#cheater!reader

He steps closer, slow. Deliberate. Then he touches your chin, just two fingers, light pressure tilting your face up to look at him.

“You never answered my question…. You kiss him goodnight?” he asks, same line, quieter this time. More intimate. Almost gentle. If he just leaned forward the tiniest bit, he could kiss you.

You blink, and your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I did.”

His jaw ticks. But he doesn’t let go.

“Bet he held you after, didn’t he?” His voice is like smoke now, somehow heavy in a very soft kind of way. “Told you how he loved you.”

You nod again, “he always does. Every night.”

Ben laughs. Just once. Sharp and not at all kind. Then he leans in and kisses you like he wants to ruin you for good. It’s rough from the start, his hands greedy, mouth unforgiving. “But it doesn’t feel like this with that boy of yours,” he breaths the words across your lips before taking them again. You’re almost thankful for the distraction so you don’t have to think about how true his words are.

He doesn’t warm you up. Doesn’t coax. He just takes.

Clothes come off in pieces. Your top gets ripped up over your head. He unhooks your bra with one hand and tosses it to the floor.

Then he turns you around, nudges you toward the couch. “Get up there. On your knees.”

You climb up, hands gripping the back cushions, knees sinking into the lower ones. It’s filthy, everything about this is filthy, but you don’t even flinch.

You want the dirt. You want to drown in it.

Ben comes up behind you, big hands spreading your thighs like he’s parting pages in a book he’s already read a hundred times.

“You’re so wet for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But, fuck, you always are, aren’tcha sweetheart? Bet you’ve been dripping like a goddamn faucet since you texted me earlier.”

You bite your lip. Your cheek presses to the fabric. You’re shaking. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You should leave, push him off. You should have months ago. This never ever should have happened… but it did. And you don’t. And you won’t.

In fact, you lean into it, into him.

You like this.

You look forward to this, every goddamn time.

Even if it makes you feel like the worst person on the planet after.

He doesn’t ease in. Just spits into his hand, strokes himself once. Of course, Ben can’t help himself from leaning over to spit on your pussy for good measure, even if it clearly doesn’t need the help given the way you’re quite literally dripping down your thighs. He just stares for a long moment, long enough to have your cheeks reddening, before he lines himself up, and pushes in.

“Ben,” you cry out. The stretch is sudden, brutal, almost too much—but you don’t stop him.

You never do.

Ben groans behind you, one hand gripping your waist so tight it makes your bones ache. “Goddamn,” he mutters. “Always so tight. So fuckin’ good.”

He sets a pace that knocks the breath out of your lungs. Every thrust sends you forward, gasping, clawing at the couch for something to hold onto.

You don’t say anything. Wouldn’t dare.

Because if you open your mouth right now, you’ll scream his name. And if you scream his name, you won’t be able to lie to yourself later.

Ben leans over you, chest to your back, hand slipping under your body to grip your throat.

“You gonna cum like this?” he rasps. “Thinkin’ about him asleep in your bed, all sweet and in love, while I fuck you into next week ?”

You choke on a sob. Nod.

He groans again, the sound deep and ragged, and fucks you harder.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave of heat and guilt and want. Your whole body seizes around him, and you can’t stop the broken sound that spills from your throat.

Ben follows, rough and messy. He doesn’t pull out.

He never pulls out.

You collapse forward, shaking. He stays there for a moment, breathing hard, his hand still curled around your throat—like a collar. Like a mark. Then he leans forward, pressing a long, drawn out kiss against your neck, just below your ear.

And then he lets go.

You can’t look at him. Can’t look at yourself.

Ben steps back, zips up his jeans. You can feel him leaking out of you, dripping down your inner thighs. But you don’t move.

He watches you for a long second. Then, with something that almost sounds like tenderness, he says, “You wanna shower?”

“It’s fine,” you shake your head, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

The one and only time you’d showered here, at the very beginning of… whatever this is between you, had ended with you crying so hard you could barely breath. So a shower, despite the desperate need for one, was off the table.

You don’t say anything when you finally stand.

You just pull your skirt back down over your hips, hands shaking a little. It’s twisted, rumpled, clinging in odd spots. You don’t fix it. Just smooth the fabric and pretend you’re fine.

Ben watches from the arm of the couch, legs spread, one elbow braced on his knee. His shirt’s still off, chest streaked with sweat.

He watches you grab your bra off the floor and try to untangle the straps. Your hands fumble once, twice. They’re shaking too bad.

“Here,” he says gruffly, standing, “let me do it.”

You almost flinch when he gets close.

He notices, but doesn’t comment. Just takes the bra from you and hooks it behind your back like he’s done it a dozen times—because he has.

Your eyes stay on the floor.

“There’s no fire, y’know. You don’t have to rush,” he says after a minute. His voice isn’t soft, exactly. But it’s not mean, either, which is more than most people get from him.

You pull you shirt closed. Some of the buttons are missing, no doubt having popped off when he’d hastily yanked your shirt off earlier. “Shit,” you sigh under your breath, closing your eyes for a long moment.

