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fayes-fics · 5 months

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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

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natashasdetka · 3 months

Text

Blood or Loyalty

Pairing — Rhaenyra Targaryen x Queensguard Fem!Reader and Alicent Hightower x Kingsguard Fem!Reader's Twin

Word Count — 1,254

Request — Yes or No

Hi how have you been

I have a story that I think will be interesting if you don’t mind writing it

so if have watched the latest episode of HOD then you know the twin ser arryk was sent to pretend to be his brother ser errik so he can murder the queen but in the fanfic idea I have the reader has a twin who stayed back in kings landing with the greens because she’s in love with Alicent, but aegon sends the reader’s twin to dragon stone to pretend to be the reader and kill rhaenyra and you can decide how it ends

Does she die or does she catch on

Summary — Having to face your twin with your sword pointing at her and vice versa. Will your moral and loyalty for the rightful heir Queen Rhaenya will falter while trying to stop your beloved twin from harming the Queen?

Warnings — violence, anxiety attack, and breaking down

A/N — hi, yes, im back after years of hiatus T_T and im here again because of House of the Dragon omg i just love this series so much and tbh i still haven't watched any episodes on season 2 since im still waiting for it to finish hehe BUT i've seen some clips so i have bit of an idea about the request. what team are y'all on? im team black since day 1 !!!

please do not repost or try and take ownership of my work. reblogs, likes, and comments are always welcome. i do not own any of the characters.

It is currently a slow night for you as you are patrolling the castle grounds, clad in your full armor while clutching the hilt of your sword that you named, ‘Porphura Hexen.’ Whereas ‘Porphura’ means purple, which is associated with “nobility, power, and ambition” while ‘Hexen’ comes from how people make rumors about you practicing witchcraft because of the unexplainable deaths of the men that tried to win your heart, where it's a guarantee that they will meet their demise. It's either they die on battlefields, catch a sickness that does not have a cure, or even how the family of those men slowly lose their riches and connections.

You were looking over the castle's embrasure when you heard unusual heavy footsteps that you hadn't heard ever since Queen Rhaenyra made you her Queensguard. You quickly unsheathed ‘Porphura Hexen’ as you stealthily followed the noise, you immediately quickened your pace when you heard Queen Rhaenyra's soft voice saying your name. You immediately barged into her room, and there, you saw your twin sister clutching her sword tightly and pointing its tip toward the Queen.

“Sestra!” You called your twin in your native language.

Without hesitation, you charged forward with your sword to attack your twin to take her attention off the Queen. She instantly turned your way and blocked your attack.

“What are you doing, sestra?!” You shouted at her trying to put some sense in her head.

“King's order! This is the King's order!” She shouted back at you as she was trying to prevent your sword from getting close to her neck.

“King's order, my arse! Stop this madness now! Are you out of your mind for trying to harm the rightful heir of the Iron Throne?!” You screamed at her as you put your strength on your legs so you could stand your ground and let the Queen run out of the room.

“My Queen! Go! Leave the room!” You said as you pushed your sister's body far from the Queen's way with the help of the force from your legs.

You heard your sister's body crash on a shelf which made the books fall on top of her head. So, you immediately went to your Queen's side and helped her up so she could escape the room along with the servant who got involved in the mess.

“Go, My Queen. I'll handle this,” when Rhaenyra was about to run along with the servant next to her, you reached for her wrist and gave her your dagger, quietly exchanging silent stares, “Take this. Be careful…my Queen.”

You didn't wait for Rhaenyra's response as you immediately dodged an attack from your twin when she aggressively swung her sword at you.

“Go! Alert the guards!” You felt guilty for trying to order the Queen but it will always be your mission to guarantee the Queen's safety, no matter what.

Once you were sure that the Queen had a safe distance from your twin, you gave all your focus towards her and only deflected her attacks to you.

After a minute of only deflecting your twin's attacks, she cornered you into a corner with her blade's tip pointing at your neck, “Sestra…we should be in this together. You and I, just like the old times. We're born together, aren't we?” she tried to convince you.

