusing on your nipple, rolling it between his fingers. It feels so good you could sob, and you bring your fingers up to run through his hair. Ben looks up at you with one raised eyebrow and then moves his head to your chest, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses against your chest. Your back arches into his mouth, squeezing tightly on his blonde strands, a choked up cry leaving your mouth as his teeth graze your nipple.

Godgodgodgodgod. Feels so fucking good you find it hard to even function. He’s good at this, so good at this. Clearly he’s had a lot of practice, although admittedly you’ve never seen him with a girl and that includes your Google deep dives to try and find information about him in the early stages of your relationship. Whatever. All you can focus on is him, now, working through his soft hair as he wraps his lips right around your nipple, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and you groan out.

“God, Ben. Fuck.” It’s all you can say, though you’re fairly positive he gets the gist of your feelings about what he’s doing. You push yourself up and Ben moves off of you, looking at you with his eyebrows drawn. Perhaps he’s confused about why you’d push him away since you’ve clearly been having such a good time but - “Ben, I need you. Please.”

His lips upturn ever so slightly and you narrow your eyes at him. “All in good time.”

“I don’t want it in good time, I want it now, Ben, please.”

You pout your lips. Ben’s head is mere inches from your chest, and when he breathes out heavily it tickles your breasts.

But then Ben says, “Don’t be a brat, honey,” and you furrow your eyebrows. “I said all in good time. You get it -” his hands work at the tie of your sleep shorts, fingers undoing the knot, “when I say you can have it. Alright?”

No, you don’t think it’s very alright, actually. You open your mouth to protest, to beg him for it, even, and be exactly the brat he told you not to be. His hand snakes up and presses against your mouth, and you huff. With his free hand he tugs down your shorts - the crotch area is damp, sticky with your arousal, and you see his lips nearly spread into a smile at the sight of it. He knows what he’s doing to you - how could he not? - and if anyone had told you, a month ago, that you would be naked beneath your bodyguard, you’d have sworn they hit their head.

Because no - this never really seemed like a possibility - not when Ben barely looked at you. And you certainly had been confident of your men seducing abilities before meeting him, and you’d accepted that you wouldn’t win him over. Not in the four months of your tour, anyway. And now he’s here, and you’re naked and fucking freezing, and his lips are just a breath away from your -

Oh.

They’re not a breath away at all.

Ben leans in and attaches his lips to your clit, flicking his tongue against the sensitive nub, and you cry out louder than you ever have before. Your legs - over his shoulders, ankles crossed at the top of his back - shake desperately, thighs enclosed around his ears.

His eyes flit up to you, and they’re so smug. Full of cockiness and all you want is to be full of him … but …

His tongue is extraordinary. Your hips buck into his mouth as he sucks at your clit and then he braces his hands over your hips, keeping you pressed right down onto the counter. Your eyes shut of their own accord and your breath is erratic no matter how much you try to keep it steady - godgodgod he’s so fucking good at this.

“Eyes open.” Ben’s voice is low and you obey him without a second though, gazing down upon him from his spot between your thighs. He isn’t looking at you - his own eyes are shut, as if the pleasure of doing this to you is too much for him to keep them open - and he moves his mouth from your clit to ghost open mouthed kisses over your inner thighs before licking a thin stripe up your folds.

Your hips try to jerk up again but Ben keeps them pressed down, and when you look back down at him, your eyes meet. The knot that had been forming in your stomach begins to unravel - this is a record time orgasm for you and you wonder if he can sense that - your thighs clamped around his head, your skin warm against his ears. Your hand is in his hair and you squeeze on the strands, his locks so soft between your fingers, and cries are streaming from your mouth.

Ben is a constant chant coming off your lips.

You swear you’re a second away from toppling over the edge of your orgasm when he pulls away. His chin is slick with your juices and you sob out, a tear trickling down your cheek as you slowly start to come down from your denied pleasure - but it’s so bad, you hate him for this, you need to fucking - cum -

“Please, please.”

Ben listens to your pleads for just a moment, resting his cheek against your inner thigh. He watches you catch your breath and then stands, and you’re on the verge of protesting, but then he grips the backs of your thighs - pulls you to the edge of the counter and then picks you up.

