⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ I wish I was your ‘ONLY’ girl 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
𓏲ּ𝄢 Pairing: Soldier Boy x fem!Reader
˚.⋆꒰১ Word Count: ~3,200 ໒꒱⋆.˚
Summary: You thought Soldier Boy calling you doll meant you were special. You were wrong. Now you're crying in an empty hallway, hitting a chest you can't even dent, begging a man who doesn't love you to just want you.
warnings:(Reader is named Bambi 'I hate the Y/n thingy, just know it's you'), Age gap, 21 year old reader Toxic relationship, Emotional manipulation, Love bombing then ghosting, Rough sex, Choking, Biting, Crying during sex, Dirty talk, Size difference, Jealousy, Crying and begging, Soldier Boy is canonically awful, Firecracker mentioned, Dark ending, Power imbalance, Naive/desperate reader.
She was twenty-one.
That was the thing about Bambi that everyone at Vought seemed to fixate on. Twenty-one. Young. Bright-eyed. Baby fat still on her cheeks. Curves she didn't quite know what to do with yet. She'd gotten the assistant job through a family connection. Some cousin who knew someone who knew someone. She sorted mail. Got coffee. Sat in on meetings she didn't understand and took notes nobody read.
She was nothing at Vought.
And then Soldier Boy noticed her.
It started small.
She'd bring him his coffee order. Black. Two sugars. He'd take it from her hand and his fingers would brush hers and he'd look at her. Not at her face. At her. Down and up. Slow. Like he was undressing her with his eyes in the middle of a hallway.
"Thanks, doll."
Doll.
The first time he said it she nearly dropped the tray.
"Th-thank you, sir."
"Ben."
"Sir?"
"Call me Ben. Sir makes me feel old."
"You are old."
He laughed. Actually laughed. Not the mean laugh she'd seen on TV. A real one. Warm. His eyes crinkling at the corners and for a second he didn't look like a weapon. He looked like a man.
"Got a mouth on you, doll."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. It's cute."
Cute.
She walked back to her desk on shaking legs. Told herself it didn't mean anything. He was Soldier Boy. He probably called everyone doll. It was a thing. An old person thing. Like saying honey or sweetheart.
But he didn't call anyone else doll.
She noticed.
It built from there.
Every time she brought him something he'd find a way to touch her. Hand on her lower back when she set down his coffee. Fingers brushing her wrist when he took a file. Once he'd reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she'd frozen like a deer in headlights.
"You're pretty when you're nervous," he'd said.
"I'm not nervous."
"Your heart's beating so fast I can hear it, doll."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she didn't say anything. Just stood there while his fingers lingered near her ear. While his eyes dropped to her mouth.
"You ever been with a real man?" he'd asked.
"I— that's not appropriate—"
"Probably not." He smiled. Pulled back. "See you tomorrow, doll."
She went home that night and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Thought about his hand on her back. His fingers in her hair. The way he looked at her like she was something worth looking at.
No one had ever looked at her like that.
He was older. So much older. Old enough to be her grandfather if you did the math. But he didn't feel old. Not when he was close to her. Not when he leaned down to whisper something in her ear and she could smell him. Cedar and whiskey and something underneath that was purely masculine.
The girls in the office warned her.
"Soldier Boy doesn't like people, Bambi. He uses people."
"He's being nice to me."
"That's what he does. He's nice until he gets what he wants."
She didn't listen.
Because when she was with him she felt seen. Important. Like the twenty-one-year-old assistant who sorted mail wasn't invisible anymore. She was dolL. She was the one he saved his smiles for. The one he leaned close to. The one whose coffee order he remembered without being told.
That had to mean something. Right?
It happened after a press event.
She'd stayed late to file paperwork. The office was empty. Dark. She was alone at her desk when he appeared in the doorway.
"Still here, doll?"
"Paperwork."
"At this hour?"
"Somebody's gotta do it."
He walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate. His boots heavy on the floor. She felt her heart start racing before he even got close.
"You look tired," he said.
"I'm okay."
"You don't look okay. You look like you need someone to take care of you."
He was behind her chair now. His hands on her shoulders. Big. Warm. Pressing into the tension she didn't know she was carrying.
"Ben—"
"Relax, doll. I'm just being nice."
His thumbs rubbed circles into her shoulders. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped forward. It felt good. So good. No one had touched her like this in... ever.
"You're so tense," he murmured. "Who's been stressing you out?"
"Everyone. Everything. This job."
"This job doesn't deserve you."
"What?"
"You heard me. Sorting mail. Getting coffee. You're worth more than that, doll."
She turned her head to look up at him. He was right there. Close. His face inches from hers. His eyes dark in the dim office light.
"Ben..."
"Yeah?"
"I don't think we should—"
"Think less."
He kissed her.
She should have stopped him. She knew that. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice was screaming that this was wrong. That he was using her. That she was twenty-one and he was ancient and this was exactly what everyone had warned her about.
But his mouth was warm and his hands were strong and he tasted like whiskey and when he pulled back and looked at her with those dark eyes she forgot every warning she'd ever been given.
"Come with me," he said.
She went.
His hotel room was nice. Vought expense account nice. She barely had time to look at it before he was on her. Kissing her. Walking her backward until her legs hit the bed.
"Wait— I haven't—"
"Haven't what?"
"I haven't done this in a while."
He pulled back. Looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes. Not concern exactly. More like... calculation.
"How long is a while?"
"A year. Maybe more."
He smiled. Slow. Predatory.
"Then let me remind you how it's done."
He pushed her down on the bed. Crawled over her. His body covering hers. His hands pushing her skirt up. His mouth on her neck. Biting. Not gentle. She gasped.
"Ben—"
"Shh. I've got you, doll."
He was rough. But not cruel. There was a gentleness underneath the roughness. Like he was holding back. Like he knew she was small and young and breakable and some part of him didn't want to shatter her. Not yet.
His hand slid between her thighs. She whimpered.
"That's it," he murmured against her throat. "Let me hear you."
"I'm— I'm loud—"
"I know. I can hear your heartbeat from here." He laughed softly. "It's cute."
He worked her open with his fingers. Slow at first. Then faster. She was wet. Embarrassingly wet. Her hips moving on their own. Chasing his hand.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"I need—"
"Tell me."
"I need you inside me."
He groaned. Actually groaned. Like she'd said something that affected him.
"Fuck, doll. You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll lose control."
He undressed her. Slowly. Every piece of fabric removed like unwrapping a gift. When she was bare underneath him he stopped. Just looked. His eyes traveling over her body like he was memorizing it.
"You're so pretty," he said. And for a second it sounded real. "So fucking pretty."
He undressed too. She'd seen pictures. Everyone had. But in person it was different. He was built like something from another era. Broad shoulders. Chest covered in hair. Scars she wanted to ask about but didn't.
He rolled on a condom. Settled between her thighs. Looked down at her.
"You ready?"
"I think so."
"You think so?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
He pushed in.
Slow. Inch by inch. She gasped. Her nails digging into his shoulders. He was big. Bigger than she'd had before. The stretch burned in a way that walked the line between pain and pleasure.
"Breathe, doll."
She breathed.
He bottomed out. Stayed still. Let her adjust. His forehead pressed against hers. His breath warm on her face.
"You okay?"
"It's a lot."
"I know. I'll go slow."
He did. Slow. Deep. Each thrust measured. Controlled. His hand gripping her hip. His mouth on her neck. Biting gently. Not breaking skin. Just enough to leave marks.
"You feel so good," he murmured against her throat. "So tight. So fucking good for me."
"Ben—"
"That's it. Say my name."
"Ben—"
"Again."