“This isn’t just about the King's order…isn't it?” You asked, staring right into her eyes. Ever since the both of you are young gals, she can never hide the way her eyes falter when it is faced with your own piercing eyes.

She avoided your gaze, “It's about the Queen Dowager, ain't it?” She remained silent, only her shaky breaths indicated that your guess was right. “She's only using you, sestra!”

“My affairs with the Queen Dowager aren't and shouldn't be any of your concern,” she raised her voice a little bit when you spoke the truth.

“Not my concern? Have you gone mad?!” You looked at her with anger, not seeing the person in front of you as your twin sister anymore. You scoffed while frowning at her, “Just like the old times, huh? We took an oath! A vow, sestra! We are to fulfill our sacred duty To protect and serve the realm! Where have your honor and morals gone to, huh? They usurped Queen Rhaenyra's throne! The rightful heir!”

You sighed, leaned your head on the wall behind you, “Sestra…” Your twin whispered as she slowly lowered her blade pointing at your neck.

You looked straight into her eyes, “We were born together, weren't we?” You said as you swiftly plunged your extra dagger into your twin's stomach, “You parted us…you forgot your oath, our vow, sestra.”

You watched her fall on her knees with blood coming out of her mouth and eyes going dull in seconds, “But I still love you, sestra.”

A thud was heard when your twin's body completely fell on the floor, her eyes looking at you with a lone tear streaming down to her cheek and the stone-cold floor.

You fell on your knees as you stared at her cold dead body. You heard multiple footsteps entering the room but you only focused on your twin's form as you slowly closed her lifeless eyes.

You took a deep sigh as you stood up with a grunt whilst picking up your sword. You faced the small council that gathered in the room with only their sleeping garments, “The assassinator of the Queen that was sent by The Greens has been exterminated.” You reported to them.

You swallowed deeply when you felt the urge to sob, but not here. Not in front of them. As the small council kept on discussing the event that happened, Rhaenyra only stared at you. She saw how your hands were quivering while trying to calm them by gripping your sword's hilt.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat, and the small council immediately turned silent, “Ser Y/N, you're dismissed. You've done enough for the day.”

You immediately turned your head at the Queen, “But, My Queen. With all due respect, as your Queensguard, it is my dut–”

“I am fully aware of what your duty is, Ser Y/N” Rhaenyra took a deep breath, “As my Queensguard, I need you on your best. So, please, take a rest. At least, just for a while.”

“We will still need you, Ser Y/N,” Rhaenys, Ser Corlys's wife, added.

Ser Alfred approaches you and pats your shoulder, “I'll take care of the things here myself. Now, in the meantime, take a rest.”

You sighed as most of the votes were against you staying around the small council. So, you dismissed yourself and went straight ahead to your room.

As you entered your room, you carefully took off your silver armor on your body and placed it neatly on its storage. You took your bloodied dagger as you sat on the edge of your bed.

The moment you sat on your bed, your twin’s voice rang inside your head, “Sestra, you…a-are always the better between the both of us. K-Keep believing y-yourself…and keep p-protecting the Q-Queen…Rhaenyra. I love you…” Your twin sister breathed her last breath after saying her last words.

You sighed deeply as you stood up and took a damp cloth to clean your dagger. As you are cleaning your sharp dagger, you feel your tears falling onto your hands. Soft sobs rang inside your room as you broke down behind closed doors, missing your twin's presence more than ever.

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wannab-urs · 1 month

Text

You’re So Dark

Pairing: Professor!Dave York x Grad Student!f!Reader

Summary: There’s only one thing you really want out of this conference – your research adviser, Dave York.

Warnings: smut, professor/student relationship, reader is a brat, this is very close to a self insert fic so she’s also a cocky little asshole, power dynamics, age gap (Dave is in his late 40s, reader is at least 21 but not specified), Dave is conflicted, that’s why he’s such a dickhead, Divorced!Dave, drinking but no one is all that intoxicated, unprotected PIV (but he has a vasectomy and reader is on BC), creampie, oral f!receiving, lots of arguing, no use of y/n. WC: 2.4k

A/N: Based on a true story. Just had this idea out of nowhere, don’t look at me. Thanks to @pedgito for the beta <3

Dave York Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi | Playlist

You knock on his door, wearing nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts. The conference doesn’t start for a while, so you put on comfy clothes following the long car ride. That’s not your only motivation, though, for showing up at his hotel room in barely anything.

