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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 3 months

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ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀ ғᴀʟsᴇ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀ

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Summary : Your father is fed up with your shenanigans, so he arranges a marriage to Rome's famous general and gladiator, Marcus Acacius.

Warnings: DUB-CON (Forced/Arranged marriage) SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Oral F and M, Implied age gap, Scars, Misogyny, Spitting, both give switch vibes,

A/n : I put a dub-con warning just because it is a forced/arranged marriage also ty and enjoy @multiversed-daydreamer for listening to me yap about this all day luv ya 💕

The table was set, lit, and ready for a feast. Grapes, wine, cheese, and meats lined the table. Being the daughter of a powerful general had its perks, not that you liked the kind of life you had. You understood you were privileged, your place in society clear. You knew that if it weren't for your father's position, you would probably be a slave to the hierarchy. But it didn't mean you had to like your life.

You were 18 and shockingly unmarried—not that you cared. You had more fun sneaking away to the parties that would happen late at night. You were happy for the fact you weren't tied down yet. The thrill of escaping your father's watchful eye and diving into the forbidden world of Rome's underground festivities made your heart race.

You had a reputation, one that was far from ladylike. Wild child, they called you, and you wore it like a badge of honor. You knew what sex was, what things happened in the dark corners of those parties, but you were still a virgin. Your knowledge came from observation, whispers, and the daring escapades you had witnessed, but you hadn't crossed that final threshold. Not yet.

Your father, a stern and formidable general, was a man who worked with gladiators and other powerful figures in Rome. His influence was vast, and his expectations were high. He had grown increasingly frustrated with you lately, and you couldn't quite understand why. His annoyance with your antics was palpable, but there was something more, something beneath the surface that gnawed at him.

As you sat there, wine goblet in hand, you sipped slowly, savoring the taste. You knew he would tell you to only have a single glass, a rule you delighted in bending. The door to the grand hall burst open, and there he was, your father, his expression a storm of irritation and something deeper, something darker.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the hall. "Drinking again?"

You looked up at him, feigning innocence. "Just a single glass, Father, as you always insist."

His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room with swift, purposeful strides. "You think I don't know what you get up to, do you? Sneaking out, causing trouble. Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? On our family?"

You sighed, placing the goblet down. "I know, Father. But you can't keep me locked away forever. I'm not a child anymore."

He stood before you, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. "You're my daughter, and you will behave with the dignity and decorum befitting your station."

You met his gaze, unflinching. "And what if I don't want that life? What if I want to be free, to make my own choices?"

His frustration seemed to boil over, and for a moment, you thought he might explode. But then, he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You don't understand the dangers out there. The people I deal with—the gladiators, the politicians—they're not like the ones at your little parties. They're dangerous."

You softened slightly, sensing the genuine worry behind his anger. "Then tell me, Father. Explain why you're so frustrated lately. What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated, the walls he had built around himself momentarily crumbling. "It's complicated," he finally said, his voice quieter. "There are threats... to our family, to our position. I'm trying to protect you, even if it doesn't seem like it."

You reached out, touching his arm. "I want to understand. Help me see what you see."

He looked down at your hand, then back at your face, a mixture of anger and sorrow in his eyes. "Maybe it's time you did," he said, his voice resigned. "But you must promise me, you'll be careful. This world is not as kind as you think."

You nodded, determination filling your chest. "I promise, Father. I'll be careful. But I won't be caged."

Your father's expression hardened once more, and the momentary softness disappeared. He sat down at the table, grabbing a handful of grapes and popping one into his mouth. "Enough. This isn't up for discussion," he snapped. "You are to be married."

Your heart plummeted. "Married? To whom?"

His eyes were cold as steel. "To a man who can protect you, who can secure our family's future."

You jumped to your feet, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "No! I don't want to be married off like some piece of property. I won't do it!"

He towered over you, his presence suffocating. "You have no choice. This is for your own good."

"Who is it then?" you demanded, your voice rising in defiance. "Is it Lucius? That lecherous old man who can't keep his hands to himself?"

Your father shook his head, his jaw clenched. "No, not Lucius."

"Is it Gaius, then?" you asked, pacing around the table, barely noticing your father grabbing a slice of cheese and eating it with deliberate calmness. "The pompous fool who thinks he's the smartest man in Rome but can't even string a coherent sentence together without tripping over his own ego?"

"Not Gaius."

"Then it must be Quintus! The brute who only knows how to solve problems with his fists, who would treat me like a possession rather than a person."

"No, it isn't Quintus either," your father snapped, his patience wearing thin. He took a deep drink from his own goblet, trying to steady himself.

"Who then? Who could possibly be suitable in your eyes?" you spat, your desperation clear.

Your father took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's Marcus Acacius."

The name sent a jolt through you, and you took an involuntary step back. Marcus Acacius, a name whispered in both awe and fear throughout Rome. A man known for his prowess in the arena and his cunning outside it. A man with a reputation as cold and unyielding as stone.

"Marcus Acacius?" you echoed, disbelief coloring your tone. "You can't be serious. He's a gladiator, a killer."

"He's more than that," your father insisted. "He's powerful, respected, and capable of protecting you from the dangers you don't even know exist."

You shook your head, your mind reeling. "No, Father. You can't do this to me. I won't marry him."

"You will," he said firmly. "And you will do it for our family, for our future."

You felt the walls closing in, the life you had known slipping away. You slumped back into your chair, staring at the untouched food before you. "What if... what if I've already been with someone else?" you blurted out, hoping to find some way out of this nightmare.

Your father's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "Have you been taken by another lover?"

You hesitated, the lie heavy on your tongue, but the fear of his wrath kept you silent. "No," you finally admitted, defeated.

"Then it's settled," he said, the finality in his voice chilling. "You will marry Marcus Acacius, and you will do so with dignity."

Tears of frustration and anger welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "I won't be happy, Father. Not with him, not with this life."

He reached out, a rare gesture of tenderness, and touched your cheek. "Happiness is a luxury we can't afford," he said softly. "But safety, security—that is something I can give you."

You pulled away, the weight of his decision crushing your spirit. "I don't want to be safe. I want to be free."

His hand fell to his side, and his eyes hardened once more. "Freedom is an illusion, my daughter. And you will learn that soon enough."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the grand hall, the weight of your impending marriage pressing down on you like a vice.

Rage bubbled up inside you, a seething mass of frustration and helplessness. The weight of your father's words pressed down on you like a heavy shroud, suffocating your spirit. With a sudden, violent motion, you swept your arm across the dining table, sending grapes, cheese, and meats crashing to the floor. The wine goblet toppled, spilling dark red liquid like blood across the pristine tablecloth.

Breathing heavily, you glared at the mess you had created, but it did nothing to alleviate the fury burning within you. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the grand hall, your footsteps echoing through the marble corridors.

You reached your room, slamming the door behind you. The silence was oppressive, the walls closing in as your mind raced. You had to get out. You couldn't marry Marcus Acacius. You couldn't be trapped in a life you didn't choose, a life that would suffocate the very essence of who you were.

You paced the room, the dim light from the oil lamps casting flickering shadows on the walls. Your eyes darted around, searching for a solution, a way out of this nightmare. Your thoughts turned to your mother, a fleeting glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness.

Your mother had been sent to the countryside years ago, a decision made by your father to keep her safe from the political intrigue and danger that plagued Rome. She lived a quiet, secluded life on the family estate, far from the city's chaos. You hadn't seen her in years, but you knew she would help you if you could reach her.

It had been a month of plotting and planning, each day dragging on as your impending fate loomed ever closer. Today was your wedding day, the day your life would be sealed into a destiny you hadn’t chosen. Final preparations had been completed yesterday, and now you were meant to step into the role of a dutiful daughter and bride. You had woken up earlier than your maids would have roused you, knowing your father would want you to rest more so you appeared extra fresh for Marcus. Instead, your nerves had kept you up all night, the shadows on the walls morphing into ominous shapes as you thought of your future.

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow window, and you knew you couldn’t waste any more time. Your small bag, packed with bread, a few pieces of jewelry to sell, and the spending money your father occasionally gave you, lay hidden under the covers of your bed. The plan was simple: catch the slightest bit of rest before your handmaid came in to wake you, then escape before anyone noticed.

The door creaked open, and Lucia, your handmaid, entered with her usual gentle and serene presence. She glided to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, casting a warm glow that felt almost mocking given your circumstances. You sat up in bed, the light highlighting the bags under your eyes from a sleepless night.

"Good morning, my lady," she said dreamily, her voice like a lullaby. "The sun is shining so beautifully today. It's a perfect day for a wedding." She moved to your side, her hands deftly beginning to arrange your hair with practiced ease. You watched her reflection in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt for the deception you were about to execute.

"Your dress is so beautiful, my lady. It's like a dream come true. You'll look like a goddess, a vision of perfection," Lucia continued, her words meant to comfort but only adding to your anxiety. The dress she spoke of hung in the corner, a symbol of the life you were being forced into.

You let her continue, her words a soothing balm against your churning thoughts. As she began to apply a light makeup, using berries to tint your lips and cheeks, you couldn't help but feel a sense of finality creeping in. "You'll be the envy of every woman in Rome," she continued, her voice full of admiration. "Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You'll be safe with him."

Safe. The word echoed in your mind, tinged with bitterness. Safety was a cage, and you longed for freedom. Suddenly, you sat up, startling Lucia. "I need your dress," you blurted out, your voice urgent.

She looked at you, shocked and confused. "My dress, my lady? Why would you want my dress?" she asked, her hands frozen in mid-motion.

You gave her a reassuring smile, reaching under your bed to pull out a dress you had kept for a long time. It was a simple yet elegant gown, one she had always admired. "I have something for you," you said, handing her the dress. "I've seen how much you like it. Today, I want you to wear it and have fun. I just... I want to feel normal before the wedding."

Her eyes widened, and a smile of pure joy spread across her face. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much!" She looked at the dress, then back at you. "But what about you? Where will you be?"

You hesitated for a moment, crafting a believable lie. "I'll be eating breakfast with the soldiers. I need a moment to myself before the chaos begins."

She nodded, believing your words, and quickly changed into the dress you had given her. You watched as her usual plain attire was replaced by the elegant gown, the transformation bringing a genuine smile to your face despite the turmoil in your heart. "You look beautiful," you said, forcing a smile. "Now go, enjoy yourself."

Lucia beamed, her happiness palpable. "Thank you, my lady. I'll remember this day forever." She gave a small curtsy and hurried out, eager to enjoy the brief taste of luxury you had gifted her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, you sprang into action. Your heart pounded as you grabbed your small bag from under the covers and moved swiftly towards the door. The corridors of the castle were quiet, the early hour ensuring most were still in their beds. You moved with purpose, your sandals barely making a sound on the stone floors.

Every step you took was filled with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You had never been so bold, and the risk was immense. If you were caught, the consequences would be severe, but you couldn't live a life that wasn't yours. The thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage with Marcus Acacius spurred you on.

You reached the courtyard, the cool morning air filling your lungs as you dashed towards the farthest end where the horse stables were located. The sound of hooves and the scent of hay greeted you as you approached, your eyes scanning for a suitable mount. Freedom was within reach, and your heart soared with the possibility.

But then, a familiar, stern voice cut through the morning air. "Where do you think you're going?"

You sprinted, your sandals slapping against the cobblestones as the guards closed in. Heart pounding, you reached the barn, your fingers fumbling with the latch. The sound of pursuing footsteps fueled your frantic efforts, and finally, the door swung open. You dashed inside, the scent of hay and horses enveloping you. There was no time to lose.