"Ben—"
His hand moved. Found her clit. Rubbed circles while he moved inside her. She saw white. Her back arching off the bed. Sounds pouring out of her that she couldn't control.
"That's my girl," he said. "That's my fucking girl."
His hand slid up. Around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. She felt her pulse hammering against his palm.
"You like that?"
"I— I don't know—"
"Yes you do. I can feel your heartbeat speeding up." He squeezed. Lightly. Just enough pressure to make her gasp. "You like being choked, doll?"
"I— yes—"
"Good girl."
He squeezed a little harder. Thrust a little deeper. She was close. So close. Tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Not sad tears. Just overwhelmed. Too much feeling in a body that wasn't used to feeling this much.
"I'm gonna come," she gasped.
"Then come."
"Ben—"
"Come for me, doll. Now."
She did.
Her whole body seizing. Walls clenching around him. A sob tearing out of her throat. His hand still on her neck. His mouth on her shoulder. Biting down hard this time. She screamed.
He fucked her through it. Then followed her over. His hips slamming into hers once. Twice. Then stilling. A groan rumbling out of his chest. His forehead dropping to her shoulder.
They stayed like that. Breathing. His weight on her. His hand slowly releasing her throat.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. Couldn't speak. Tears still on her face.
He looked at her. Saw the tears. His thumb brushed one away.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No."
"Then why are you crying?"
"I don't know."
He smiled. Kissed her forehead. Pulled out. Lay beside her.
"Don't worry, doll. I'll take care of you."
She believed him.
The next morning he was gone.
No note. No text. No nothing. Just empty hotel sheets and the faint smell of cedar and whiskey.
She told herself he had meetings. Vought stuff. Important things. He'd call.
He didn't call.
Three days.
Three days of nothing. She saw him in the hallway once. Walked toward him with a smile. He looked at her. Nodded.
"Hi."
That was it. Hi. One syllable. No doll. No smile. No hand on her back. Just hi and then he was walking past her like she was furniture.
She stood in the hallway for a full minute after.
A week.
She brought him coffee. Set it on his desk. Waited.
"Thanks."
Not doll. Not sweetheart. Not even her name. Just thanks. He didn't look up from his phone.
"Ben?"
"Hmm?"
"Did I do something wrong?"
He looked up then. His eyes flat. Bored. Like he was trying to remember who she was.
"No. You're fine."
"Then why are you—"
"Gotta go. Meeting."
He left. Coffee untouched.
She went to the bathroom. Locked the stall. Cried for twenty minutes.
Two weeks.
She was at a Vought event. Some gala thing she'd been asked to help coordinate. Standing in the corner with a champagne flute she couldn't drink because she was twenty-one and terrified of everyone in the room.
Then she saw him.
Across the room. Leaning against a bar. And he wasn't alone.
Firecracker was next to him. Red hair. Red lips. Red dress. Laughing at something he'd said. Her hand on his arm. His head tilted down toward her. That smile. The real one. The one she thought was only for her.
He called her doll.
Not Bambi. Not the assistant. Doll.
The same word. The same tone. Like it was nothing. Like it was disposable. Like it could be given to anyone.
Bambi's champagne flute cracked in her hand.
She waited.
She waited until the gala ended. Until Firecracker left with a smile and a hair flip. Until the room emptied and the staff started cleaning. Then she found him.
He was in a hallway. Adjusting his cufflinks. Alone.
"Ben."
He looked up. Saw her face. Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement maybe.
"Doll."
Don't call me that.
"Don't call me that."
"Okay."
"Where have you been?"
"Around."
"Around? You've been around? I haven't heard from you in two weeks. Two weeks, Ben. After— after what we— and you've been around?"
"Bambi—"
"No. You don't get to Bambi me right now." Her voice was shaking. Tears already building. She hated it. Hated that she couldn't be angry without crying. "You fucked me and then you disappeared. You didn't call. You didn't text. You looked right through me in the hallway like I was nothing."
"You're not nothing."