The hotel is nice, nice enough that you feel underdressed in the hallway. You’re set to present your paper on John Donne today at 2. Your research adviser Dr. York – Dave – had picked you up at your apartment at 5 this morning to drive you both to the conference. He’s presenting his latest paper. Something about journals kept by British people during World War II.

You shift your weight from foot to foot waiting for him to answer the door. Finally, you hear the chain drop and the door opens. He eyes you up and down, one eyebrow quirked, before turning around and walking back into the room.

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s already settling back into the shitty desk chair by the window. You look down at your outfit and then back up to glare at the back of his head.

“Yeah. Obviously.” You lay back on his bed and stretch your back, sore from the 5 hour car ride.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

You roll onto your stomach and look at him. The mid morning light casts a glare over his screen, but only serves to highlight his features. You hate how pretty he is, how much you want him.

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s wearing navy dress pants and a tight white t-shirt that is definitely a size too small.

“I have a dress shirt.” He seems irritated today. Shoulders tense, sentences clipped. You wonder if it’s you that has him all worked up.

You slide off the bed into the floor and go through some simple yoga poses. Your back is really messed up from that car ride. You sit on your knees and walk your hands forward as far as they’ll go, dropping your head to the floor. You sigh as you sink into child’s pose, feeling the stretch in your sore hips and back. “What are you working on?” You ask, voice muffled by the carpet.

“Will you shut up?” You snap your head up to look at him. He’s fucking tetchy today… and he hasn’t looked over at you once, as far as you can tell.

“Make me.”

“When have I ever been able to make you do anything?”

You sit back on your heels and tilt your head to the side. He’s almost shaking, he’s so tense. You’ve never seen him like this. “You never ask nicely.”

He wordlessly scoots his chair back and spreads his legs, still typing away on his laptop. You crawl over and settle yourself between his legs. He still doesn’t look at you.

“What do you want, Dave?”

“For you to stop talking.”

“Is that all you want?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You’re such a fucking brat.”

You lean in and drag your lips over the bulge in his slacks, hear the sharp snatch of breath, the clack of keys as his hands hit them all at once.

You’re not going to do it until he tells you to and he isn’t going to ask. It’s a standoff. He thinks he has to let you make the first move. Does this not count as a first move? You in such a supplicant pose, gazing up at him from between his thighs.

“You should go get dressed. We have to leave soon.” Quiet, strained, so unlike his usually smooth and confident cadence, and still not meeting your eyes. He rolls the chair back so you have room to scoot out.

Your cheeks sting with rejection, but you know he wants you as bad as you want him. He’s just afraid of the consequences. You slip out from under his desk and retreat to your room to get changed.

–-

The conference goes as smoothly as it can – it was your first ever presentation at something like this, and you definitely got tripped up on some of the questions the audience asked you. Afterward, Dave drags you outside to a group of people. He introduces you to Will, Laurie, Anna, and Doug. They’re colleagues, friends, that he often meets up with at conferences.

“Wanna come with us to get drinks?” Anna asks.

“Sure!” you agree before Dave can turn them down. He scowls at you, but turns a megawatt smile on when he looks back to Anna.

“Sounds good,” he says through his teeth.

Dave gossips in your ear all night, filling you in on each of his friends. Will and Laurie are both supposedly polyamorous and only hook up with each other at conferences, but Dave knows Will’s wife has no idea. Anna is in trouble with her school for a presentation she did last year, and she had to have today’s presentation reviewed by her department chair before she could present. Doug has a thing for Anna, but she’s married.

The gossip is a good holdover, but you’re antsy the whole time. You sip vodka sodas slowly while your mind whirs with the possibilities of tonight. Dave drinks whiskey on the rocks, jokes with his friends when he’s not whispering in your ear.