Without wasting a moment, you chose the newest and fastest horse, a powerful chestnut stallion that had always intimidated you with its raw strength. It was your only chance. Your hands shook as you grabbed its mane, your heart hammering in your chest. The stallion snorted, sensing your urgency. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself.

"Hyah!" you urged, kicking your heels against its sides. The stallion reared, its powerful muscles tensing beneath you, then surged forward, galloping towards the gates. The wind whipped through your hair, the thundering of hooves drowning out the shouts behind you.

The gate loomed ahead, freedom tantalizingly close. You leaned forward, urging the horse faster. As you rode, you navigated the narrow alleys and sharp turns of the castle grounds, the stallion's speed making every twist and turn feel like a life-or-death gamble. The guards were not far behind, their yells growing louder, but you kept pushing, your eyes fixed on the gate.

You had run from the guards before, slipping through their grasp with quick wits and nimble feet, but this was different. The stakes were higher, the danger more palpable. The horse beneath you was your only hope, its powerful strides eating up the distance between you and the gate. But it was also a wild, untamed force, difficult to control.

As you neared the gate, you saw it beginning to close. Panic surged through you. With a desperate cry, you urged the stallion faster. The ground seemed to blur beneath you, the world a whirl of motion and sound. The horse’s breath came in powerful snorts, its muscles straining with effort.

Just as you thought you might make it, the stallion stumbled on a loose cobblestone. You were flung from its back, the world spinning around you as you hit the ground hard. Pain shot through your body, your vision swimming with stars.

When you opened your eyes, the sky above was a brilliant blue, and the scent of earth and grass filled your nostrils. You groaned, trying to sit up, but a gentle hand on your shoulder stopped you.

"Easy there," a deep, soothing voice said. You turned your head and found yourself staring into the concerned eyes of a stranger, his face handsome and strong, framed by dark curls. He knelt beside you, his touch gentle but firm.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of pain and confusion. "Who... who are you?"

A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "My name is Marcus Acacius. And you must be my bride."

The revelation hit you like a bolt of lightning. This was the man you were meant to marry, the man you were running from. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw not the tyrant you had imagined, but a man filled with genuine concern and curiosity.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Marcus continued his voice a mix of authority and kindness. "It's dangerous. Let me help you."

The irony of the situation was almost too much to bear. You had been fleeing from your fate, only to run straight into its arms. As Marcus helped you to your feet, his hands strong and reassuring, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps your destiny was more complex than you had believed.

Marcus's strong arms guided you inside, each step a reluctant surrender to the fate you had been trying to escape. The castle's grand corridors, usually bustling with servants and courtiers, were eerily quiet in the early morning light. You were disoriented, the pain from your fall mingling with the turmoil of your thoughts.

As you entered your bedchamber, a familiar and unwelcome face greeted you. Aurelia, one of your father's maids and his well-known mistress, stood there with a smug expression. Her presence was a bitter reminder of your father's indiscretions and the fractured state of your family.

"Well, well," Aurelia purred, her voice dripping with condescension. "What a surprise to see you here, my lady. Running away on your wedding day? How very unbecoming of you."

You shot her a withering glare, your temper flaring. "Spare me your lectures, Aurelia. I'm not in the mood for your sanctimonious drivel."

Aurelia's smile widened, enjoying your discomfort. "You should be grateful for the match your father has arranged. Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You could do far worse."

You clenched your fists, your anger barely contained. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify spreading your legs for my father? That you're doing it for power and security?"

Her eyes flashed with anger, but she maintained her composure. "Watch your tongue, girl. You may not like me, but I'm here to make sure you fulfill your duty. Now sit down and let me get you ready."

Reluctantly, you sat down, feeling trapped and helpless. As Aurelia worked on your hair and makeup, her touch was firm and unyielding. Her presence was suffocating, her every word a reminder of the life you were being forced into.

"You think you can escape your destiny?" Aurelia continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "You're just a foolish girl. This marriage is your only chance at a future."

You bit back a retort, knowing it would only fuel her smug superiority. Instead, you focused on the mirror in front of you, watching as she applied the final touches to your appearance. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable—a vision of beauty and elegance, but one that felt like a mask hiding your true self.

Once Aurelia finished, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. "There," she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "You look perfect. Ready to be a proper bride."

You stood, your heart heavy with dread. The grand hall awaited, filled with guests and the weight of expectation. As you made your way towards it, you felt the walls closing in, your fate sealed with every step.

The hall was decorated with lavish flowers and banners, the scent of incense filling the air. Guests whispered and watched as you entered, their eyes following your every move. At the far end, Marcus Acacius stood, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

The ceremony began with the priest’s voice, resonant and solemn, echoing through the hall. The guests fell into an expectant silence, the only sounds being the faint rustling of their silk garments and the distant clinking of goblets. The hall, lavishly adorned with ivy and flowers, seemed to shimmer with an almost otherworldly glow, casting shadows that danced like phantoms along the walls.

You stood at the altar, your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. The priest’s words, though intended to be a comfort, were like a dark incantation, each syllable wrapping around you tighter, dragging you deeper into the abyss of your fate. Your eyes flickered over to Marcus, standing with his back straight, his gaze unwavering. He looked every bit the powerful man he was rumored to be—tall, imposing, with a presence that commanded the room.

You recalled the whispers you had heard over the past months—the stories of Marcus Acacius. The tales were rife with speculation and fear, his name often mentioned in hushed tones. They spoke of a man whose ambition knew no bounds, whose cruelty was whispered about in every corner of Rome. Some said his eyes held a darkness that could see through to the soul, while others claimed he had a penchant for the macabre, often indulging in extravagant displays of power.

As the priest began the traditional vows, his voice a monotone murmur, you tried to focus, but the words blurred into a cacophony. "Do you, Marcus Acacius, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Marcus’s voice was steady, unwavering. "I do," he said, his tone deep and commanding, sending shivers down your spine.

When it was your turn, the words caught in your throat, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I do," you managed, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, the weight of your submission crushing your spirit.

The priest nodded, a satisfied smile curling his lips. "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

As the priest declared you bound by law and faith, the room erupted into applause, the sound a thunderclap that seemed to echo off the very stones of the castle. Marcus took your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, leading you down the aisle. The guests showered you with petals, their faces a blur of congratulations and forced smiles. You felt like a puppet, each step you took dictated by an invisible string.

The reception hall was a whirlwind of opulence, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasting meats. Long tables groaned under the weight of sumptuous feasts, while musicians played melodies that mingled with the laughter and chatter of the guests. The hall’s high ceilings seemed to stretch into eternity, adorned with golden chandeliers that sparkled like stars.

You clung to the edge of the hall, the laughter and music a distant hum, your mind wandering back to the dark tales you had heard of Marcus. The rumors were impossible to ignore: they spoke of his ruthless ambition, his cold demeanor, and his unsettling fascination with power. Some said his parties were a mask for darker pursuits, where the line between pleasure and pain blurred into obscurity.

As Marcus moved through the crowd, his demeanor was that of a king—gracious yet commanding, his laughter rich and resonant. He was surrounded by his closest allies, men whose eyes gleamed with greed and ambition. They raised their goblets in his honor, their voices melding into a chorus of congratulatory toasts.

You stood near a heavy oak door, the cool stone beneath your fingers a reminder of the stark reality you now faced. The night was growing darker, the moonlight streaming through the tall windows casting an eerie glow on the festivities.

Suddenly, a hand gripped your arm, pulling you away from the door. It was one of the guards, his expression grave. "My lady, you mustn't go near that door. Your father has given strict orders. Any guard who aids your escape will be put to death."

You stared at him, a chill running down your spine. "What do you mean? You can’t be serious. There’s no way out of here. You’re all trapped too."

The guard’s eyes flickered with a mix of pity and resolve. "It’s true, my lady. Your father’s command is ironclad. He has spies everywhere. If you try to leave, he will know. And the consequences for anyone who helps you are severe."

A knot of fear and frustration tightened in your chest. "What do you expect me to do? Just stand here and pretend everything’s fine?"

He hesitated, his grip on your arm softening. "No, my lady. But perhaps you could find a way to make the best of this night. Try to speak to him, learn his intentions. There may be more to him than the rumors say."

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, your mind spinning with the guard’s words. With a determined stride, you made your way through the crowd towards Marcus, who was leaning casually against a pillar, a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes were slightly glazed from the alcohol, but his gaze sharpened as he saw you approaching.

"Marcus," you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "I wanted to thank you for your help earlier today. I... I appreciate it."

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You mean when you tried to flee?" His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it. "You have spirit, I'll give you that."

You forced a smile, trying to gauge his true nature. "I only wished for a moment of freedom. But I suppose that is behind us now."

Marcus took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "Freedom is a fleeting thing, my dear. But power... power is eternal. And together, we shall wield it."

Your stomach churned at his words, the rumors about him echoing in your mind. "Is that all you care about? Power?" you asked, unable to keep the bitterness from your voice.

His smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "You misunderstand me. Power is not an end, but a means. It ensures safety, prosperity, and control over one's destiny. Is that so terrible?"

You struggled to see past the image you had built of him. "I’ve heard things about you, Marcus. Dark things."

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down your spine. "People fear what they do not understand. Let them talk. What matters is that I have the means to protect those I care about."

His words, though seemingly sincere, did little to quell your doubts. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, your father’s voice boomed across the hall.

"Honored guests!" he called out, drawing everyone’s attention. "The hour grows late, and it is time for my daughter and her new husband to retire to their bedchamber."

A murmur of approval and knowing smiles rippled through the crowd. Your heart raced, a mixture of dread and resignation filling you. Marcus extended his hand to you, his grip firm and possessive as he led you through the throng of guests towards the grand staircase.

As you ascended the stairs, the weight of your future bore down on you. You glanced back once, seeing the guests' faces fade into the distance, their laughter and conversations becoming a dull roar. When you reached the door of the bedchamber, Marcus paused, turning to face you.

"This is just the beginning," he said, his voice low and intense. "We have much to learn about each other."

You swallowed hard, forcing a nod. "Yes, we do."

He opened the door, and you stepped inside, the room lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The bed, draped in rich fabrics, seemed to loom ominously in the center. Marcus closed the door behind you, the click of the latch sounding like a final seal on your fate.

As he moved closer, you felt a mix of fear and curiosity. This was the man you were now bound to, and despite the darkness that surrounded him, there was a part of you that longed to understand him, to find the truth beneath the rumors.

"Let's start anew," he said, his hand gently brushing your cheek. "Whatever you have heard, whatever you fear, put it aside. We are bound by more than words and vows. Let’s see where this path takes us."

You recoiled from his touch, your anger bubbling to the surface. "I'd rather fuck a pig than you," you spat, your voice dripping with venom. The shock on his face quickly morphed into a cold, calculating expression.

"You need to learn your place," Marcus hissed, his grip tightening on your arm. "You should consider yourself lucky to have me, especially with your reputation."

You glared at him, your temper flaring. "Lucky? Is that what you think this is? A blessing? I know what people say about you, Marcus. They call you ruthless, a monster. I'd rather die than be your plaything."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You speak so boldly for someone in such a precarious position. But let me make something clear: you are mine now. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you in line."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and defiance. "You can't control me. I'll never submit to you."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Is that so? Tell me, my bride, are you truly a virgin, or have your wild antics already sullied you?"

The question caught you off guard, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "How dare you—"

"Answer me," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours. "Are you a virgin?"