Ben walks over to the chair, grabs a flannel draped over it, and holds it out.

You give him what might be the most pathetically sad “thank you” smile the universe has ever seen.

The shirt swallows you whole—too big, sleeves past your wrists, the scent of smoke and sweat and him soaked into every fiber.

You look smaller now. Or maybe just younger. Far to young to be fucking around with him, that’s for sure.

“You alright?” he asks. It’s a genuine question, not just some formality, you both know it. And you want to hate him for being nice to you because, in a way, that makes this all so much worse.

You nod, your voice flat and totally devoid of any of the usually humor it carries, “just peachy.”

You won’t look at him. Can’t.

Not after he kissed your throat. Not after you came around his cock. Not after you said his name like a prayer and a curse in the same breath.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he says quietly. “You know that right?”

That gets you. Your head snaps up. Mouth opens, like you’re going to ask what exactly is “this?” Because, frankly, you’re at a total loss.

But you don’t. You just swallow hard and lift your chin.

“You don’t want me to come back?” You ask, and your voice is sharp now, like you’re daring him to say it. This is what you always do. You lash out at him, because when he’s realistic and reasonable, it makes you feel even worse than you do. Even though you know he’s not trying to.

Ben exhales through his nose. Rubs the back of his neck. “No,” he says flatly, fixing you with an almost annoyed look. “That’s not what I said. Not what I meant either, and you know it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. It’s heavy. Long enough to feel like a goodbye.

Ben clears his throat. “You want me to take you home?”

You nod again.

You don’t say anything. You don’t touch him. You just walk toward the door—bare legs cold in the air, Ben’s flannel swallowing your frame, smelling like him and everything you shouldn’t want.

He stares at you the whole way.

Not like he loves you. Not like he’s afraid to lose you.

Like you’re something he never meant to have in the first place.

Something he doesn’t know what to do with—how to hold, how to keep, how to let go of without burning his hands.

Something that only exists here, in the dark, when no one else is looking.

And maybe that’s all you are.

Maybe it’s just the thrill of it. The power. The secret.

But he doesn’t stop you.

And you won’t stop coming back.

Not tonight.

Probably not tomorrow either.

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You love your husband, you really do. He loved you with every fiber of his being. Every day, your friends would joke about how jealous they were that you had someone as lovely as Bruno by your side. Bruno Buccellati was the perfect husband. 

He was sweet, soft, gentle, and kind. Everything that Risotto Nero was not. 

And yet, you still found yourself, drawn like a moth to a flame to the mysterious leader of the assassination squad. You catch each other’s eye the day Bruno takes you to one of the Don’s luxurious parties. You are draped on his arm, your wedding ring, the only piece of jewelry you had decided to wear. 

When Risotto makes his way to you and Bruno, you coyly introduce yourself to him, blissfully pretending that you don’t notice how his eyes rake over your lovely form. When he takes your hand, to place a gentle kiss on the knuckle of your ring finger, you swear you can feel your heart patter loudly in your chest. 

You swear that you can feel his gaze on you for the whole night. When Bruno excuses himself to take care of some more pressing concerns, you just smile and tell him to do what he must. 

Because as soon as Bruno has left your side, Risotto is filling the lonely silence that pops up. There is an intensity to him that you have not experienced with Bruno in a long time. And you find yourself heading into an easy, palpable attraction with him. All too soon, the night is over, and though you head home with Bruno, you cannot rid your mind of that mysterious and devilishly handsome man. 

But you know, and he knows, that this is not the last time you will meet again. 

On a day that is neither windy nor sweltering, on what feels like the perfect day, Risotto Nero turns up on your front door with the same easy smirk on his lips. 

“For an assassin, you’re not very inconspicuous,” you muse aloud as you invite him in. 

A dark chuckle tears out of his lips as he tugs you flush against his hard chest, “please rest assured, that I’ll get the job done.” 

“I know you will,” you say, closing your eyes and inclining your head to grant him easier access. 

He ignores the cold press of your golden wedding band, in fact, you might have even said that this whole thing rather excited him. 

When Risotto presses his hot lips against yours, lighting up a new burning passion deep in your heart, you don’t push him away. Rather, you dip your head so that he can kiss you deeper, harder. When he pushes you into your bedroom, you let him. 

His eyes rake over you the second you appear, dragging slow and deliberate—like he’s already undressing you. Like he owns you.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” he says, flicking his cigarette to the sidewalk. It sparks out in an angry scatter.

You don’t answer.

You just open the door and climb into the passenger seat without looking at him, heart pounding like a siren in your chest.

Ben gets in after you, slamming the door shut. The engine growls to life like it resents being woken.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just lets the silence settle heavy, lets the guilt seep in slow—like heat from the vents. Lets you sit there and think about Hughie, about the warmth you left behind, the love you keep hurting.

And then—

His hand lands on your thigh. Hot. Heavy. Possessive.

“I hope you at least kissed him goodbye,” he says, glancing over with a cocky grin. “Be a real shame if you didn’t.”

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