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daydreamtofiction · 5 days ago

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The Feature XXVII // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | First Part

Chapter Summary: (Female Reader) I have no summary lol. But if it helps, I listened to nothing but Caribbean Blue by Enya, and Daydream by Gunter Kallmann Choir while writing this chapter x

Chapter Word Count: 4.6K

Chapter Warnings: Strong language, adult and sexual themes, smut incl: oral & penetrative sex, discussions of large age gaps & age gap relationships. Readers must be 18+

A/N: Since the beginning of this fic, I've kept Quinn's age ambiguous and open to interpretation. This was done intentionally in order to allow readers of any (legal and consenting) age to identify with her as the main character if they wished to. However, in this chapter I do clarify her 'canon age', which is early thirties. I'm sorry in advance if this doesn't align with how you've pictured her.

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The days had melted into one long, golden stretch, unfurling lazily, one after the other, as though life beyond the property line had paused in your absence. You’d been living in a timeless paradise of warm skin and open windows, quiet days and close, passionate nights. Ben had kept good on his promise, giving every spare moment he could to making you glad you came. But you’d learned to relish the moments in between too; the solitude and the respite, the time each day offered like a gift, to relax, to write, to bathe in silence and bask in the stillness of the warm California air.

You woke to the sound of shuffling across the room, the clunk of a drawer and the faint hiss of a zipper. You stirred beneath the linen sheets, feeling the delicious ache in your limbs from the night before, an empty space beside you where Ben should have been. You lifted your head, squinting in the morning light to find him dressing quietly.

He glanced over at you, his voice still rough from sleep as it rumbled across the bedroom. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You stretched lazily, the sheets slipping down your body. “Where are you going?”

“Press junket day,” he replied, sitting down to put his shoes on.

“Mm, a whole day being asked the same five questions over and over again. Sounds fun.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You said it, not me.”

You sat up further on your elbows, making no effort to cover your bare chest, your hair like a messy halo around your head. “What time will you be back?”

“I’m not sure, probably this evening.” He stood up, adjusting the waistband of his trousers as he spoke. “I’m going to try and get back as early as I can but these things always end up running late.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a wonderful day planned.”

“You do?”

“Mhm.” You inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and sank back down into the pillows with a smile. “I’m going to write on the balcony, eat something nice, maybe have a nap, go for a swim...”

He smirked as he made his way over to you. “You know it quite suits you, being a lady of leisure.”

“I’m making the most of it before I have to go back to real life.”

“This is real life,” he said softly, resting a knee on the bed and leaning over to kiss you. “I’ll see you tonight.”

You returned his kiss, your faces lingering closely for just a moment before he retreated, grabbing his phone and wristwatch off the bedside table and disappearing out of the room.

The morning unfolded slowly, warmly. You lazed in bed for a while after Ben left, scrolling on your phone as the air-con system quietly hummed throughout the house. It had become a comfort; the calming white noise taking the edge off the silence, a gentle indoor breeze greeting you at the beginning of each day.

When you finally got up, you took your time in the bathroom; showering and brushing your teeth, putting on skincare, SPF, perfume - just because. You dressed in a loose t-shirt and cotton shorts, humming to yourself as you wandered barefoot through the house, lazily making your way down to the kitchen.

Someone had been there, you could tell because the dishes were done, the counters cleared and the fridge restocked with fresh produce and prepped meals. You may have been a few days into your stay, but you still found it unsettling; the idea of a housekeeper or someone from Ben’s team letting themselves in, going about their duties and leaving again without ever crossing your path.

A light breeze danced through an open window, with scents of dry earth, tuberose and jasmine rolling in from the hills, and on the counter, a large glass cafetiere added the rich, familiar fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. You wished you could bottle it; the smells, the sounds, the way the floor felt beneath your bare feet. It was all so idyllic, a peacefulness you weren’t sure you would ever feel again.

You poured a coffee over ice, grabbed a prepackaged fruit salad from the fridge and returned upstairs, settling onto the sun-drenched balcony where you’d spent the majority of your days. The cushions of the outdoor sofa seemed to mould around you, like they remembered your shape. You sank into them with a happy sigh, laptop perched on your thighs as you took in the view for a moment before lifting the screen and beginning to write.