You clenched your fists, refusing to be cowed. "Yes, I am," you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. "Not that it's any of your business."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. "So, you are pure, despite everything. Interesting."

"You think you can just claim me like some prize?" you retorted, your voice rising. "I won't be your obedient little wife. I won't be another notch on your belt."

Marcus's expression hardened, his grip on your arm like iron. "You will be my wife, and you will learn to respect me. You don't know the first thing about power or survival. But you will."

"You don't scare me," you lied, your voice faltering slightly.

"Don't I?" he whispered, his lips dangerously close to yours. "You should be scared. But perhaps you're just too stubborn to realize it."

"Stubborn?" you scoffed. "Is that what you call it when someone refuses to bow to a tyrant?"

His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you. But instead, he did something even more unexpected. He leaned in and kissed you, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce, passionate intensity.

You froze, your mind racing as his kiss deepened. There was a raw, undeniable heat between you, a clash of wills and desires. Your initial shock gave way to a whirlwind of emotions—anger, fear, curiosity, and something else you couldn't quite name.

As his hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, you found yourself responding, your body betraying your mind. The kiss was a battle, each of you struggling for dominance, neither willing to yield.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart racing. His eyes were dark and intense, a storm of emotions swirling within them. You stared back at him, defiance and confusion mingling in your gaze, unsure of what to say or do next.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, his voice unexpectedly soft. "I shouldn't have forced myself on you like that."

His words, so out of character, only fueled your anger further. "Sorry?" you scoffed, pushing him back slightly. "You think a simple apology will make up for everything? For the way you've treated me, for the way you think you can just claim me?"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't back down. "I know I can't make up for it. But perhaps... perhaps we can find a way to understand each other."

You were silent for a moment, then your eyes narrowed. "Understand each other?" you echoed, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what this is about? Understanding?"

A dark, reckless impulse surged within you. You grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. "You think you can control me?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "You think you can just take what you want?"

Before he could respond, you pressed your lips to his again, this time with even more intensity. The kiss was fierce, a clash of wills and desires. You could feel the tension between you, the thin line between hate and something far more dangerous.

Marcus responded in kind, his hands gripping your waist with bruising force. The room seemed to spin as you lost yourself in the raw heat of the moment, your anger and frustration boiling over into something wild and unrestrained.

You broke the kiss, your breathing ragged. "You want me?" you demanded, your voice a low, challenging whisper. "Then take me."

His eyes blazed with desire and a hint of confusion. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Shut up," you snapped, pulling him closer. "No more talking. Just... take me."

With a growl, Marcus responded, his hands tearing at your clothes with a desperate urgency. You mirrored his actions, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic. The fabric fell away, and you pressed your bodies together, the heat of his skin igniting a fire within you.

"You're infuriating," he muttered, his lips trailing down your neck.

"And you," you retorted, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, "are a tyrant."

He paused for a moment, his breath hot against your skin. "Then why are you doing this?"

"Because," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire, "I hate you. And I need to feel something other than this... this helplessness."

He captured your lips again, his kiss searing and demanding. "I hate you too," he whispered against your mouth, his hands roaming your body. "But I can't resist you."

The world outside ceased to exist as you gave in to the storm between you. Clothes fell away, and you were left exposed, vulnerable yet defiant. You pushed him onto the bed, straddling him, your eyes locked in a battle of wills.

"You think you can control me?" you challenged, your voice breathless.

"I don't need to control you," Marcus replied, his hands gripping your hips. "I just need you."

Marcus brought his thumb to circle your clit, his rough touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You moaned slightly, your head falling back in bliss. His voice teased you, dripping with arrogance. "What, haven’t you touched yourself before?"

You gasped, grinding down against the hard length of his cock straddled between your legs. His smirk faltered at your audacity. "Of course I have," you retorted, your voice edged with defiance, a spark of rebellion lighting your eyes.

Marcus gripped your hips, lifting you off him with ease before moving to sit back against the headboard, his arms casually behind his head in a display of smug dominance. "You want the virgin to do all the work?" you taunted, your eyes narrowing in displeasure as you crawled closer.

His smirk returned, darker this time. "The virgin, huh? That's what I get to call you now?" He paused, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "You're the one who's on me like a dog in heat."

You looked at him with a dark expression, sitting back on your thighs, your chest heaving with frustration and desire. With one hand, you began to caress his upper thigh, mimicking the movements you'd seen from the sex workers in your father's employ. Though inexperienced, you weren't ignorant; you'd read secret novels and asked questions of your father's mistresses. But nothing had prepared you for the raw reality of this moment.

"You know what to do?" he questioned a challenge in his eyes, his voice a low growl.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick from the base of his cock to the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum on your tongue. The taste was oddly addictive. You wrapped your hand around his thick length, marveling at how it almost didn't fit in your grip. Steadying him, you licked the tip, eliciting a deep groan from him.

"Don't be shy," he patted your head condescendingly, his fingers tangling in your hair. Despite your nerves, you collected spit in your mouth and let it fall onto the tip of his cock, watching as he rubbed it around with a satisfied smirk.

You took the tip into your mouth, savoring the taste of his pre-cum, and groaned at the flavor. He moaned deeply as you sucked gently, guiding your head with his hand. You gagged slightly as you tried to take more of him in, your hand still gripping the base, your eyes watering with the effort.

"Spit on it," he commanded. You did as he asked, letting more saliva dribble onto his length. He patted your head again, a gesture both condescending and encouraging, and you resumed sucking, taking him deeper into your mouth. You gagged again, but he didn't let go, enjoying the sight of you struggling to accommodate his size.

"Come on," he urged, pulling you up to straddle his hips once more. You thought he was finally ready to take your virginity, the moment you'd both been building towards, but he surprised you. Gripping your hips with firm hands, he moved you so his face was between your thighs.

"What are you—" you began, but he cut you off, his lips attacking your clit with a fervor that stole your breath. He completed the arc with his tongue, taking your bud between his lips and sucking hard. You almost screamed, the pleasure overwhelming you. "Oh God," you moaned, your hands flying to his hair to steady yourself.

He paused for a moment, his dark eyes meeting yours with a predatory glint. "Marcus, baby… Marcus," you whimpered, your voice trembling with need and desperation.

He resumed his assault, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. You began to grind against his mouth, the sensation too much to bear, yet not nearly enough. The tension built rapidly, your orgasm approaching with a force that took you by surprise.

"Marcus!" you cried out, your fingers gripping his hair tightly as your body tensed and then shattered into a million pieces. He held your hips firmly to his face, lapping up every drop of your release as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue.

You fell back onto the bed, spent and trembling, and he crawled over you, his face slick with your essence. "Well, well," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his features as he rubbed his cock against your still-sensitive pussy. "Are you all fucked out already?"

You managed a weak glare, but it melted into a moan as he pushed into you. The stretch was intense, making you claw at his shoulders for support. He kissed your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire as he pulled out slowly before thrusting back in deeply. You moaned at the sensation, your body arching to meet his every movement.

"You hear that?" His gruff voice asked, pulling you back to the present as his cock dragged from your cunt, pushing back in slowly. The squelch of him pushing deep inside you was loud, the sound of your arousal undeniable. You threw your head back, moaning his name.

"Yeah, you do," he muttered, his breath hot against your neck. His teeth grazed your delicate skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Hear how wet you are?"

You opened your eyes slowly, your vision filled with the sight of him. His beautiful, sweat-covered face was close to yours, every scar and wrinkle telling a story, the grey in his beard adding to his rugged appeal. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your heart race.

A moan escaped your lips as his thrusts grew more desperate, more hungry. He caught your wrists together in one of his big hands, pressing them down into the mattress with a grip that left no room for escape. Your thighs were splayed wide, almost uncomfortably so, pressed down by the width of his hips. His cock was splitting you open, and you were so impossibly wet that you could hear it every time he pushed back into you, a lewd squelching sound that only seemed to spur him on.

He grinned wildly, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "You like that, don’t you?" he taunted, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Only I can make you this wet, make you submit so completely."

You could only moan in response, your body arching beneath him, every nerve ending on fire. "Marcus," you whimpered, the intense pleasure making you delirious. Your mind was a haze of sensation, every thrust sending you spiraling further into a world where only he existed.

His grin softened slightly, a hint of something almost tender in his eyes as he looked down at you. "That's right," he murmured, his voice a low growl. His thrusts were deep and relentless, each one driving home his dominance. "You're mine now."

You wanted to hate him, to deny the truth of his words, but with your body quivering beneath his, you knew he was right. You were his. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word claimed you, bound you to him in ways you had never imagined.

His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless. The room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans, the slap of skin against skin, and the wet, obscene noises of your coupling. His free hand roamed over your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in its wake.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can't get enough of you."

Your response was a garbled moan, your head thrown back in ecstasy. His words, his touch, everything about him overwhelmed you. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly, ready to snap.

He seemed to sense your impending release, his movements becoming even more deliberate, his thrusts hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough with his own need. "Let go. I want to feel you."

The command sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing beneath him. You cried out his name, the sound echoing in the room, a testament to your surrender.

His weight pressed you into the mattress, his skin hot and slick against yours. You felt every throb of his heartbeat, every shudder of his breath. It was an intimacy you had never experienced before, raw and all-consuming.

As the waves of your shared climax ebbed, you lay there, wrapped in the warmth of his body. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, tangled together in the aftermath of passion.

As he lifted his head, his eyes met yours, filled with a complex mix of emotions. The intensity of his gaze made your heart flutter, but the softness in his expression was unexpected, almost tender.

"Well," he murmured, his voice low and taunting, "I guess the rumors were wrong. You're not a virgin after all." He paused, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, not anymore."

You felt a flush of anger rise within you. "And what if I wasn't? What difference would it make to you?"

He smirked, the familiar arrogance returning. "Just proves you're not as innocent as you pretend to be."

You pushed against his chest, forcing him to roll onto his side. "You're insufferable," you snapped, your breath still coming in short gasps. "You think you know everything, but you don't."

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe not everything. But I know enough."

You glared at him, the heat between you not entirely dissipated. "You don't know anything about me."

His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "I know you're stronger than you think. And I know you feel something for me, whether you want to admit it or not."

You scoffed, turning your head away. "You're delusional."

"Am I?" He leaned in, his lips ghosting over your ear. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a shiver running down your spine. "Get over yourself," you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your insides twist. "I could say the same to you."

You pushed at him again, trying to create distance, but he caught your wrists, holding them against the mattress. "Let go," you demanded, struggling against his grip.

"Not until you admit it," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"Admit what?" you hissed, your anger flaring again.

"That you feel something for me," he said, his eyes boring into yours.

You glared at him, refusing to give in. "You're impossible."

He sighed, releasing your wrists and rolling onto his back. "Maybe I am. But so are you."

You lay there in silence for a moment, the tension between you thick and palpable. Despite everything, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull you felt towards him, the strange mix of hatred and desire that left you breathless and confused.

Finally, exhaustion began to creep in, your body heavy with the aftermath of your intense encounter. "This doesn't change anything," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned.

"Maybe not," he agreed, his tone equally soft. "But it's a start."

You turned your head to look at him, finding his eyes already on you. "What do you want from me, Marcus?" you asked, the question hanging heavily in the air.

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice a whisper. "But I want to find out."

You closed your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips. "I'm too tired to argue with you."

He chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly comforting. "Then don't. Just sleep."