You and Dave go out to smoke, leaving everyone else in the bar. You split an American Spirit with him.

“If you only smoke when you drink, why do you have a near empty pack of expensive cigarettes?”

“I drink every night.”

“God you’re pathetic.”

“Not as pathetic as the grad student with a thing for her professor.”

“Fuck you. You’re not my professor.”

“Oh, so you do have a thing for me?”

You’d thought that was obvious from your earlier attempt to blow him.

“You know what’s actually pathetic, Dave? The professor who wants to fuck his student.”

“You’re not my student.”

“Oh, so you do want to fuck me?”

He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray and stalks off inside.

By the end of the night, you regret agreeing to go out, desperate to get back to the hotel and get Dave alone. This may be your only shot at getting what you want from him and you can’t waste it. You say goodnight to everyone, tell them how nice it was to meet them all, and head out, Dave close behind you. You think you catch Laurie giving him a knowing look, but you can’t be certain.

You walk back to the hotel, your arm brushing his. Out of nowhere, Dave chuckles and pushes his shoulder into you.

“What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I like that you step on the sewer grates.”

“What?”

“The drainage grates. My ex wife was terrified of them. She’d rather walk in the street than step on one. You don’t even hesitate.”

“Oh.”

“I just mean– I don’t know what I mean. You’re brave.”

“Thanks,” you say earnestly, looking into his eyes.

“You’re welcome.” He averts his gaze, looks back down at the ground. You think he might be blushing.

You get to the hotel and the lady at the desk gives you and Dave a strange look. An “I know what this is and I don’t like it” look. You roll your eyes and stalk over to the elevators, punching the button with more force than necessary. You didn’t think it was that obvious, the dance you two were doing around each other.

The ride up to the tenth floor is tense. Dave doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word. When you get up to where you’re supposed to split off, he asks if you want to come to his room for a drink. You say yes and follow him to his room. Now the nerves really kick in. It’s fine, you’re fine. You wonder if he’s gonna reject you again. It would be cruel after inviting you to his room, but he’s never really been kind.

When you get into his room you sit on the bed and take off your dress shoes, your coat, and the blazer you’ve been wearing all day. He pours himself a bourbon from the minibar and offers you one. You take the cup in your hand, sipping the liquor and feeling heat trail down your throat. He knocks his back in one shot and stands in front of you at the bed.

You stand up, putting you inches from his body. You cover his bulge with your hand, squeezing lightly and nip your teeth at his throat. “Do you want to fuck me, Dave?”

He shoves you backward with a growl and you fall on the bed. He tugs your trousers off and lowers himself between your legs. He licks you over your panties, feeling how wet you already are. He hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties, knuckles brushing your entrance.

“Oh you’re soaked for me, baby girl.”

“Don’t call me that. Ew. God. Ew.”

“Fine. Brat.” Dave tugs your panties down and tosses them on the floor. He pushes your thighs apart and settles your legs over his shoulders. He covers your cunt with his mouth and flicks his tongue against your clit. You let out a moan and bury your fingers in his short hair. He flattens his tongue against you and you ride his face, grinding his aquiline nose into your mound as you move against him.

He brings a hand up to press your stomach down, holding you still while he slips two fingers of his other hand inside you. You keen loudly at the stretch, squirming as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

You’re so wet you can hear the wet squelch of your pussy around his fingers. He crooks them upward and you buck your hips hard enough to break the hold he has on you.

“F-Fuck, Dave. Please,” you whine.

“So polite when you finally get what you want,” he mutters into your cunt.

He’s making you feel so fucking good, you’d let him say anything right now. He strokes your sweet spot almost methodically, like he’s had a lifetime of practice that led him here, making you whine and moan and squirm pathetically on just two of his fingers. Your grip tightens on his hair as you feel white hot bliss crawling up your spine.

“Fuck. Dave. Gonna come.”