You finished editing your op-ed, letting out an excited little squeak as you finally sent it off. You’d been proud of the feature you wrote on Ben; the way you crafted the piece, swayed opinion with subtle descriptors and carefully placed metaphor, how you wove his words with yours so seamlessly that they flowed like the ink they’d been printed with. But this was another beast entirely. This was yours - your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions - this was a piece of you, and it was going to be out there, in the glossy pages of one of the biggest magazines in the world.

You stretched your arms above your head, letting the anxious energy evaporate from your fingertips. Then you reached for your phone, opening the camera to take a few photos; some of the view, some of yourself, smiling and sunkissed, blissfully happy. You clicked on Instagram, already thinking of a witty caption when you remembered you were supposed to be in mourning, and a grinning selfie wouldn’t exactly sell the ‘dying grandmother’ story.

Then you saw it. The ring on Lacey’s hand, Nick’s relieved smile, her teary eyes. ‘Obviously, yes,’ the caption beneath the picture read. And your mouth immediately fell open with joy. You swiped your thumb through the carousel of photos, each one as adorable and exciting as the last. They were in the middle of a plush, green meadow, surrounded by long grass and wildflowers, a backpack still on Lacey’s shoulders from their hike. You zoomed in on the ring and couldn’t help but feel proud that he’d taken your advice; a pale green stone set in delicate yellow gold with filigree detail. It was perfect.

About time! you wrote, laughing when Lacey almost immediately liked your comment.

For the next few hours, you seemed to float around the house; exploring the open grounds and sunlit rooms, grazing on snacks from the kitchen and humming to yourself as you went. You tried playing the piano that stood in the entrance hall, tinkering a tune from lessons you took as a child and wishing you’d never given up. By the time you found your way back to the balcony, the late afternoon sun had slanted across the hills, glittering over the surface of the pool and turning everything a warm, golden hue.

Maybe it was the house, the heat, the solitude. Maybe it was Nick and Lacey’s engagement, or the feeling of everything being so perfect with Ben. Whatever it was, you found yourself returning to your laptop, opening an empty document and beginning to write something new.

There’s something strange about falling in love when you’re old enough to know better. Embarrassing, even. Like showing up to a party three hours late, tipsy, holding a bottle no one asked you to bring. You look around and realise everyone else already knows the cues, the rules and the norms. They know when to lean in, when to pull away, how to talk with just their eyes, and leave on time for the next big event. They’re not hiding around corners to avoid conversation, dragging someone they just met upstairs because sex is easier than talking. They’re not letting someone feel them up for a better seat at a nicer table, or pushing people away for being ‘too nice’. That’s when it finally hits you, that you should be like them by now. You should be weathered and slick and unimpressed. But somehow, you’re brand new.

I used to think of love as a scam. Like some multi-level-marketing-scheme that we only joined once we’d fallen for the false promises of someone higher up the pyramid. Love was for the idealistic, for the smooth-skinned, the unsullied, for the people who didn’t yet know it came with a possibility of failure. Then once they’d done it, once they’d been maimed and scarred and lost the investments they were promised a return on, they would just go back again. Because now they had nothing to lose.

There was never a reason for me to think that way, to doubt or be skeptical of love like I was. But for some reason, in those smooth-skinned, unsullied years, I rejected it completely.

Now here I am, late to the party. Embarrassed. Tipsy. Stumbling around clueless while he patiently holds my hand. He’s been here before, he knows the cues and the rules and the norms. And I find myself glad, somehow, that I didn’t turn up on time. Because he might not have been here then.

You’d been typing for so long that your wrists were beginning to ache, your eyes itchy from staring at the laptop screen. You closed it gently, blinking a few times as you gazed out upon a darker landscape, the sun settling below the horizon as the sky clung to the last drops of light.

You stood up to stretch, rolling your shoulders and curving your back with a soft groan. The pool was still glittering in the dim evening light, the water so still besides the occasional ripple of a breeze across its surface. It was irresistible, the mere sight of it making your skin feel warmer, your clothes less comfortable as they clung to you with sweat.

You changed into a bikini and made your way downstairs, sliding open the door of the sun room that led to the patio. You walked across the grass and sat on the edge of the pool, lowering yourself into the water with quick, shallow breaths. It was cold, instantly washing away the last of the day’s heat and replacing it with shivers, your teeth chattering as you submerged yourself slowly.

But it didn’t take long for you to get used to it, your muscles eventually relaxing beneath the soothing, cool water. You swam lazy laps back and forth, listening to the sounds of wildlife beyond the property’s edge, crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze.