You turned onto your side, your back to him, trying to create some semblance of space. The room was silent, the only sound the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth. You closed your eyes, willing sleep to come, but your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Despite your best efforts to maintain distance, you couldn't ignore the warmth radiating from Marcus's body, the solid presence of him beside you. There was a strange sense of comfort in his nearness, an unexpected feeling of safety that contrasted sharply with the chaos of your emotions.

As you lay there, the exhaustion from the night's events slowly began to overtake you. Your muscles relaxed, and your breathing grew steady and slow. You felt the mattress shift slightly as Marcus moved closer, his arm draping over your waist in a possessive yet gentle gesture.

For a moment, you considered shrugging him off, but the weariness was too much. Instead, you let yourself sink into the feeling of his arm around you, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back. It was oddly soothing, a stark reminder that despite the tumultuous start to your union, there was a potential for something more, something deeper.

"Goodnight," Marcus murmured softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You hesitated before responding, the word barely a whisper. "Goodnight."

PART 2

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fayes-fics · 5 months

Text

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #1k notes #2k notes

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glow-in-the-dark-death · 2 months

Text

Here Comes The Bride

Danny didn't mean to accidentally make the people of Gotham think he was a new rogue!

This was all Sam & Tuckers fault!

He had barely managed to mention how he was thinking about maybe wearing a wedding dress instead of a suit for their wedding before they rushed him out the house.

What for?

To go to every wedding dress store in existence apparently, or at least it felt that way.

How does this lead up to being confused for a new rogue?

Well apparently doing questionable things or in other words regular "Fenton Shenanigans TM" in a wedding dress in Gotham got you on the "New Rogue Radar" apparently.

Sam & Tucker don't even care about all the chaos (they do, they're highly enjoying it) they're just continuing to get him inside more dresses and veils.

Mercy please

Tucker & Sam: " This one would make your shoulders look great and- oh! This one has such pretty detailing!"

Danny under a mountain of wedding dresses and other things: *muffled voice* "Whatever you want my loves."

Gothamites watching/recording Danny in full wedding getup beat up people with Sam and Tucker nearby both with an armful of more wedding dresses: "Ha no I choose life."

Danny ruined his outfit while fighting: "I sense danger to my sanity."

Tucker & Sam behind him: (つ✧ω✧)つ "MORE SHOPPING!"

Danny in Gotham like:

Just an Idea

#everlasting trio #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc x dp #batman #danny fenton #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #dcxdp

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ghost-with-a-teacup · 1 year

Text

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 (𝐈𝐈)

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader

Summary: After you reveal the truth of what your relationship really was between you and Miguel, everyone's keen on learning more. So what better way to give a little more insight than a dinner at your shared home?

Warnings: None~ Just back again with silly shenanigans and the softest of fluff :3

A/N: Hello, everyone! After the first part of 'What's In Between' blew up (you can read it here, thank you so much by the way, you're all so sweet), many people have asked for a part two, so here it is! Enjoy <3

The moment you break the news to them, the volume of the table booms to a fever pitch as everyone begins talking at the same time.

“W-WHAT?!”

“Married? No way,” Hobie says.

“How long have you been together?” Pavitr asks.

“I can’t say I saw this coming…” Miles says, eyes widening in surprise.

Miguel had been watching you the moment you snuck up on the group, but with the newfound panic from everyone he couldn’t help but make his way over to the commotion.

“You’re all being loud, what are you yelling about now?” Miguel asks, walking over and standing by your side.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL US YOU WERE MARRIED?!” Gwen shouts.

“You never asked,” he blinks, “and also, it’s none of your business.”

“Miguel, as your best friend I am deeply offended that you haven’t told me after this long, does our friendship mean nothing to you?” Peter says, hand on his chest in pretend hurt.

“You are not my best friend,” Miguel deadpans.

“After I opened up to you no less, I mean, you were the first person I told about Mayday! All the details-” he continues, ignoring the comment.

“Not by choice,” he mutters.

“Does no one know about this?? At all???” Pavitr asks, “I mean, you two are married.”

“I mean, Jess knows about it,” you gesture, and she only grins.

“And now all of you do too,” Miguel sighs. “Vida mía, I thought we talked about this,” he admonishes.

“Oh, c’mon, it was cute how they were all trying to figure it out for so long. I was starting to feel bad,” you say, smoothing your hair back. He only stares at you for a moment before sighing.

“Fine,” he relents, “Can’t do anything about it now anyway.” He smiles softly at you, and the group watches in awe as their cold leader softens in your presence, but his gaze quickly grows dark as he turns back to the group.

“One word of this to anyone outside of this group,” he says with a pointed finger before trailing off, allowing everyone to fill in the blanks as to what he might do.

Everyone’s faces pale like a sheet at the unnamed threat (well, except for Hobie, he only watches with blatant amusement on his face), but you only laugh.

“Miguel, don’t threaten the kids,” you giggle. “Don’t worry, he’s all bark and no bite,” you whisper to them with a wink.

“Hey, that’s what I say!” Peter says.

“You are his best friend after all,” you grin.

“I have never said those words a day in my life,” he scoffs, but you ignore him, eyes lighting up with an idea.

“Oh! I have a lovely idea, how about you all swing by our place for dinner later? We never have guests,” you suggest.

Gwen gasps, “Really?”

“This…maybe doesn’t seem like the best idea,” Miles says as he shrinks down in his seat at Miguel’s glare towards you.

“I have plans tonight…though I don’t think they’d mind if I cancel,” Hobie says nonchalantly, but everyone knew there was no way in hell he’d miss something like this.

“What am I, cat litter?” Jess asks. She was the only person to have been at your shared home, having joined around the same time as you, and being one of the few people Miguel fully trusts.

“You know it's not like that, Jess,” you turn to her with a grin.

“Absolutely not, it's already a liability that they know querida, now you want them traipsing into our home?” Miguel argues, and you narrow your eyes at him, never one to back down from a fight. While it got on his nerves, it's what he loved about you too. He needed someone that wouldn’t take his shit.

“Miguel,” you say, giving him a look. “All our enemies are literally in alternate universes who, aside from those small tears, have no way to go cross-dimensional, let alone find us in the expanse of a universe. Besides, I think it would be nice,” you say, and Mayday seems to agree since she climbs right up into your arms, babbling happily.

“And don’t think I don’t know you have a soft spot for this lil ragtag team,” you smile, bouncing up and down as Mayday laughs.

He huffs, “I am anything but soft, especially for them. They never listen, don’t follow protocol, are immature, and the list goes on.”

“He’s lying,” you whisper, covering your mouth from his direction as though that would stop him from happening. Mayday grabs your hand though, playing with your fingers happily. “See how his ears are turning red?”

At that, his ears turn more red and the group tries to stifle their snickers to no avail.

“Querida,” he warns. “Do you feel the need to share anything else about me? Or have you had enough,” he asks, poking your shoulder. You place a hand on his bicep with a gentle smile, and his expression softens much to his dismay.

“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you grin. “Alright, it’s settled then! You’re all coming over tonight.”

You hummed softly to yourself as you moved around the kitchen, preparing the food for dinnertime when everyone would be coming over.

Then, you feel the hair rise on the back of your neck as a familiar presence makes himself known, strong arms wrapping around your waist as his head rests on top of yours.

“Vida mía, the food smells good,” he says softly before sighing. “But I’m not very happy with you today.”

You let out a sigh of your own as you turn off the stove before turning around in his arms to face him.

“Miguel, my love,” you say, smoothing out the collar of the pullover he wore before looking up at him. “I know you well, don’t I?”

“More than anyone,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest amount as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Then it’s safe to assume that you’ve been wanting to hang out with more people in the Society apart from work-related things?” you ask, placing your hand on his chest.

“I can’t afford anything like that in this line of work, you know that querida,” he sighs, that familiar hardened look in his eyes for a moment.

“Miguel, your only friends can’t be me, Lyla and Jess,” you pout.

“Vida mía, you are my wife,” he says.

“Yes, and it's miracle enough that I was able to grow close enough to you to get to that point,” you chuckle, “so my existence in your life is proof itself that you are capable of growing close to people. I’ve seen you, I think you’re ready and deep down I know you don’t always want to be perceived as the cold and unfeeling leader of the Society. Why not start with them?”

“That’s not a decision for you to make,” he says, glancing away from you.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” you apologize, feeling a bit guilty that you threw Miguel into this without warning. “I should have spoken to you about it first but who knows. Maybe this is a good thing, opening your heart a little more,” you explain. “Don’t think I realize you’re the hardest on them because you believe in them,” you smile.

He huffs before pausing to think for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder when you snuck your little way into my head, querida.”

“Admit it, you’re growing soft,” you giggle softly.

“Never,” he counters, tickling your side which makes you scrunch up your face as you laugh breathlessly.

“OKAY! Okay, you’re one soft fluffy teddy bear, happy?” you say which only makes him continue with even more fervour.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever heard you say, querida,” he snorts but finally relents.

“Yeah….I can’t even say that with a serious face,” you chuckle. “But you do have your moments, tough guy,” you smile, leaning up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his lips.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. That’s when the doorbell rings, and immediately your eyes light up.

“Oh! They’re here!!” you say excitedly, escaping from his grasp as you move to open up the door.

“Here we go,” he murmurs to himself, and you turn to face him.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Nothing, vida mía,” he replies, and you narrow your eyes in disbelief.

“Behave, Miguel,” you tell him.

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” he replies, and you grin before opening up the front door.

There, you find Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, Peter (alongside Mayday of course), Hobie and Jess all standing outside, chatting amongst themselves before turning to you.

Miles almost looks like he’s in disbelief like he couldn’t really believe this was your home quite yet.

“Hi!” Gwen starts.

“Took you lot long enough,” Hobie says. “Was starting to think we'd have to build a fire and cook it ourselves.” Gwen punches his shoulder, to which he lets out a little “Ow!”

“Sorry about him,” Gwen apologizes.

You just find yourself laughing at it all though.

“No apologies needed, we were a little preoccupied. Come on in, make yourself at home,” you say, opening the door a little wider for them to make their way through.

“Not too at home though,” you hear Miguel say, leaning into the foyer from the living room, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ignore him,” you say, giving him a pointed look to which he just stares at you blankly. “Dinner will be ready soon, I just have to set the table and we can eat, alright?”

“It smells delicious,” Pavitr says, “I’m starving.”

Mayday seems to agree as she crawls up from the baby carrier onto Peter’s head, making grabby hands from the top.

“Someone’s hungry,” Peter chuckles. “Got anything she can eat?”

“I have a few things, don’t worry,” you smile.

“It really does smell really good though, but it always does,” Jess adds.

“It’s nothing special,” you say sheepishly. “Just some of Miguel’s favourites.”

You guide them all into the living room. “Settle in! I’ll be done in a snap,” you say.

As you make your way back to the kitchen (with Jess joining you to help out), back in the living room the squad of spiders settle in almost hesitantly, a watchful eye monitoring all of their reactions.

No one dares say anything, only sitting around nervously.

“So…nice weather we’re having,” Peter says, trying to lighten the mood but even Mayday gives him a deadpanned expression.

Miguel sighs. “You’re all acting like there’s a ticking time bomb waiting for you to speak before setting off,” he says, still leaning up against the doorway.

“We don’t know, mate. Is there?” Hobie jokes, but Miles’ face drops anyway.

“There isn’t, for the record. I can be harsh but I’m not evil,” Miguel scoffs before making eye contact with Pavitr who looks like he wanted to ask something but was holding back.