He doesn’t let up, the firm strokes of his fingers driving you higher and higher until finally you reach your peak and come crashing back down. You shatter, your pussy clenching rhythmically.

“Can I fuck you?” Dave’s voice is rough and low like he’s been yelling.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Do I need one?”

“I mean I’m on birth control”

“Oh I got snipped when I divorced Carol, that’s not what I meant”

“They had vasectomies in the 1800s?”

“Are you clean or not?”

“It’s a little fucking late to ask that, man, you just had your tongue inside me, but yeah.”

“Fair enough.”

Dave helps you up the bed until your head rests on the pillows. He takes your shirt off, stripping your bra with it. He’s fully dressed and you’re bare before him. He leans down and kisses your neck, before his lips trail down to your chest. He sucks a mark into the soft skin of your breast. You start unbuttoning his shirt but he just pulls it off over his head, an urgency that wasn’t there before taking hold.

“Need to be inside you, fuck.”

He shucks his slacks down as far as possible without getting up and immediately slots his length against your slit. You reach down and adjust him yourself, lining up the tip with your entrance. He mutters something about “impatient” but pushes inside you anyway. He’s long and thick and he makes you feel so full. When he’s fully sheathed inside you, your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure.

“Fuck. You’re huge, Dave. Fuck,�� you whine, as if he needed the ego boost.

You gasp his name as he starts fucking you, your fingernails digging into the skin at his sides. You pull him into you, urging him to fuck you harder. He growls and picks up the pace, the slapping of your skin, your loud moans, his grunts fill the room.

You get lost in it a little, your mind slipping into that space where all you can think about is the sensation of his cock spearing you over and over.

He slips a hand between your bodies and presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, rubbing in small circles. You throw your head back and scream his name as a wave of pleasure crashes over you. Dave fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping yet.

“Where?”

It takes you a second to process what he’s asking. Where do you want his cum?

“Inside. Please.”

“So polite. Fucked the brat right out of you, huh?”

You’re too fucked out to respond with a witty comment, so he must be right. He thrusts into you deep and you feel his cock pulse as he spills inside you. The sensation almost makes you feel like you could come again.

He pulls out as soon as he’s finished, rolling to his feet and heading into the bathroom. The bastard doesn’t even seem winded. He comes back from the bathroom holding a wet washcloth in his hand. Dave wipes up the mess between your thighs and tosses the rag onto the floor.

It’s after he’s cleaned you up and is standing in front of the bed that you notice his body. He’s more lean and muscled than you could really see beneath his dress shirts. You wonder idly if you’ll ever see him like this again. His bare, broad chest. His happy trail leading down to his unbuttoned slacks.

He strips off his pants, leaving him in his briefs. His thighs are toned too. You kind of wish you’d gotten to explore his body more thoroughly. He crawls into bed and lays beside you, but doesn’t fit his body against yours the way you want him to. Never one to not get exactly what you want, you snuggle up to his side, throwing your arm across his chest. He readjusts and holds you close.

“Didn’t take you for a cuddler.”

“Didn’t take you for a missionary guy. Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t fucking love it.”

You hum noncommittally. It was probably the best sex of your life, but he doesn’t need to know that.

#Dave York #Dave York fics #Dave York fanfiction #Dave York x reader #Dave York x f!reader #Dave York x you #Equalizer 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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fiction-is-life · 1 year

Note

Congratulations on 500 non-bot followers! I just joined the ranks after reading the angstly little treat you did for @eleanor-bradstreet 🤩

I would like to request a blurb for Anthony from your prompt list. #8 - "Looks like we'll be trapped for a while."

This is so fun!

Trapped and Titillated

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the follow, love, and for your kind words! I am so glad you liked Touchstone of Our Character! I had so much fun writing this request; it is quite a bit longer than a blurb, but I hope that makes up for the fact it has taken me so long to write it! Enjoy!

Summary: You are trapped with the Viscount.

Warnings: Angst, getting locked in a room, verbal fighting, steamy make out session, brotherly teasing

The door wouldn’t budge. Oh, I knew when that latch clicked, I was doomed. Utterly doomed. And it was all his fault.