The sky had turned a deep, bruised blue, peppered with stars and a huge full moon. You were floating on your back, staring up at it in awe, when the faint sound of tyres crunching on gravel caught your attention.

You swam to the edge of the pool, listening to the distant rumble of a car engine, followed shortly by silence once again. You rested your chin on folded arms, waiting, wondering if it was him, or yet another invisible employee stopping by to water the plants or fold the laundry.

After a minute or two, you saw a light turn on in the kitchen, Ben’s silhouette passing by the window. You smiled and lifted yourself from the pool, wrapping yourself in a towel and hurrying across the grass. You slid the patio door closed behind you, jumping in fright when you turned to find him standing in the doorway on the other side of the room.

“Fucking hell,” you said breathlessly.

“Sorry, I was shouting for you, I didn’t realise you were outside.”

You tilted your head slightly as you looked at him. He seemed worn out, tired, highly strung, raking his hand through his hair every few seconds like he didn’t know what else to do with it.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, long day,” he said with a sigh before eyeing you up and down. “Were you swimming?”

“Mhm.”

“Wasn’t it freezing?”

“It was,” you began, walking across the room to meet him. “But it was okay once I got used to it.”

He gave a hum as you came together, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry I missed it. Would’ve been nice to have a moonlit swim together.”

“We could go back out, if you want to?” you replied with a teasing smile.

He exhaled a soft laugh through his nose, looking down at you like you already knew the answer.

“Are you tired?” you asked, draping your arms around his shoulders.

“Not tired, just… Drained. The room they put me in was so hot, and all the lighting and equipment just made it even worse. My throat hurts from talking so much, I don’t even know if I was making sense in those last few interviews.” He tightened his grip on you. “And the whole time, I was just thinking about how I had you here waiting for me. It was torture.”

You rose onto your toes to kiss him, your lips pressing softly against his. He sighed into it, shoulders relaxing beneath your touch.

“Poor baby,” you muttered, stroking your fingers lightly up the back of his neck into his hair. “I could cheer you up.”

He raised a brow, ever so slightly, but his eyes remained tired. “Could you?”

“Mhm…” You kissed him again, deeper this time, running your palms down from his shoulders to his chest. “Sit down.”

He let you guide him towards the couch, his gaze never leaving you as he dropped down onto it. You stood for a moment between his parted thighs, smiling as you watched him close his eyes and let his head fall back, his breathing coming easier now you were here with him.

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down the side of his neck. He smelled earthy and masculine, like warm skin, salt and musk. It was a scent you were sure you could pick out in a crowd; so uniquely him, and completely intoxicating. His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing against your waist as his fingers splayed over the damp material of your towel.

“Just relax,” you whispered, gently pulling away from him.

He watched you from beneath a heavy brow, his gaze steady yet curious. You stepped back slightly, letting your towel fall to the floor with a smile and a joking wiggle of your hips. He exhaled a quick, silent laugh, though it only took a moment for his expression to darken again, his throat bobbing, eyes wandering over your bikini-clad body as his fingers flexed at his sides. He wanted to touch you, and you loved that he was holding back the urge.

You lowered yourself to your knees between his legs, your hands trailing up the inside of his thighs, feeling him tense beneath your touch as you parted them wider.

“Quinn…” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost sounded like a plea.

You shushed him and leaned forward, snaking your hand further up until you were at his crotch, pressing your palm against the hardening bulge beneath his trousers. “This is what I’m here for,” you whispered with a subtle smirk.

He lost his composure for a split second, his eyes rolling, a sigh escaping him as he slid a hand into your hair. But he kept his touch gentle, tucking the wet strands behind your ear with his fingers.

You unzipped him, dragging his trousers and underwear down just enough to release him from their confines. Another deep exhale left him as his erection sprung free, standing firm and ready against his stomach. You moved slowly, unable to resist teasing him first. Your eyes stayed on him, watching his jaw clench, pulsating in tandem with every brush of your fingers.

And just as he was about to speak, maybe even beg, you gripped the base of his cock and dragged your tongue from root to tip. His grasp of your hair tightened in response, his other hand clutching the material of the couch at his side. You parted your lips and slid him into your mouth, revelling in the deep, throaty sound he made, how his head fell back again.

You moved in a steady rhythm, teasing with your tongue and taking as much of him into your mouth as you could. By now, you knew exactly how he liked it; how fast, how deep, where to put your hands, the perfect moments to look up at him through your lashes. It didn’t take long for his breathing to grow heavier, for his hands to begin guiding your head, your name falling in soft murmurs from his lips.