"Then what am I? Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like I'm something."
He leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Watching her. His face unreadable.
"And then tonight." Her voice cracked. "I see you with her. Calling her the same thing you called me. Touching her the same way. Smiling at her the same—"
"We were just talking."
"You were flirting."
"Jesus Christ, Bambi. It was a conversation."
"You called her doll."
"So?"
"So? SO? You called me doll and then you fucked me and then you ignored me and now you're calling HER doll like I was nothing? Like I was just— just a—"
She was crying now. Full tears. Streaming down her face. Her hands balled into fists at her sides.
"You used me." The words came out broken. "You used me and you threw me away and I thought— I thought it meant something. I thought I meant something."
She stepped forward. Punched his chest. Hard as she could. It was like hitting a wall. He didn't move. Didn't even blink.
"I HATE you." Another punch. Nothing. "I hate you I hate you I hate you—"
She kept hitting. Both fists. Over and over. His chest solid under her hands. Her wrists starting to hurt. Her tears blurring her vision.
"Why can't I be the only one?" She was whining now. Small and broken and pathetic. "Why can't you just— why can't you just want ME? What's wrong with me? What did I do wrong?"
He caught her wrists. Held them. She strained against his grip but it was like fighting steel. She couldn't move. Couldn't hit him anymore. Just stood there with her fists in his hands and tears on her face and her whole body shaking.
"Let go of me."
"No."
"Let go of me, Ben."
"Stop crying."
"I can't— I can't stop—"
"Then try harder."
She yanked her wrists. Failed. Sobs breaking out of her chest now. Ugly crying. The kind that made her whole body heave.
"I thought you loved me," she whispered.
He went still.
"I thought you loved me," she said again. Quieter. Broken.
He looked at her. Really looked. At her red face and swollen eyes and the way her lip was trembling. At this twenty-one-year-old girl who sorted his mail and brought his coffee and looked at him like he hung the moon.
Something shifted in his expression.
Not guilt. Not remorse. Something darker. Something more dangerous.
Intrigue.
He let go of her wrists. She stumbled back. Rubbed them. Looked at him with wet eyes.
"You don't love me," she said. Defeated. "You never did."
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
The words hit her like a slap. She nodded. Turned around. Started walking away.
"Bambi."
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"That doesn't mean I'm done with you."
She turned. Looked at him. He was still leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. That look on his face. The one that made her stomach flip even though she knew better. Even though she'd just been destroyed by him.
"What?"
"You said you want to be the only one."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"But you meant it."
"It doesn't matter—"
"It matters to me."
She stared at him. Confused. Wary. Her tears still wet on her face.
"Why?"
"Because I've had a lot of women throw themselves at me, doll. A lot." He pushed off the wall. Walked toward her. Slow. "They cry. They scream. They threaten. But none of them have ever looked at me the way you're looking at me right now."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you'd let me destroy you and say thank you."
Her breath caught.
"And that," he said quietly. "Is interesting."
He reached out. Wiped a tear off her cheek with his thumb. She flinched. Didn't pull away.
"You're a terrible person," she whispered.
"I know."
"You used me."
"I know that too."
"I should walk away."
"You should."
She didn't walk away.
He smiled. Not warm. Not kind. Something sharp. Something hungry.
"See you Monday, doll."
He walked past her. Left her standing in the empty hallway. Tears drying on her face. Heart pounding in her chest.
She knew she should run.
She knew she should never go back.
But something in her— something broken and young and desperate to be wanted— told her that maybe if she was good enough. Pretty enough. Quiet enough. Maybe then she'd be the only one.
She went back on Monday.
A/N: yall got sum yall wanna tell me? Like how yall like Sam more than dean? THIS ISSS LITERALLY A JENSEN FAN ACC it’s okay I love them both though, I hope you like this I tried to get it as soldier boy as i could, don’t be a bird like Bambi yall oh wait yall name is Bambi