“One question,” he says simply with a nod.

“How long have you two been together?”

“…a little over 4 years now,” he replies.

“How did you meet?” Gwen asks.

“I said one question,” he says before your voice cuts in.

“My universe was one of the first he visited! He hated me back then, though,” you laugh as you walk back in. “Speaking of which!! I have some things you might all want to see after dinner,” you grin mischievously.

“I thought you said I was the one that had to behave, mi corazón,” Miguel says, a warning tone in his voice.

“And I am, aren’t I?” you say, poking his side playfully. “Anyway, dinner’s ready,” you say, leading them to the dining room. “I know it's not much but-”

“How in the hell is this not much??” Hobie exclaims, and you just shrug. “You should see dinner with my family, then you will think that it’s not much,” you say with a chuckle.

On the table sat a wide expanse of food, all of Miguel’s favourites from Mexico. Empanadas as the appetizer, alongside pozole, ceviche, enchiladas, and chicken with mole poblano all served with a side of rice, beans, or homemade corn tortillas depending on each person’s preference.

You can see Miguel’s eyes visibly brighten as he looks at the food, settling in at the head of the table with you by his side.

“Come eat!” As you say that, everyone sits down before beginning to eat, everyone heading straight to what appealed to them the most.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Miles says, eyes closed in bliss.

“Oye, don’t let your Mother hear that, kid,” Miguel says, but the corner of his lip was upturned in the tiniest of smiles. The most he would allow himself around this many people.

“Thank you, Miles,” you smile.

“This, uhh, how do you say it again? Poh-zuhl?” Gwen asks, and you laugh out loud as she turns pink, meanwhile both Miguel and Miles cringe slightly.

“I’m sorry for laughing, sweetheart. You’re almost there; it’s pronounced like ‘poh-zoh-lay’,” you say kindly.

“Ohh, okay gotcha. Pozole. It’s really good! Feels…comforting, almost,” she says.

“Yes,” you say, glancing at your husband with a soft smile, “it’s Miguel’s favourite. Says it ‘tastes like home’.” A chorus of ‘awws’ go around the table, while Miguel only holds the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Alright, alright. Enough with the cheesy stuff, let’s get back to eating, yeah?” Hobie says before shoving his fork back into his mouth.

Once dinner was finished (and after both Miles and Gwen insisted that they did the dishes despite much argument from you), everyone was settled again in the living room laughing and talking together, and while Miguel only said a few things here and there and sat by your side like a lost puppy, he did seem to be enjoying himself.

“Alright! Now, before everyone goes back home, I have one more thing I’d like to show you,” you say once it quiets down a bit. Standing up, you make your way over to a large bookshelf you and Miguel had built together when you first moved in together.

“I’ve gotten tired of having only myself to show these photos to, so this is the perfect opportunity,” you smile.

“Querida-” Miguel says, holding out a hand to block your way but you look at him with pleading eyes, and he can’t do anything but relent. He couldn’t say no when you looked at him like that.

With a triumphant ‘haha!’ you grab a photo album labelled with a date and a single word; ‘Ours’.

Everyone crowds around as you place it down on the coffee table, and you open it up to the first page.

Gwen is the one that gasps first, eyes wide with awe.

“You both look so beautiful,” she says softly.

There, front and centre was a photo of you and Miguel on your wedding day. You were smiling wide at the camera, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in hand while Miguel only looked at you with an expression so in awe it was as though you painted the stars in the sky.

“You clean up nicely, big man,” Hobie comments, and Pavitr nods.

“Weddings, my favourite,” Jess says, a fond expression on her face as she thinks back to her own husband.

“I had a bird fly into my face at my wedding…but they are nice,” Peter says, rocking Mayday gently as she naps away after the hearty dinner even despite the commotion.

You continue to flip through the photobook, pausing periodically for a little anecdote about each one. Miguel had long stood up to make room for everyone else, but he looked at you in the same way he did on your wedding day.

Like you were the light of his life, the one good thing he had amongst the millions of universes parallel to his own. Like you were his everything.

“Admit it, you like them,” you smile, the house finally quiet after everyone headed home. He only rolls his eyes before pulling you into his lap, his face going into the crook of your neck as he holds you close.

“There is a big difference between ‘liking’ and ‘tolerating’, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing circles into your hip soothingly.

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. Whatever you say,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his neck and settling into his touch with a happy sigh.

You both sit there for a moment in silence, the two of you weren’t ones to fill silence with mindless chatter. If words needn’t be said then they weren’t.

“That was…nice, though,” he admits softly after a little while.

“I know,” you whisper.

“That won’t happen again for a long while though,” he says, pulling away to look at you, crimson eyes pleading with you wordlessly.

You can’t do anything but laugh.

Taglist (for those who requested a part two): @lotustv @mars-ifuknowmeirlplsgoaway @elliewilliamsactualgf @randomhumans-blog @iluvkonig @phillygraves @gothgirlziez

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o hara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse #across the spider verse spoilers #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #marvel

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 months

Note

Is it okay if I request Deadpool and Wolverine having an s/o that likes to bite them affectionately and like they keep doing doing it trying to leave a mark on them?

Headcanon or story is fine ❤️

Wade Wilson/ deadpool

‘Do I taste delicious bbg? I must seeing as how you’re eagerly coming back for seconds just to get your teeth into me.’ Wade would tease as he watched you bite onto his shoulder, no thoughts behind your eyes, only chomp.

‘I’m trying to see if I can leave a mark.’ You tell him, biting down a little harder on his shoulder but not enough to cause him any discomfort.

‘And In public too? *gasp* You naughty minx, I didn’t think you were like that but then again I guess voyerism has always been something I wanted to try.’ - Wade.

‘No’ - you

Wade doesn’t mind you biting him, bite him as much as you want but don’t be surprised if he were to say that he got the bite marks from something far more intimate. He’s just built like that but you love him regardless for it, he made life fun in a chaotic way.

He’d even might attempt to bite you back, make it your couple thing to bite each other affectionately and hard enough to leave a make but not enough to cause the other pain.

So when you bit his hand, he’ll bit your arm, which then leads to an all out biting war between the two of you to see who can bite the other the most. You could just be chilling on the sofa together and somehow bite each other simultaneously. This happens one too many times to count on one hand and even after the marks have gone away, it was just an excuse for you and Wade to bite each other as much as possible all over again.

So please by all means bite him as much as you want he’s not going to stop you, he’s enjoying it too much that he may or may not find himself developing a biting related kink sooner or later because of you.

‘Do I look pretty with your bite marks, claiming me as yours and yours alone?’ - Wade, battering his eyes.

‘The prettiest’ - you slapping his ass and giving him another bite on his bicep.

The fucker would moan when you do, loudly too so I hope your bit easily embarrassed.

Logan Howlett/ Wolverine

‘Ow! What the-‘ Logan sees you latching onto his bicep with your mouth, teeth digging into his skin, ‘-are you a fucking cannibal now? What’re you doing?’ He’d ask and you’d shrug.

‘Marking you?’ You questioned, still biting him.

‘Why?’ He’d ask.

You shrug again. ‘Your bicep look too nice so I had to bite it.’

Logan swore you were going to give him grey hairs with your shenanigans, but he just lets you do your thing. So half of the time you look like a fish on a fishing hook with the way you latch onto his bicep with no intentions of letting go anytime soon.

Even if people were to ask who gave him that many bite marks, he’d just raise his arm and reveal you hanging off of it and just point at you with a deadpan expression. ‘My nippy little shit of a partner did.’ He’d say in response.

He doesn’t mind a couple of bites but a fuck tone then he’ll probably tell you to tone it down with the biting, just until the current marks fade away.

‘I look like I got attacked by a fucking piranha.’ - Logan as he points at you. ‘Enough biting from you.’

You didn’t like that as much and would get all pouty because the whole point of you biting him was so that the marks would stay! This was torture! Logan tends to ruin the fun but that doesn’t stop you from biting him unexpectedly but there is moments where he does catch you in the act and you bolt away as fast as you can.

However in the end you’re the one coming out of the room with a couple of fresh bite marks yourself across your neck as Logan smirks to himself with pride. You did push your luck and Logan wasn’t one to let you get away with it without…a punishment or two…

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kitten4sannie · 3 months

Text

for love of the game

pairing: pitcher! wooyoung x batter! reader (fem) x teammate! yunho

genres: college baseball au, enemies to fuckbuddies, best friends to fuckbuddies, smut

summary: jung wooyoung, a pitcher with a fearsome curveball, and your self-proclaimed enemy since the beginning of the playoffs, is beyond determined to show you that he is in fact, on top. Yunho, your close friend and reliable teammate, will do everything in his power to watch it all go down.

w.c: 5k (2k words of plot bc i can ✨ the rest is filth tho i promise <3)

warnings: tobacco/vape usage, nasty mean dom! wooyo, perverted subby puppyboy! yuyu, bratty bitch in the streets, subby slut in the sheets! reader, yuyu has a horsecock, implied brat taming, brief choking, mxm, one single slap and spank, cuckholding, pet names/name calling, praise/degradation, humiliation kink, dirty talk, exhibitionism/voyeurism, brief breath play, oral (giving/receiving), masturbation, yuyu sucks cock, thigh fucking, cum eating, deep-throating, spit kink, hair tugging, breeding kink (would it be a kitten4sannie fic without it? idt so 💅🏼), unprotected sex, creampies, dumbification

a/n: hey batter, batter~~ ughhh i’ve been itching to write this ever since they went to their first dodger game 🥺 i had an unusual amount of fun writing this as you’ll be able to tell eeheheheh (≧∀≦) anygaysss i hope you enjoy this hater x hater x nasty bsf fantasy ✨

song recs: siren by ateez - new girl by finneas - knock me out by miyavi - heaven and back by chase atlantic

“You ready for today’s game, Y/N?” Yunho, your teammate and closest personal friend outside of baseball, asked you inquisitively, one of his large hands rubbing into the tense muscle of your shoulder, using the other to send a tactical text message to someone.

When you weren’t training, working out, or competing in your college team’s playoff games, you were hanging out in Yunho’s frat house, watching him get his ass handed to him in League. You both had a simple, easy going relationship, one that consisted of chill kickbacks and drunken shenanigans, with the occasional exchange of longing glances, lingering touches, and perhaps an adrenaline induced fuck or two, or three before and after one of your games — but who were you to decipher what your relationship status was? You had your future career to focus on.

“Am I ready? Yun, I came out the pussy ready for this fucking game,” you replied vulgarly, bringing your water bottle up to your lips to take a few sips, smiling crookedly up at your tall friend over the shoulder he was keenly massaging.

“That’s what I like to hear, baby,” Yunho chimed proudly, shoving his phone into his back pocket so that he could use both of his hands on your shoulders, doing his best to loosen up your muscles with his long, slender fingers.

“I’m not your baby, but maybe I would be if you stopped solo-queuing as Braum every time you hop on League.” You couldn’t help but let out a few groans from the pressure he was using on you, hoping that his massage would aid you in the powerful swings you would have to make during the next seven innings. “I’m tired of watching you get ass fucked every round.”

“You wanna go for a few rounds next time then? I wouldn’t mind watching you get wrecked,” Yunho mumbled into your ear, glancing across the dugout at the other team, before he let go of you and sat down next to his rowdy teammates, joining in on the competition to see whose thighs could take up the most space on the crowded bench.