Total ease. What a turn on. Your legs hook around his waist and he wraps one arm around your back, pulling you as close to him as you can and then he kisses you, hard and fast and passionate, and you moan into his mouth.

You don’t realize you’re walking - again - until Ben drops you onto an overly soft surface, and you nearly sink into the cushions of the old grey couch. Immediately you push yourself to sit, legs spread, assuming that’s what Ben was going for - out of hope, you assume - but he gets on the couch himself, and you suppose he won’t bring you to cum with his mouth, then.

“You sleep here?” you question offhandedly, watching as Ben situates himself so he’s lying down on the couch, knees bent so the entirety of him can fit. His flannel sweatpants are low on his hips and only get lower as he shifts until he’s in a good position. “Comfortable.”

He hums. You smile at the sound, and Ben raises his head to look at you.

“Come here,” he tells you, and you must wear the confusion you’re feeling, because Ben adds, “I want you to sit on my face, sweetheart.”

Oh!

Oh.

Your face heats up - of all your sexual conquests, face sitting is something you haven’t done. And you hadn’t expected your first time to be with your bodyguard, of all people, but Ben raises an eyebrow expectantly and you stand, taking a few steps until you’re standing beside his head. He squeezes your thigh and it takes a moment - you clamber on top of him, your soaking heat just above his mouth, and you need to find a comfortable position but you barely have time before his mouth is attacking your sensitive clit.

Sensitive from his denial, from what he’d done to you before.

“Fuck!” it barely comes out as more than a breath, and you lean forward to press your palms against Ben’s stomach. His skin is cold and you’re sure yours is too, and the rain outside would be deafening if you weren’t doing this.

You can’t hear it. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Ben sticks his tongue out and pushes it into you, and your arms give out - you fall forward, your chest pressed against his lower stomach, keeping yourself up with your forearms. It’s so good, that’s all you can think, as you roll your hips against his mouth - his mouth, so talented - and you groan out desperately as his nose nudges against your clit.

When you refocus on your surroundings, your vision becoming the slightest bit clearer, you’re entirely too aware of Ben’s thick bulge beneath his sweatpants, right in front of you, and it’s so inviting it makes your mouth water. Could you -? Surely he wouldn’t mind - why would he?

You worked at the tie of his sweatpants, hands shaking as your hips grind against his face, and when it’s finally undone you snake your hand down into his pants, grasping his length, and he groans out loudly against your core. The vibrations roll through your body and you moan yourself, tightening your grip on his member, and then you tug his pants down until you can see it.

Jesus.

He’s big. It’s all you can fucking think about, now, besides his lips around your clit, and you bring your hand to your mouth - spit into your palm - and begin jerking him off, slowly, still marveling at him.

Ben is thicker than he is long but he certainly isn’t slacking in the latter. You swear you’ve never been with anyone his size and you had thought you were beyond the old wondering if he’ll fit inside of you act but clearly you aren’t.

You aren’t sure that he will.

You scoot forward a little, and Ben growls against you. You whimper, pumping your hand faster up and down his length, and then you lean your head in and lick a stripe up his shaft, following a thick purple vein that leads right to the tip.

“Oh, fuck!” Ben’s fingernails dig into your thighs, and you’re so close but suddenly you want to last longer - want to make him cum at the same time you do - and the only way to do that is to get the fuck going. So you wrap your lips around the tip of his dick, hollowing your cheeks as you suck on it, and suddenly the patter of the rain falls away as the room is filled with your noises.

The wet sounds coming from your cunt as Ben laps at it.

The cries you’re releasing every couple of seconds.

The grunts Ben chokes out when you work him just right.

Ben’s hips buck up into your mouth and you gag around him, tongue swirling around the tip of his cock, and at the same time his teeth graze your clit and you can’t hold it back.

Your climax is catastrophic, really, legs shaking and you pull your mouth off of him so your teeth don’t hurt him and you cry out, rolling your hips desperately against his face and he can’t hold you in place no matter how hard he tries, tries holding your hips down against his head but you’re unstoppable.