He was getting close, you could feel it in the way his body tensed beneath you, how quiet he suddenly became. But instead of giving in to it, he made you stop, tightening his fists in your hair and pulling you away.

“Up,” he whispered, his voice rough and commanding. “Come here.”

You rose to your feet almost immediately, letting him guide you onto his lap with your knees bracketing his thighs. He swept his thumb along your bottom lip, gazing at your mouth in admiration, while his other hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you in place with your face close to his.

He rolled his hips beneath you, like a silent demand, and you reached down immediately to move your bikini bottoms aside. You guided the head of his cock along the seam of your pussy as his hands found your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin to ease you down onto him. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he filled you, and you instinctively began to rock against him in search of rhythm.

But his grip on you tightened immediately. “Slow,” he whispered against your lips, his voice deep yet tender. “Slow.”

You let out a heavy breath, following his lead and settling into a slow, sensual grind. His hands continued to guide your hips, maintaining your pace, as his lips found your neck, trailing hot, hungry kisses across your skin.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “Just like that.”

You closed your eyes, gasping as the friction of each slow, deliberate giration sent waves of pleasure rippling through you. While the sound of his gentle praise brought them crashing down deep in your belly. You whimpered, pressing your forehead against his, your movements growing needier, but his hands held you steady.

“No rushing,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”

You did exactly as he asked, fighting against the urge to seek out pleasure and instead letting it find you, allowing it to wash over you with every deep stroke and dark utterance of his voice. Your fingers curled into the back of his hair, gripping him tighter with every slow, measured rock of your hips, the couch creaking slightly beneath the weight of your bodies.

He shifted slightly, the new angle allowing him to sink deeper inside you, hitting the spots that made your laboured breaths catch on quiet, desperate moans. You kept moving, your hips rolling like liquid as he kept his hold on you, maintaining your pace, encouraging you to take it slow.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice rough and serrated as he brought a hand up to your jaw, encouraging you to lift your head.

Everything seemed to disappear beyond the point your eyes met, like the whole world existed solely inside his dark, heavy-lidded gaze. You moaned softly as you leaned into the push and pull of his hands, the smooth, deep slide, relinquishing yourself to him completely, never daring to look away.

His chest was heaving, throat rumbling with groans so low they were leaving him in quiet growls. You brought your lips to his, letting the sounds pour into your mouth as he kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sweeping over yours in time with the rhythm and roll of your hips. The feeling of him inside you was sublime; fullness and friction, pressure and electricity. Sparks were kindling deep in your belly, while familiar surges of tingling heat coursed through your body.

“Fuck,” he hissed, as though he could feel it all too.

You whimpered in response, your body moving entirely on instinct, chasing your orgasm as it began to swell in your core. But still, he refused to speed up, his hands remaining firm as they guided you, angling you just right until a bolt of pleasure drew a heavy, unexpected moan from your throat.

“That’s it,” he whispered.

Your climax unfurled slowly, like a deep, powerful rumble of thunder. It made you stop breathing, every muscle in your body contracting at once, pulling inwards to the place where the lightning had struck. You dug your fingers into the backs of his shoulders, eyes closed, hips slowing to a stop as your limbs began to shake.

A silky groan poured out of him as your whole weight settled into his lap, taking him as deep as your body would allow, squeezing and gripping him with each new surge of pleasure. He held you there as he came; head falling back, teeth clenched, fingernails leaving grooves in your flesh. You forced yourself to look at him, taking his face in your hands and leaning forward to kiss him between hot, gasping breaths.

“I love you,” you whispered into his open mouth, immediately feeling his lips curl into a smile.

“You better,” he muttered softly.

You giggled, before melting into a calmer, gentler kiss. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Eh, you don’t need them.”

You were sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, still in your bikini, a plush throw from the sunroom couch draped around your shoulders. The lighting was warm and ambient, the room glowing gently as the windows framed a pitch black sky.

Ben was rummaging through the fridge, the tension he’d arrived home with now gone, replaced with loose posture and relaxed shoulders, a natural smile as he told you about his day. The funny interactions and questions he actually enjoyed answering, the times he was told off for swearing too much and the person who got so nervous they wasted their entire five minutes awkwardly shuffling through cue cards.

“There was one guy,” he said, half-laughing as he emerged from the fridge with a container of strawberries. “Who did a quiz. And he was asking the whole cast the same questions to see who got the most right.”