“Yeah, I bet, you degenerate. Oh, you know what else you can watch?” you retorted, pretending to reach into one of your pockets and pulling out nothing, simply holding your middle finger up to Yunho. Your best friend quickly mirrored your unique display of affection, leading the both of you to giggle and smile at each other for a little too long, before you decided to sit down as well and conserve your energy.

During the typical pre-game announcements, you found yourself not being able to get comfortable like you usually could. It was off-putting, to say the least. There was nothing unusual going on. The sky was nice and clear, the wind blew a cool breeze across the exposed skin of your neck, right in between your pulled-up hair and the collar of your softball uniform. Your teammates were all stretching their limbs, shooting the shit, eagerly chewing nicotine gum, or spitting out tobacco juice into empty water bottles. All was right in the world, yet you couldn’t seem to stop bouncing your thigh, your cleats repeatedly digging deeper marks into the dirt below. That was when you felt the intensity of someone’s eyes boring into you.

“Yo, baby, you got some chew on you?” someone with an irritatingly smug, yet distinctly familiar voice asked you from the other side of the snug dugout.

You immediately stood up from your seat, turning your head in the direction of the voice, just in time for you to come face to face with the Devil himself.

Jung Wooyoung, a pitcher with a fearsome curveball, and your self-proclaimed enemy since the beginning of the playoffs, was casually leaning down against the small metal fence that separated your teams, looking up at you through the yellow lenses of his sunglasses.

“Do I look like the type to put that nasty shit in my mouth?” you immediately snapped, taking a few steps in his direction, not realizing how hard you were squeezing your plastic water bottle until it began to audibly crunch inside your tight grasp. “Huh?”

Wooyoung licked at the mole on his chapped bottom lip, his canines becoming visible when he smiled cockily at you. He missed his favorite plaything. You were so easy to rile up. It made his already tight pinstripe pants even tighter. “Mm, but you’ve put nastier things in your mouth, haven’t you, baby?”

Scoffing, you placed your hands on your soft hips, shaking your head, pretending his perverse words didn’t make your cheeks feel like they were already sunburnt, wanting to put up more of a front, now that your entire team was possibly listening in. “You would know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you, Wooyoung? The handjobs you give your team aren’t doing enough for you these days, huh?”

Wooyoung did his best to ignore the snickers and whispers of your team, taking his cap off to run his fingers through his silky raven hair, biting the corner of his lip all the while. “People talk in the locker rooms, you know. They say you really know your way around a cock. Probably from all that practice you get with your teammates, yeah?” He looked over to Yunho, who sheepishly smiled at him. “You can vouch for me, can’t you, Yun?” The batter remained quiet out of fear of your wrath.

Wooyoung was about to say more, when his vision was suddenly blurred by something cold. You had offered him mercy, dumping the rest of your water on the pitcher’s head, rather than shoving the entire bottle up his ass like you desperately wanted to. Instead of blowing up on you and embarrassing himself like you had hoped he would, Wooyoung simply flipped his hair back and put his cap back on, resulting in a few squeals from some nearby fangirls that were sitting in the stands. “If getting me hard was the goal, you succeeded, Y/N.”

You grimaced. “You’re fucking disgusting, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung reached over the fence to push a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. “But, you love it, don’t you? That’s why you’re so obsessed with me.”

“You should be obsessed with me. Maybe if you paid attention, you could figure out how to pitch a ball that I won’t knock out of the goddamn stadium.”

You irked Wooyoung to no end, your equally quick-witted jabs getting underneath the pitcher’s tan skin. However, he wouldn’t let you have the satisfaction of seeing that, unless hell itself froze over. “And if you paid attention, maybe your team would actually make it past the playoffs.”

That was when a vein visibly began to bulge out of your temple, your jaw tensing. Wooyoung had struck a nerve. You knew it, he knew it, and your team definitely knew it. You’d give anything to make it to the championship game, but it was always just barely out of reach. The fact that Wooyoung would stoop so incredibly low had your blood boiling. You wanted nothing more than to grab the smug pitcher by his collar and spit directly in his face, but you were afraid that he would enjoy that more than you would have. So, instead you simply accepted defeat in that moment and sat back down on the bench, staring ahead at the expansive baseball field.

You were too caught up in your own furious thoughts to notice that Yunho had left the spot he had taken up on the bench, instead leaning on the same fence Wooyoung had been chilling on just moments ago.

“Your girl’s feisty, Yun. I fucking love it. She seems like she bites. Does she bite?” Wooyoung prodded the taller man, just as he pulled a vape out of his pocket and took a long hit, causally blowing out the smoke into Yunho’s face.

Yunho waved the vapor away, shaking his head slightly. “She’s not mine, but yeah, she bites. She…does a lot of things.”

Wooyoung hummed in response, smiling like he knew something no one else did, his eyes shifting from the crowd, to his teammates who smiled back at him, then back up at Yunho. “She’s not yours, but she lets you hit, doesn’t she?”

“She does…She’s just very...rough.” Yunho bit his lip, thinking about how ferociously you would ride his cock in the empty locker rooms after the games you would ultimately lose, remembering all the love bites and scratches you littered his broad body in, knowing you wouldn’t let him go until you left his cock raw and so sensitive he was ready to cry. He was more of a softie himself, a good boy, if you will, not exactly cut out for the animalistic sex you required after such a brutal loss. Wooyoung, however, seemed more fit for that. In fact, Yunho felt his throat go dry just imagining the two of you going at it in such a way, especially in front of him. That was allowed, right?

“Yunho.” Wooyoung took another long puff from his vape, using his free hand to take his glasses off and placing them over the brim of his baseball cap.

“Yeah?”

Wooyoung reached up to place his hand on Yunho’s tense shoulder, massaging his digits into it to loosen up the muscle. “I got a proposition for you. If your team wins today, you get to fuck a happy, calm Y/N. She’ll probably even blow you without expecting anything back. Who knows, she might even swallow.”

Yunho unconsciously licked his lips, glancing back over the shoulder Wooyoung was massaging into to admire your pretty face, even if it was contorted with rage-filled determination. He slowly looked back down at the pitcher. “And, if your team wins?”

Wooyoung grinned deviously, licking at one of his sharp canines. “I get to put that pretty slut in her place.”

The first locker in your sight was the main recipient of your bubbling anger, the side of your bat making contact with the metal, incidentally leaving an indent. “Motherfucker!” you shouted to no one inside the empty women’s locker room, tossing the bat down the long hallway, not bothering to watch it roll along the ground until it was stopped by someone’s dusty cleat.

You threw your baseball cap into your crowded locker along with your balled up, button-up shirt once you pulled it off of your torso. You then pressed your hands into the cool metal, staring at your angry, sweaty reflection in the locker door mirror, huffing and puffing. “How could you strike out to a bitch like him? Do better,” you told yourself, your hands forming fists.

Wooyoung cleared his throat, making his presence known, taking slow steps down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, happily chewing on a piece of gum. “I knew you were a sore loser, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“Are you lost, Wooyoung? This is the women’s locker room, and last time I checked you don’t have a pussy,” you spat in his direction, reaching down to unbutton your pants.

“You wanna check for me, baby? I might not be hung like Yunho, but I’ll still be able to pump you full of cum. A slutty little cleat chaser like you would love that, huh?” Wooyoung mused vulgarly, leaning against the lockers, lowering his tinted glasses to leer at your half-naked body.

You didn’t look at Wooyoung for too long, knowing you might kill him, or fuck him raw, if you did, now that jealousy-fueled rage was flowing through your veins.

A shower would probably help cool you down. Help you think straight. On the other hand, a nice, thick cock drilling into you wouldn’t solve all your problems, but it sure would help, even if it was your sworn enemy who was servicing you. Instead of replying, you simply shimmied out of your tight, dust-covered pants and stepped out of them, bringing a foot up onto the bench to stretch out your sore, bruise-ridden legs, deeply annoyed that you slid to so many bases just to lose anyway.

Wooyoung’s throat ran dry, his gaze suddenly fixated on the g-string that formed to the curves of your hips, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down upon the sight of the thin string tightly cupping your cunt as you bent down to massage your fingers into your thighs and calves. “Fuck, is that a thong? You usually don’t wear anything…”

“What does it look like, dumbass?” you snapped, before turning on your heels in the opposite direction, looking back at him over your shoulder. Chuckling softly at the tent that formed inside his pants, you reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it drop to the floor, prior to heading into the open shower room, very aware of the fact that Wooyoung was following close behind you like a eager, drooling puppy, smirking at the sounds of shuffling and grunting, the pitcher’s clothes hitting the tile floor on the way. Wooyoung talked a big game, but at the end of the day, he was just a man, and you took pride in knowing you had that power over him, even if you didn’t have it on the field.

“Hey, does having something rubbing against your pussy help you play better, Y/N? Or do you just like getting wet in front of all those men like the whore you are?” Wooyoung asked near your ear, watching you turn the shower handle to the right until a steady stream of warm water began to pour onto the both of you, waiting for you to turn around so that he could slip his twitching fingers under the thong straps that clung to your hips and pulled them up just to watch your pussy lips slip out past the thin material, making the pitcher groan.

“Did you come here just to slut shame me, Wooyoung?” You pressed your back into the cold tile wall behind you, goosebumps forming on your bare, heated skin, looking up at him past your wispy lashes, an amalgamation of intense hatred and lust sitting just beneath the surface of your piercing gaze. “Or did you come here to fuck me?”

Wooyoung groaned at your bold words, pressing one of his hands onto the wall near your head, the other cupping your slick cunt, his lips just barely ghosting yours. “I didn’t just come here to fuck you, princess. I came here to ruin you.”

“Then, ruin me,” you reiterated, grabbing Wooyoung by a tuft of his wet hair, your teeth and tongues clashing together in an instant.

Once Wooyoung was satisfied with the amount of spit he had swallowed, he pulled back, simply placing one hand on the top of your head and forcefully pushing you down until you got the hint.

You were mad at yourself for being unable to resist getting on your knees for a cocky prick like Wooyoung, so you simply glared up at him, trying to pretend you didn’t notice his stiff, thick cock standing at attention in front of your face. “When I said ruin me, I meant my cunt. You think I’m just gonna suck you off because you pushed my head down? It’s bold of you to assume I won’t bite.”

“Don’t be a brat, Y/N. I won today, so I deserve special treatment, don’t I?” Wooyoung argued, squinting his eyes at you once you began grimacing up at his erection, his fingers wrapping around your hair to create a makeshift ponytail. “Maybe if you didn’t strike out so many times, I would be the one on my knees, devouring that pretty cunt of yours.”

“Shut the fuck up…” you murmured, squeezing your thighs together, not understanding why someone like Wooyoung had so much power over you.

“That’s not very nice of you to say, princess.” Wooyoung reached down with his free hand to hold the base of his cock, tapping the leaking tip against your lips, smearing his pre-cum over them in the process. “How about we put that dirty mouth of yours to better use, yeah?”

Afraid he was late to the show after being forced to do an interview with the local college, Yunho quickly made his way into the women’s locker room, almost slipping on the bat you left on the floor as he followed the sounds of breathy groans, gurgled moans, and running water that were echoing from the showers. He almost fell to his knees at the sight of his best friend taking cock down her throat. You were a complete mess, streaks of mascara running down your flushed cheeks, strands of milky saliva dribbling down past your swollen lips, along your bulging throat, and onto your tits, your nose routinely making contact with Wooyoung’s pelvis. Yunho didn’t even know you could deep-throat cock with so much ease.

Leaning against the opposite side of the shower room, Yunho desperately began to palm at his stiff, leaking length through the baggy gray sweatpants that hung loosely from his hips, his cheeks and ears growing red once he caught your teary gaze.