And the denial from earlier - or, if it can be called that - feels rather worth it because of this.

You drop your head onto his thigh, hand still loosely wrapped around the base of his cock, and you momentarily forget about your job until you’re nearly down from your high.

Instinctively you start pumping your hand again and you lean forward to lick at his tip when Ben groans out and buries his hand into your curls, tugging you back and away from his cock, and your hand drops away from him. You scoot down lower on his body until you’re straddling his lower stomach and then you turn so you’re facing him, admiring his face - lust overtaking his features - and he brings his hand up to your cheek, stroking your skin with the pad of his thumb.

“I don’t want to cum in your mouth, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft, and a chill runs up your back at his tone. That and - the chill of the house. Ben places his hand on your thigh and trails it nearer to your cunt until his fingers are ghosting over your folds, and with one fluid motion he pushes a finger inside of you. There’s not a single bit of resistance from your body, slickness making it entirely too easy for him, and you moan out. “I want to cum in here.”

Ben pushes himself up against the back of the couch, pressing his hands against your back, and you kiss him so fucking hard it almost hurts. Your taste is on his lips and you love it, love the mixture of the two of you, love how beautiful this all is. Love how this is all you’ve been wanting, really, even if you never thought you’d get here - you wanted him, everything about him and it really does seem like you’ve got him, now.

You reach down and take hold of his cock again, legs shaking as you position yourself right above him, lips still so close to his, and you sink down onto his achingly hard member after one deep breath.

A breath of confidence, and you needed it. He is big and it almost hurts - not quite but it’s almost there, almost - but the pleasure that quite literally fills you overpowers any ounce of pain you could feel. Ben drops his head back against the couch, moving his hands to your hips, rubbing your skin, and if he’s feeling half as good as you are then he’s in fucking heaven.

Based on his blissed out face, you’d think he is.

Your head drops to his shoulder and you swallow thickly, another tear forcing its way from your eye and down your cheek, and Ben’s breathing is so heavy. You can feel him throbbing inside of you and you need a moment, you think, before you can move, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The first movement is always the best. The whole first feeling of being filled is unbeatable and you don’t have a dick but you could assume it’s the same for Ben. You need time to value this, now, and with any other guy you’d already be halfway to orgasm, bouncing up and down without a care in the world but this is so different. Different because - you’ve wanted him for what seems like ages, because it’s taken so long to get to this point, because he’s Ben.

You lift yourself up, legs shaking near violently, and then drop back down. Ben’s moan is nearly louder than yours, and you lean in to kiss him again as you keep moving.

Up and down.

Slow at first but you try to get faster. Your previous orgasm was - intense, to say the least - and your limbs feel weak, and you’re sure it won’t be long until you can’t ride him anymore. When he’ll have to take over.

For now, though, you focus on it. Rolling your hips and grinding into him, and bouncing up and down, and Ben helps you with his hands on your hips and on your waist, and his moans and cries are the perfect motivator to keep going.

“Oh my god.” your voice is breathy, a cry breaking through the words like water through a dam. “God, Ben. Oh, god, fuck.”

You rest your hands on his shoulders, leaning in again to kiss him, but you’re moving fast enough that it’s hard to land every kiss and so you end up with your lips pressed against his jawline. You want his touch everywhere - your waist and your ass and your tits and your clit - because wherever he touches it feels like electricity sparking through your body. Like lightning strikes.

“Feel so good and tight around me,” Ben grunts, and you could cum just from the words. “You’re so wet, sweetheart, so - fucking - good. So good for me.”

(You still can’t quite believe he wouldn’t look at you a month ago.)

(Wouldn’t even talk to you, really.)

(And he’s telling you how good your pussy is.)

“Ben -” your legs are aching, muscles burning, and you’re afraid of the pace stuttering but you can hardly get the words out to tell him. You wrap your arms around his neck and use that as leverage to keep bouncing up and down.

It’s hard. Ben notices your pace slowing and holds your hips down, forcing you to take all of him in, and then he pulls you off of him with one swift motion.