You smirked. “So naturally you just had to win.”

“Of course.”

You laughed, watching as he took a bite of a strawberry, chewing on it as he continued to speak.

“Every answer had to include the word strange,” he mumbled. “Y’know, because Doctor Strange.”

“Mhm.”

“Some of them, I don’t know how he was expecting anyone to know the answer. One was something like… ‘name the 1960-something controversial sci-fi novel by Robert… Something or other…”

“Heinlein? Stranger in Strange Land?”

His eyes darted across the island towards you, another strawberry halfway into his mouth. “Oh, alright, fucking Einstein.”

You laughed, unable to disguise your smugness. “Don’t tell me you’re threatened by a clever woman?”

The corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Not at all. You just don’t strike me as the type to enjoy 1960’s science fiction.”

“I’m not. They said it was banned back when it came out for being full of sex and orgies, so obviously I had to read it. Turns out it’s just boring and really fucking misogynistic.”

He exhaled a laugh. “There was a play I studied in uni… God, what was it called?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought before grabbing his phone off the counter. “I’ll have to look it up.”

You watched him tap and swipe across the screen, squinting as he looked down at it before letting out a huff.

“I need my glasses,” he said. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”

You giggled, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’re such an old man.”

He gave a playful glare, his voice low and dramatic. “Watch it.”

You smirked, reaching across the island to pluck a strawberry from the container and settling back on your stool to eat it.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his back pocket, slipping them on before resting his elbows on the counter, phone in hand. But after a moment of quiet, he turned his head towards you, eyeing you with interest.

“Do you really think I’m old?” he asked.

You met his gaze, assessing his tone; casual yet curious, not offended, but wondering, like the question had crossed his mind before.

“Older than me,” you replied.

“Does it bother you?”

There was a seriousness to his voice now. But it was still soft, open, welcoming of whatever your answer may be.

“That you’re older than me?” you asked.

“That I’m… a lot older than you…”

“Well it’s not that much…”

“It’s thirteen years.”

You paused, drawing in a deep breath through your nose and shrugging slowly. “You know my parents have the same age gap… I told you that, right?”

“They do?”

“Yes. Exactly the same. They were actually a few years older than we are now when they had me.”

He seemed to disappear inside himself for a moment, thinking, before coming back to you with an inquisitive look. “So your dad was… an older dad, then?”

“Mhm.”

“Did it ever bother you? You never felt like you missed out in any way?”

You felt a flicker of understanding, like it was suddenly obvious where his apprehension lay. You’d left the door to having children ajar; a future he’d made clear he wanted but didn’t need. And if you were to ever step through that door with him, he would be in his late forties, perhaps older.

“I never felt like I missed out,” you replied earnestly. “He was just as active and present and involved as any other dad. Maybe even more so because they’d already lost pregnancies before I came along.” You shook your head. “And if they could have, I’m sure they’d have had more kids after me too.”

He smiled.

“He ran in the dads’ race every sports day, played dolls and make-believe with me, never moaned or groaned or said he was too tired for anything,” you said. “Worshipped the ground my mum walked on - still does - which is probably why I have such impossible standards for men.” You laughed.

He laughed too. “Well, if I ever become a parent, I’d hope to be just like him.”

“You will be.”

“Will be…?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly.

“Would be,” you corrected, rolling your eyes. “Then again, with the amount of sex we’ve had over the past few days, it wouldn’t surprise me if my implant just gave out from sheer exhaustion.”

He chuckled, his face creasing with warmth and amusement. “Well, we’re flying to New York tomorrow night so it’ll get somewhat of a break.”

“Oh no I wasn’t complaining. I’ll take all the sex I can get, y’know, before you get too old and your dick stops working.”

He dropped his head, letting out a shocked breath, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Right, I’ve had enough of you now.”

You giggled as you watched him push off the counter, turning on his heels to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s past my bedtime,” he replied sarcastically.

“Do you need some help getting up the stairs?”

He turned back around with a deadpan look. “No, but keep talking and I might fake a fall just to get away from you.”

You snorted out a laugh, reaching over the counter for another strawberry, glancing over at him as you bit into it.

He was standing in the space where the kitchen met the hall, his arm resting above his head on the frame of the archway. “Come to bed, smartarse.”

You smirked, hopping off your stool and wrapping the throw tighter around you like a cloak. “Yes sir.”

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