You reached in between your trembling thighs, trying to relieve the deep ache inside your dripping cunt by filling it with two of your fingers, letting out a choked moan when Wooyoung roughly smacked the side of your cheek.

“Did I say you could touch yourself? You’re my cocksleeve right now. You don’t get to play with your cunt, dumb whore,” Wooyoung grunted, letting go of your hair to pinch your nose when you wouldn’t stop finger-fucking yourself, keeping his cock lodged deep inside your throat, cutting off your only source to oxygen.

“M-mmnfff…!” you whimpered, your brain starting to feel delightfully fuzzy around the edges, getting an instant head high from not being able to breathe. You waited until the very last second to stop playing with yourself, suddenly grabbing onto Wooyoung’s hips and squeezing them tightly, begging him for mercy with your watery eyes.

Wooyoung immediately pulled his cock out of your mouth and slapped it down onto your face as a further attempt to humiliate you in front of your friend. “What a dirty slut…” He began to jerk himself off, rubbing his reddened cockhead against your parted lips. “I want you to listen to me. Once I cum inside your mouth, you’re not going to swallow, got it?”

Wiping the excess saliva from your face, you nodded your head obediently, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes, knowing Yunho was just a few feet away from you, but too distracted by the thick, leaking cock right in front of your face. “Cum, please…”

Yunho didn’t realize how much he was getting off on being ignored by the two of you until he finally freed his cock from his stained sweatpants and jerked himself off directly, thick globs of pre-cum pouring down the side of his heavy length, breathy, whiny moans escaping from his drooling mouth, his glasses starting to fog up.

“Brainless for me already, hm? What a good girl. Now, show me your tongue,” Wooyoung whispered, taking advantage of the situation and sending a few strings of spit down onto it as soon as you held out your tongue. When he watched you swallow it immediately, your thighs squeezing together right after, Wooyoung tossed his head back and let out a long guttural groan, pressing his cockhead against your tongue just in time for spurts of hot cum to shoot out of it.

Ready to cum untouched from being used solely for Wooyoung’s pleasure, you carefully closed your mouth, not letting any of his hot load spill out, but not swallowing it down either, as much as you wanted to.

Wooyoung reached down to run his fingers through your wet hair, admiring the mess of pre-cum and spit you had on your face, smiling at you with his canines on display. “Spit out my cum onto your fingers and fuck it into that whore-hole of yours. You wanted to play with yourself, didn’t you? Now’s your chance, princess.”

Shocked by Wooyoung’s perverted request, you simply looked up at him with wide eyes, looking like a hamster with the way your cheeks were currently puffed out and filled with his cum.

“Go on, baby. Don’t be shy. Show Yunho why you have a reputation of being such a shameless cumslut with the guys on my team,” Wooyoung encouraged breathily, gently patting one of your filled cheeks, a few dribbles of milkiness leaking out past your lips.

Yunho’s eyes left the soaking mess in between your thighs for a second to meet your embarrassed gaze, coming to terms with this new information. Not only did you fuck him after your losses, but you took the time to fuck the winning team, even after Yunho had filled your womb with countless loads. You really were a slut. Yunho became so hard, he grew a bit dizzy.

“F-fine, but don’t stare…” you murmured sheepishly, as if you hadn’t been ran through by both of their teams before. The men in question watched with bated breath as you let the milky load drip onto your fingers, letting out little gasps when they quickly disappeared all the way inside you, your cunt making obscene squelching sounds each time you pushed them in and out.

“You’re so filthy…I think I’m in love,” Wooyoung sighed dreamily, reaching down to clutch your jaw with his slender fingers. He smiled keenly at your contorted expression, enjoying the sound of your whiny moans. “What’s wrong, princess? Are you going to cum just from being a filthy whore? Does it feel that good knowing you're breeding yourself with my load? Mm, and it feels even better knowing that Yunho is watching you be my pretty little cum dump, huh?”

“S-so good, I might…ffffuck…” Once your heated gaze returned to your best friend, Yunho began to seize up at the same time as you, painting his plain black t-shirt with ropes of cum just as your milky release poured onto the tile floor below.

Wooyoung simply chuckled in amusement, before turning his head to face his longtime friend just in time to see him wiping thick streaks of cum off of his long, softened length. “Did you just bust a nut from watching Y/N try to impregnate herself?”

“Y-yes.” Blushing, Yunho adjusted his glasses out of habit, now that he wasn’t wearing his contacts, pulling at the sleeve of his hoodie now that his two favorite people were looking at him like they wanted to devour him.

“You’re just as dirty as she is.” Wooyoung smiled idly, positioning himself behind you so that your back pressed into his chest, slowly spreading you wide open for all three of you to see just how pink your soaked slit was. “Hey, Yun. You hungry?”

“Very,” your teammate replied quickly, licking at his lips, already finding himself on his knees before you, ready to start panting in true golden retriever fashion.

“You don’t mind if Yun eats out your pretty, cum-stuffed cunt, do you, baby?” Wooyoung asked you, leaning over to nip at your jaw, pinching your swollen clit just to hear the cute sound you made for him.

Just as you gave them the go-ahead, your teammate buried his face in between your thighs, appreciating how Wooyoung spread you open further with his thumbs, eagerly lapping at the milky liquid that slowly began to drip out of you.

“What a good puppy,” Wooyoung praised, growing hard and harder the longer he watched Yunho desperately slurp up the tangy mixture into his drooling mouth, slipping his cock in between your soft, sweaty thighs, appreciating the warmth they provided. “Do you like the way my cum tastes, Yun?”

“Tasches scho good, Woo,” Yunho replied with his mouth full, dragging his dripping tongue up and over your puffy cunt over and over, idly kneading his fingers into the sides of your thighs.

Groaning, Wooyoung began to fuck the tight space in between your thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing deliciously against your pussy, making you moan even louder than you were before. “You wanna taste it from the source, Yun? Huh? You want a taste of my cock?”

Yunho nodded quickly, having to push down his own stiff length from the way it was poking into his abdomen. Drooling, he watched how Wooyoung pulled you just a little farther back against his body, until Yunho had access to his friend’s leaking cock, immediately wrapping his lips around the reddened tip and noisily slurping on it.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Wooyoung moaned out, clutching one of your hips tightly, snaking the other one around your waist to begin flicking and rubbing your clit, looking down over your shoulder to watch his friend fervently suck and lick at his cock each time he thrusted himself between your closed, trembling thighs, a combination of his pre-cum and your wetness dirtying Yunho’s foggy glasses. “I’m gonna fucking cum all over your face, Yun. Gonna make Y/N squirt all over it too.”

“Give it to me, please…” he panted, dragging his tongue up from Wooyoung’s twitching tip, along your pulsing cunt, and up over your clit, licking fervently at it when Wooyoung lifted your hood up to expose it completely. Yunho was so desperate to chase his high, he almost didn’t register that he had begun to hump against your leg like a dog in heat, leaving streaks of sticky pre-cum on your skin.

“Good puppy, fuck, you’re such a good boy, Yuyu,” you praised your teammate whinily, desperately rubbing your cunt all over his tongue until your knees felt like they were about to buckle, Wooyoung’s veiny cock running along your slit from below sending you over the edge.

“Wet this puppy’s face with your squirt, baby. Now,” Wooyoung growled into your ear, biting on the side of it just as he roughly pinched your clit, thrusting forward in between your thighs one more time, only for his sensitive tip to be met with Yunho’s agile tongue, his eyes rolling back when his friend lapped over and into the slit.

Right as your arousal began to squirt onto Yunho’s flushed face, Wooyoung’s cock twitched up into your cunt, his hot load shooting out onto your teammate’s tongue, a few spurts landing onto his glasses.

When Yunho was about to cum from rubbing himself all over your leg, he suddenly didn’t have access to it, causing him to look up and whimper. Licking at the cum and squirt on his lips, his honey brown eyes widened at the both of you, his pupils blown wide.

Wooyoung had lifted up your trembling thighs so that they were pressed into either side of you, your body folded up like a paper doll, his hardened cock already slipping in and out of your soaking cunt. Chuckling at your breathless moans and whines, he dragged his tongue up and over your jaw, humming at the taste of your salty skin. “You’ve been waiting to get pounded like this, yeah? Because no one uses this pretty body like I do…huh? You’re so spoiled now.”

“It’s all your fault,” you gasped out in between moans, reaching your arm back to hold onto Wooyoung’s neck, turning your head so that your lips ghosted along the side of his panting mouth. “Please cum inside, Woo, please, I need it.”

Wooyoung squeezed his fingers into the underside of your thighs, bucking his hips roughly up into you. “God, I love when I turn you into my little breeding bitch.” He turned his head so that he could bite at your bottom lip, groaning, “Get ready to retire, baby. I’m gonna knock you up.”

Yunho thought he was going to lose his goddamn mind from witnessing the display of dominance and submission that was taking place directly above him. Wooyoung was completely controlling your body, ruthlessly fucking up into you, one hand tugging at your hair, the other wrapped around your neck, a small bulge routinely becoming visible within your lower abdomen with each thrust and every he made into your stretched cunt. It seemed like neither of you could even remember that Yunho was there, right below you, until he began to eagerly lick at the slick, milky space where your heated, sticky bodies routinely made contact.

You both moaned at the pleasurable sensation, your pulsing lower halves beginning to grow extremely heavy. “Yuyuuu, that feels so good,” you whimpered, angling your head down to gaze lovingly at Yunho, reaching your hand down to ruffle his sweaty hair.

Growling, Wooyoung grabbed you by the chin and shoved his tongue down your throat, forcibly bouncing you up and down on his cock. Your teary eyes never closed, and never left Yunho’s, even when you began to cum for Wooyoung, your release spilling out into your dear teammate’s open mouth and onto his lolled-out tongue. Just when Yunho thought he couldn’t get any harder, you began to cry out a cuter version of Wooyoung’s name once he really started to drill his pulsing cock into your sensitive cunt, the twinges of jealousy Yunho felt only contributing to his need to witness his friend unload himself into you.

Wooyoung pressed his forehead against yours, his sharp eyes boring into yours. “You look at me when you take my load, baby. I don’t care if your little boyfriend is watching me fuck you stupid,” he demanded, smacking his palm roughly into the side of your ass, making you squeak out in pleasurable pain.

“Yes, Youngie,” you breathed out, your eyebrows drawing closer once your bottom half began to grow heavier and heavier, not knowing if you were truly capable of cumming for the nth time.

“What a good girl…Open your mouth for me…” Sighing softly, he caught his dripping saliva on your tongue with his own and slid it into your open mouth, the both of you letting out muffled moans as he spilled inside you once again. He broke the sloppy kiss to look down over your shoulder, admiring how his load began to slip out past his softening cock, dripped down past his balls, and landed onto Yunho’s fucked-out face. He smiled darkly at the dried spurts of cum Yunho left on his t-shirt and stained sweatpants. “Baby, look at the mess puppy made…”

You licked at your lips, both you and Wooyoung just about devouring your teammate with your lustful gazes alone. “Oh, Yuyu. Look what you’ve done to yourself. Poor, sweet puppy just wants to feel good, doesn’t he?”

Yunho bit his bottom lip, looking up at the both of you with half-closed, watery eyes, completely at your combined mercy. “Y-yeah. More, please.”