Fuck. The feeling of him leaving you is almost painful. You already miss his cock filling you up. Ben pushes you back onto the couch, and you sink into the cushions with a small grin as he presses his body on top of yours. You throw a leg over his waist, pulling him down, and then you lean up again, attaching your lips as he slides into you.

Kissing him is the greatest thing you’ve done, really, soft lips and soft hair, and kissing him while riding him is positively spectacular, but kissing him while he fucks you is another story.

His hips are fast against yours, the pace near brutal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Skin slaps against skin and Ben bites at your lip, swallowing every single sob that escapes your mouth, catching your tears with a finger beneath your eye. Your hand snakes between your body and rubs at your clit, two fingers against your swollen, sensitive nub, and it’s so intense.

It’s all so intense. Ben’s grunts are akin to that of angels and with every thrust he hits your g spot, and your fingers on your clit only add to the experience - and it’s even better when Ben rips your wrist from your cunt and replaces it with his own finger, rubbing tight, fast circles.

You won’t last.

You cum and it’s violent, legs thrashing, body arching upwards. Your eyes roll back into your head and pleasure rips through your body like a fucking earthquake, and Ben’s still pumping in and out of you, and his fingers are relentless on your clit, and it fucking hurts almost.

“Ben, no, no.” You wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull it away with all of your strength - not much, with two orgasms behind you - and he braces his palm on the arm of the couch. Leaning down to kiss you once more, he pushes his hips into yours a few more times, pace slowing.

“Gonna cum in you, sweetheart,” Ben murmurs. “Wanted to do this for so long.”

That makes two of you.

He cums within another minute, spilling inside of you, and the warmth of his cum painting your walls could push you over the edge again - but you’re not sure you have another one in you. Ben’s groans are loud and brash, rolling his hips slowly against yours until he’s finished, and then he collapses right back on top of you.

Your bodies are slick with sweat and entirely too warm, but with the stark cold contrast of the room you don’t mind. Your leg around his waist, your arms on his neck, his head in your shoulder. Lips on your neck. It’s all so perfect.

You lie in silence for a moment. You find you don’t really need to speak, anyway. Not yet - the moment doesn’t call for it but - you can’t resist. “Just a business relationship, huh?”

Ben sighs, and his breath cools your neck. “Business and pleasure, I think. To quote this really amazing woman I know - why can’t we have both?”

“Then do something about it,” John jeered through his fit. “It’s bloody pathetic at this point! I mean look at you, fawning after her like a lost dog.” Roger swallowed hard, trying to tune out John’s words as he turned his attention to you. You were leaning against the bar, giving the order to the bartender before glancing over your shoulder. You sent him wink and a small wave before a man tapped you on the shoulder. A sudden flood of resentment rushed to Roger’s heart when you let out an obviously fake laugh at something the man said.

“Uh oh,” Brian murmured, watching as Roger slowly got to his feet. Pushing through the crowd, Roger made his way to the bar. He ignored a few people that called out his name, thanking him for a ‘wicked show’. Blinded, he didn’t even see Freddie gawking at him as he passed the singer by. Roger’s focus was on you and the man that had become too close for comfort. He could feel your distaste as he approached.

“Can I buy you a drink, pretty girl?” Roger was close enough to hear the low voice of the man as he asked the question, tone laced with ulterior motives. Bile rose in Roger’ throat at the thought of his man touching you, let alone continuing his poor attempts at flirting.

“Well, I already have one and-”

“Hey baby,” Roger cooed smoothly, the phrase felt natural falling from his lips and into your ear. He threw his arm over your shoulders and pecked your cheek before sparing a poisonous glance towards the man. “I got worried, you’ve been gone for a while.” You squint your eyes at him, studying his features closely. Roger leaned closer to your face, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear. “This guy is a creep.”

“I’m alright, babe,” you said, the pet name sent shivers down Roger’s spine even if you didn’t truly mean it. The man stiffened, rolling his eyes at the scene.