“Well, you have done it now, my lord,” I seethed, letting the veneer of polite reserve fall away. It was always thin around him anyway.

Anthony Bridgerton had the audacity to raise one perfect, dark brow. “I have done it?” he intoned, his voice cutting through my rising panic, reinforcing who I was angry at.

“Yes,” I hissed. “You shut the door behind you, and now it is jammed. It may be hours before someone comes by and finds us, and what then?”

He took a step towards me, matching the one I had subconsciously taken, bringing us closer than society would deem acceptable. “As far as I am concerned, I have only done what was my right. This is my library in my home, and I may shut any door I please.”

“Not when an unmarried young lady is in said library - unaccompanied. Or have you forgotten the rules of the Ton while you were busy raking about the kingdom?” I knew I had struck my mark when I saw the Viscount’s eyes darken, his whole body tensing.

“Miss (Y/L/N), you do not know of what you speak,” he said through clenched teeth, and I shivered from the ice in his tone. Anthony certainly did not miss it. “I was raised a gentleman, Miss (Y/L/N), as a member of one of the most respected families in all of England, no less.”

I scoffed and raised my chin and matched his stance. We were practically nose-to-nose with each other. “Well, there must be an exception to every rule, my lord, and I suppose you are it.”

I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them, terrified at the way his features turned from red-hot anger to a cold, stony silence. I took a shaky breath. “M-my lord, I apologize. I believe I am overwrought from the events of today. Please forgive me,” I spoke in a rush, not daring to make eye contact with those dark depths again.

A long moment passed before he cleared his throat, his complexion returned to a more normal hue but his posture still stiff. “It looks like we'll be trapped for a while, Miss (Y/L/N). We may as well make ourselves comfortable," he spoke in a clipped, quiet tone. For some odd reason, I wished he would have yelled instead.

He must have noticed the look of panicked confusion on my face as I alternated between staring at him and the couches near the fire. “Do not fear, Miss (Y/L/N), I shall strive to reign in my more ungentlemanly urges. Your virtue is safe from me.”

I bit my lip, nodding at his words. They were what I wanted to hear. Right? Oh, dash it! I had never been prone to hysterics before, but something about being this close to the Viscount was making my thoughts and feelings a muddle. So, I did the only thing that felt safe.

I pretended to read.

I believed it was working, too. That is, until the Viscount cleared his throat again. I wanted to roll my eyes at the realization that the smallest of his gestures still commanded attention. I was looked over during a one-on-one conversation, but Lord Anthony Bridgerton could simply breathe in a certain way and every head would turn.

“Is there something you need, my lord?” I asked, my eyes still blindly trained on the pages in front of me so that I missed his growing smirk.

“You must be a great reader, Miss (Y/L/N),” he said.

I raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Yes, I do love a good book,” I returned, turning the page.

“You are most certainly a more avid reader than I.”

That made me look up at him, confusion wrinkling my brow. “Why do you say that, my lord?”

He openly smiled now, allowing me to see that little dimple in his one cheek. “I have never mastered the art of reading words that are upside-down.”

“What?” I looked down and finally saw what book I had picked up. It was a tome on new farming practices, and it was indeed upside down.

Well, I could not let him win that easily. “I find I absorb the words much better when it is more difficult to read them.” I looked down my nose as I had seen many women do. “I believe it is important to challenge oneself, so one does not become ignorant and vain.”

His features twisted into a wry grin. “Very true, Miss (Y/L/N),” he said in a tight voice. He crossed over to the sofa I was sitting on and sat down - far too close for comfort. “What are other pursuits that you find are challenging enough, may I ask?”

I knew he was goading me, but I simply could not back down from his challenge. “Any activities I find rewarding, I suppose.” I closed the book and tilted my head, staring him in the eye. “Making sound investments, helping run the household, volunteering for charities,” I listed, not even trying to mask the smugness in my tone. “Basically anything that contributes to society, unlike spending every night at gaming hells or with ladies of the night or -”

His lips crashed onto mine, cutting me off. I felt positively surrounded by him as he crushed me into the back of the sofa, his strong arms encircling my waist and pulling me into him. He smelled of bay rum and mint, and it was utterly intoxicating.