You and Wooyoung exchanged lecherous glances, knowing neither of you would be able to stop, especially not when you had such a perfect new companion to play with. Despite all the odds, you and your rival had finally come to a truce, and, of course, came to the conclusion that you’d be tag teaming Yunho until you would have to get ready for softball practice the next morning.

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choerypetal · 3 months

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Hide and Seek / Homelander

(pt 2. of Meet and Greet)

summary ; In part two of the meet and greet, Homelander's obsession reaches new heights, leaving him unsatisfied at his core and willing to do anything to make you his.

!! read part one first! ; !!

ps; english isn't my first language so i apologize for any grammar mistakes, xo' (as it will be eventually corrected if needed)

tag list; @private-eye-on-you ; @lins-shenanigans ; @horrorxgorewhore @siredtom ; @certain-tragedies ; @hotchners-wifey ; @naelis-open-sea

enjoy xo'

Homelander's comment, 'You look lovely in the costume,' lingered in your mind for a week. You couldn't escape his presence. His silhouette, his maddeningly perfect face seemed to follow you everywhere—from your usual coffee shop to the special limited editions of The Vought, and even as you continued watching the show for longer periods of time. From Deep's special cupcakes to the coffee most loved by Homelander, his influence was everywhere, not just keeping the city alive but himself as well.

Although you didn't realize it, Homelander had become just as obsessed with you as he was with seeing his own face on the cup you were holding. From a distance, he watched your every move—the way your plump lips touched the cup, how you drank your coffee, and even how you covered his image with your hand. Despite finding your behavior an offense, he knew he’d eventually have to tease about it. The sadistic man that he was, wasn’t afraid to even acknowledge it. Especially during their weekly Seven meetings.

"So, I suggest we review some new recruits," Ashley said, her nervousness palpable. She wanted to please not only the public but, most importantly, Homelander. This was no easy task given recent events and the current situation. Homelander's obvious boredom showed his lack of interest, and Deep, poor thing, was just as disinterested, staring blankly at the screen and agreeing with whatever Homelander mumbled. However, Deep was secretly relieved not to have any of John’s powers. Especially right now. Because, at that exact moment, it was your face, and your face alone, that occupied his thoughts. Murmuring your name under his breath, he was fortunate not to get caught up in the moment. That of course, when a single cough from Ashley’s mouth was enough to slip his mind elsewhere.

"You know, Ashley, just pick whoever you think will fit for now. Sign their papers. My brain is going to fucking explode from this hell hole," he said, standing up without even glancing at her. Not even Ashley's whiny complaints about the complications it might cause could stop him. He paused, considering for a moment that she might convince him. "Don't come to me for the next 24 hours," he snapped, his piercing blue eyes conveying a clear threat. When wasn't he a threat, anyway? "Or I'll personally fuck up every single one of you." That was enough to make her quickly nod in response. Poor thing, she only wanted to make him proud. A satisfied grin played on his lips, mirrored by Ashley's, though hers was a little more nervous. His, however, was genuine.

You, on the other hand, had been fortunate enough not to see Homelander's face for a while. From the bookstore you frequented to the coffee shop, his presence seemed to pervade your life. Your mother didn’t help either, as she insisted on framing a picture of you with him in the living room—a gesture Homelander found endearing. On some nights, he would see you through the window, dressed in your pajamas, reading whatever caught your interest, with that picture always in the background. Unlike Homelander, it haunted your dreams.

Deep down, Homelander struggled to resist the urge to invade your personal space, not wanting to frighten you. However, when he saw your forced smile at the meet and greet, he was reminded that a smile meant nothing to him. To him and you alone. It was your scent that drove him wild. At first, he considered going undercover, posing as one of your father’s coworkers, but he realized it would be futile. Why cover his own shame, when he could let his ego take it over?

So, he waited until sunrise. When he could finally entered your room, imagining you in your shortest pajamas, which hugged your curves so perfectly, he had to bite his bottom lip to control himself. Just by the thought of his fingers sinking into your flesh as you leaned toward him for more...

"Goodbye, Mom!" Your voice echoed in Homelander's mind as he realized he'd been lurking around your house since last night. He had been trying to dismiss, the missed call records provided by Ashley, however, unable to ignore them. Fortunately, he was hidden well enough that you didn’t notice him as you exited the house.

Your hair meticulously washed, your skin fresh with makeup, and that dress. Never in a thousand years, aside from his own enemies, did Homelander think he would become so obsessed with someone. He wanted to chuckle to himself at the irony, knowing he wasn’t being the most subtle superhero. When your gaze shifted toward his hiding spot, he quickly concealed himself behind a tree, exhaling in relief when you shrugged off the feeling of being watched. You then left for work, something Homelander knew all too well. This also meant he could meet your mother, who, after all, was his biggest fan.

Fortunately, you managed to get through the day without a single client yelling at you. However, what you didn’t expect was an unexpected visit from the man himself. As you approached the door, you overheard some mumbling. Did your mother have a visitor today?

And then it hit you.

Hearing the all-too-familiar voice say, "Oh, these look lovely," with a genuine smile, you froze in your tracks. Seeing your mother so happy, even more thrilled than a fangirl, like she’d seen god himself. She noticed you immediately. "My dear! Look who came to visit," she exclaimed, taking you into her arms for a hug. Before you could greet the guest, your eyes met his—Homelander, in your own home.

"No need for theatrics, ma’am," he said with a casual chuckle, hushed by his own hand as he munched on the cookies your mother had made, casually wiping a droplet of milk with his thumb. Your mother giggled and said, "Mother is the name. We don’t have to get formal, right darling?" You blinked twice, hardly believing what you were hearing. Your mother was genuinely making Homelander feel comfortable, right inside your home. Given what you knew from your coworkers and the constant rumors, it was hard not to be creeped out by the thought that he might have done more than just a knock on the door that evening. Yet, you shrugged it off, thinking that perhaps playing the same game he did might be what he wanted after all. Like a cat and a mouse.

There was a brief pause, then an idea sparked in your mother’s eyes as she looked at John one last time. "Why don’t you stay for dinner? Tonight is roasted chicken and mashed potatoes." How could he refuse? Spending more time with you was just the beginning of his obsession with protecting you and never letting you out of his sight. He smiled, his grin seemingly bigger than before, and nodded. "If Y/N doesn’t mind?" he said, his gaze shifting to you with a more serious expression. You gulped nervously, knowing you couldn’t just say no. "Yes—yes, of course," you stuttered. Oh, how adorable you looked.

“Then, make yourself at home dear.”

Dinner was only just a few hours from now, with your father now back from work had asked for a personal photo with the Homelander, and a talk John appreciated more. Considering his own father exiling him completely, it was a breath of fresh air for him, especially when he’d be glancing a few times at you, doing whatever you had in mind before the dinner. “My daughter is going to be working for us,” your father would be saying proudly, Homelander could only nod listening actively. “She’d do a great addition I am certain.” his gaze now meeting yours immediately, when you gaze up from your book, he could notice a light shade of pink coming your cheeks. Cherishing it a little too much when your father’s voice then abrupt his mind, “She’s beautiful isn’t she?” he’d said a little too proud.

She is indeed… Homelander thought to himself that same night. Just by how attentive he was with you. Even if it wasn’t much of a conversation shared, the glances were enough to please him alone. Which during the dinner, he was not afraid to show.

Dinner had passed rather quickly, you were glad it did. Considering you listening to whatever nonsense Homelander had to offer to keep your mother so relonctent toward him. Let alone, praise him as a her own god. Boosting an ego, to whom you couldn’t comprehend yourself, and that Homelander was sure to make it seem tonight.

"Thank you so much for dinner, truly," Homelander said, wiping the corners of his mouth, his eyes never leaving you. Your mother’s gasp was enough to momentarily distract him, and he asked if everything was alright. She quickly assured him it was and invited him to stay until her cake was done baking. Naturally, John didn't decline the offer. "Y/N," your mother called your attention just as you were about to excuse yourself, "how about you give a little tour of the house? I'm sure Homelander would appreciate it." The formality of his name seemed daunting, but John quickly corrected her. "John it is. No need to be formal, now, do we?" A shiver crawled down your spine as your mother’s eyes gleamed with hope, her slender fingers clapping together. "Oh, well, of course! Now, Y/N, make yourself useful and make John feel at home."

A sigh escaped your lips; there was no way to avoid this, was there? "Yes, of course. Where do you want to start?" Your eyes never left his, feeling yourself getting lost in them, becoming his little mouse to play with. "How about..." he began, his eyes wandering as if he couldn’t be bothered to think. "The bedroom," he finally said. You blinked twice, a third time to fully process his words. "What?" you replied, incredulous. He chuckled, amused by your reaction, and shrugged off the question as if he hadn’t meant it seriously. "Nah, kidding. Lead the way," he said.

So you did. You felt his shadow hovering over you as you both walked through the house for a little tour. John was no longer hiding his presence, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his breath. By the time you reached your bedroom, the tour was complete, and your mother’s cake would be ready. However, John had something else in mind, and he wasn’t shy about showing it. “And this is the bedroom,” you said nonchalantly, hearing an obvious scoff from him.

"Funny, isn’t it?" he said, this time his tone serious enough to make your muscles tense. His back was to you as his fingers touched the doorknob, ready to close the door. And he did, pausing momentarily. "Finally, we meet again." His remark made you tilt your head. Meet again? As far as you knew, he had been stalking you all along. But knowing who he was—Homelander, with his omniscience and twisted games—you had no say in the matter. Neither did you, especially after hearing his chuckle.

“Now why so quiet?” the question was enough to make you unsease. You wanted to tell him, to oppose to him. But you couldn’t he was now yours to torment completely. When he leaned further, scoffing once more by your vulnerability. In that precise moment, Homelander knew he won.

“Heard you were a good, fuck.” his voice so nonchanltly, a gasp leaving from your mouth as you were unable to speak more than standing right in front of him. How his eyes would wondered around your figure, approaching near to you, his fingers now leaning toward your waist. Gripping by its touch, hungry to fuck you there, in the bed. Raw.

"Thank you?" you stammered, eager to please him. His grin broadened, fighting not to turn into a frown at your response. He was so satisfied that he gently caressed your cheek with his other finger. "You need me, not just to save you, but to satisfy you." Though your heart was broken, you were a toy Homelander cherished without fear. You were his perfect little toy, as he began to lick his bottom lip, his breath drawing closer, closing the gap between you. "Mine," he growled, his voice hoarse, undeniably hinting at his intentions. He was Homelander, able to do whatever he wanted. And that included you being his. "Got it, little mouse?"

Oh, how he longed to watch you squirm between his legs, begging for more, moaning his name. His persistence knew no bounds; he would do anything—from leaving bite marks to scratches, and even hickeys if necessary. But he couldn't just stand there without having a little fun, right?

"You see," he said, his voice dripping with teasing malice. Disgust welled up in your mouth, but you fought the urge to look away. He loved watching you squirm, the fear in your eyes fueling his twisted envy of every inch of you. "How about we play a little game tonight, hmm?" His thumb brushed gently over your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

"W-what game?" you managed to say, breaking your long silence. Even he was momentarily surprised, but your stutter made it worth it. "Hide and seek," he said, pausing for effect. "You hide, and I seek. If I find you, you're mine. Got that?"

You gave a quick nod, followed by a satisfied smile from him. "Good then, I'll start counting. One, two..." You hesitated for a moment, just as his grip shifted from your waist to your arm, preventing you from fleeing your own home. When your eyes met his, they were dark with passion, lust, and a desire to capture his little mouse until its very last breath. "Run..."

Little mouse.”

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