“Maybe you should move on mate,” the man grumbled, “she doesn’t seem that interested anymore.” Roger spun his head to face the man, blue eyes lit with wild flames of rage. The arm he had over your shoulders tensed and, hoping to calm him, you reached a hand up to his and intertwined your fingers. However, Roger was deafened and any touch you gave him was overshadowed by his jealousy.

“Maybe you should move on mate, she’s taken,” Roger hissed through gritted teeth. His arm fell from it’s spot on your body and when you looked down, you saw his hand curl into a fist. Looking up towards Brian and John, you mouthed a ‘help’ that sent the two men to their feet.

“Is she now? You don’t seem like her type, spaz. She should be going home with me.” You turned to glare at the man now, anger almost mirroring Rogers; but nothing could match the fury coursing through his veins. Before you could grab his arm and begin to pull him away, Roger moved like lightning. Part of him wished he had been drunk. If he had been, he could come up with the easy excuse of muddled thinking and his hand wouldn’t have hurt as much when his fist connected with the man’s jaw.

The other part of Roger was glad that he was sober this time. He would remember how you and Brian pulled  him away from the man, your hand clutching his arm like a life preserver. He would remember the pride in his heart for defending you with a clear mind. The only downside to his sober state was now, he would have to confront his feelings without alcohol to blame for a false, drunken confession. Roger had to be honest now, with himself and you.

“I’m not leaving this party just because you got yourself kicked out. Make sure to ice that hand, you know,” Freddie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The nipping night air of London bit at your skin, prompting to pull your jacket closer to your body. Roger saw the action and reached out to you, ready to hold you close to his warmth, but you pulled away from his hand. “Roger?”

“Y-Yeah? What? Yeah, alright, stay here. ‘M gonna head home any way.” Roger mumbled the last bit, turning his frowning features away from his friends. You watched the boy start off down the street. If it wasn’t for Brian’s hand on your shoulder, you would’ve kept on watching as Roger put more distance between the two of you.

“You should talk to him,” the guitarist murmured, “get him to explain himself.”

“What is there to explain? He’s just Roger, he gets angry and acts out,” you sighed, numbing your sore feelings. Brian sighed too, shaking his head at your denial.

“It goes deeper than that, you uh, you should know why.” With one last pat on your shoulder, Brian followed Freddie and John back into the bar. Left alone, you gnawed at your lip as your thoughts swirled about. You looked down the street to find Roger had stopped walking to light a cigarette. Taking advantage of his pause, you quickly followed after him.

Roger was fiddling with the lighter, but unable to get a flame as his hands were shaking slightly. He mumbled a curse under his breath, desperate for the release a smoke could offer him. It had been stupid of him to punch the guy, Roger knew that, but he had hit a boiling point. The feelings his harbored for you were bubbling at the surface, threatening to overflow. Luckily, he thought to himself, you hated him now, or were at least scared of him. That would make things easier.

Roger was about to give up on his cigarette and continue his trek home when he felt a tap on his shoulder. As much as he appreciated fans, he was still steaming and as he turned around, he had to force himself to be calm so not to scare them off. However, his own calm was out washed by the soothing presence of your body near his. His blue eyes scanned over your face, as if he couldn’t believe you were actually before him. It had to be his brain, taunting him with everything he should have done, everything he should have said.

“Hi,” you whispered, proving to him that you were truly there. He gave you a delicate smile, blue eyes softening at the sight of you.

“Hi,” he returned, staring at you in silence as he tried to come up with an apology. “I-I’m sorry about that, in there, I just-”

“I don’t need an apology, Roger,” you began, “I need an explanation. I could have handled him, you know that.” Roger nodded, fidgeting with his lighter a little as his eyes trained on the sidewalk beneath you.

“I know, but I just...you looked so….I couldn’t just sit there a watch it happen.” Roger started to walk now, his shoes scuffing the pavement below him. You fell into step on his right as he kicked pebbles at the cars parked in the street. “I just lost control, I guess.”

You let out a half-heartedly amused huff. “You guess? Roger, you nearly dislocated his jaw. What was going through your head?”

You, Roger thought to himself, but he bit his lip hard before he said it. Your brows furrowed at his silence, the slapping of shoes against sidewalk the only sounded that echoed in the night. Although, Roger was sure that you could hear how fast his heart was beating, but you were too kind to say something about it. Your mind raced to figure out what he was thinking. You knew that he wasn’t drunk, so he had been thinking clearly to some degree. That only added to your confusion.

“You weren’t even drunk,” you pondered aloud and breaking the silence. Roger groaned and turned his head to look at you as he kicked another stone at an old van. “What,” you stopped in your tracks, “what’s your problem, Rog?! You know you can tell m-”

“I love you, Y/N, that’s my horribly wonderful problem!” His blue eyes held your gaze, gauging your reaction. Wide eyes glanced over his face, trying to detect any sign of falsehood. When your search came up empty, you fell into stunned quiet. Your silence was enough for him to understand your lack of interest. “I get why you don’t love me, who could really?”

He mind drifted back to the fans and the one night stands. They always left in the morning, never daring to venture back to him during the day. Roger was always left with pieces and you were always there to help him put them back together. It was one of the many reasons why he loved you; one of the many reasons why he hadn’t invited anyone into his bed for months on end. Yet, despite this, you would be leaving him too in the end.

“Hey,” you began, stepping towards him, “hey, look at me, Roger. Please.” He lifted his gaze from the pavement to your eyes. Your hand held his chin, securing his focus on you and only you. The rest of London melted around you, leaving only hints of cold surrounding your bodies. “I love you too, Rog. Have since….I don’t even really remember when it started.”

A small giggle passed over your lips, sending a shiver down Roger’s spine as your confession sunk in. He lifted a still slightly bloodied hand to grab yours that now cupped his cheek. His calloused fingertips tickled the sensitive skin of your arm until they entangled with your own fingers. Smoothly, Roger brought your hand to his lips and pressed the sweetest kiss to the top of it.

“Feel like a right idiot now,” he mumbled against your skin. You laughed a little again, moving your other hand to brush some of the hair that had fallen in his face away. He careened into your touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment to savor it.

“You’re no idiot,” you teased, “just a bit of a fool.” Roger grinned, leaning in just enough to brush his nose against yours. Your breath caught in your throat as his sudden confidence. Roger himself was melting into place, every ounce of rage floated away as he drifted off in the seas of your love. He gently nuzzled his nose against yours, still smiling.

“Only for you.”

“Just don’t punch anyone again, okay?” You joked, coaxing a chuckle from Roger’s lips that were so close now you could feel his breath against your skin.

“No promises,” he whispered with hooded eyes. His gaze flitted between yours and your lips, a question balancing on the tip of his tongue. You nodded, giving your answer as your nose brushed against his. A small breath of relief fell from his lips the moment before he captured your lips in a kiss. Your arms draped themselves over his shoulders and Roger’s hands found your waist from underneath your coat. The almost silk material of your dress slid under his fingers as he tugged your body flush to his. The movement distracted you for a moment, allowing Roger enough time to deepen the kiss.

“Roger,” you whined, prompting him to pull away from where he had moved to place kisses against your jaw. His wide eyes studied your face as he lifted a hand to your cheek. His touch was uncharacteristically subdued, showing you a sweetness he had saved for you and only for you. “Take me home.”

Roger only nodded before entangling your fingers with his. His grip on you was tight as he lead you back to his flat. Almost as tight as it was the morning after, his arm wrapped around your waist so he could tug you closer to his body. He was still so needy for you, he couldn’t explain it; not that you minded. He nestled his face in the crook of your neck as you stretched out under his bedsheets.

“You stayed,” he whispered between kisses on your skin. You shifted, turning on your side to face him. A seriousness and fear lurked underneath the adoration in his eyes as he took in your features for the hundredth time that morning. You just looked so beautiful in the light coming through the window, he couldn’t help it.

“Of course I did,” you reply, pecking his lips. He nearly moan into the kiss, your words echoing in his skull. You were going to stay, for him. That was all he needed to know.

“I love you,” he said, voice oozing with affection as he leaned towards you again. His lips were soft as he kissed you, but grew more desperate when your hand found its way to his hair. You gently tugged on the blond strands, reminding him of the night before.