At first, I was too shocked to react, but as his lips moved insistently on my own, I started to follow his lead. He growled when I parted my lips, and my eyes shot open when he darted his tongue into my mouth, but it felt too good to pull away. So, I pulled him closer.

My hands tangled in his dark locks, and when my fingers caught on a knot, Anthony pulled back slightly, moaning. I gasped and pulled back. “Did I hurt you, my lord?” I asked, concerned.

He groaned again, his eyes darkening further. “Call me that again,” he growled, panting heavily.

My face twisted in confusion. “My lord?”

“Yes,” he breathed, his lips finding mine again. His hands wandered this time, sending pings of pleasure straight to my core. I couldn’t hold back my own noises when his strong hands found my breasts, my nipples pebbling embarrassingly.

I lost track of time as Anthony peppered wet kisses down my neck and over the swells of my breasts where my dress did not cover them. He started to work his hand under the skirt of my dress when a crash was heard on the other side of the library.

“Brother! Are you in here? I need to get away from all of the matchmaking endeavours mother has concocted,” the voice of Anthony’s brother, Benedict, was heard. Anthony’s head snapped up, a panicked look in his eyes.

“Stay here. I shall get rid of him,” Anthony whispered before rising from the sofa, straightening his jacket where I had mussed it. “Brother. You find me at an inopportune time. I was just leaving,” he called out to his brother, trying to prevent him from seeing me.

“Why? You already met with the steward this morning. You have nothing else planned until dinner.” Even I could hear the skepticism in Benedict’s voice as it grew closer.

“Well, yes, but I thought I might go for a ride,” Anthony hedged.

“Wonderful! I shall join you!”

“No!” Anthony shouted. “I mean, I was wishing to ride out alone this time,” he finished in a more tempered tone.

There was a long pause where I thought Benedict just may have believed the lie. “Are you sure you want to be alone? Because I think Miss (Y/L/N) might disagree.” I gasped. “I shall see you at dinner, brother, Miss (Y/L/N),” he said, a door closing behind him shortly after.

I sat up with a huff, my cheeks flaming a brighter red than they had been before. “I am sorry; I did not think anyone would follow me here -”

“What door did he come through?” I interrupted what was sure to be a very eloquent apology.

Now, the Viscount’s cheeks turned red and he scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Well, um, he used the hidden entrance in the south wall.”

“Oh, you cad!” I screamed. “Open it. Now, my lord.”

Anthony silently moved toward the south wall, pulling a certain book back to reveal a hidden door. I gathered my dignity about me as I fixed my skirts. I caught a whiff of his cologne once more as I passed him, and for a brief moment, I wanted to turn back. Instead, I held my head high, giving the Viscount one of those superior looks other ladies had mastered. I wanted him to know I was not to be trifled with.

But I knew this was not the end of my encounters with the Viscount.

My Masterlist

#500 Followers Celebration #answered asks #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton angst #anthony bridgerton smut #bridgerton fanfiction

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f1daydreamers · 2 months

Text

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝐓𝐀𝟔𝟔] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

gif credits: @trenty

Pairing: Trent Alexander-Arnold x Fem!Reader

Summary: Arne, in hopes to focus on his team’s mental health as much as their physical, recruits a younger but just as educated psychologist to work one-to-one with the more reserved players. Trent is one of them.

A/N: guyssss!!!! ur support means the world, the sun, the moon, the solar system to me like everything!!! some of the comments u leave got me feeling like Y/N fr, big mwahs for u all! I made this part a little longer as an apology for making you wait for so long!

Warnings: more fluff, Trent slowly starting to open up methinks, angst, pressure, high-stress environment, very slow burn

Word Count: 3.1k words (11 mins reading avg)

…

You were seated at your desk, carefully closing the backs of the picture frame. You smiled as you secured the last clip, the image now safely enclosed behind the glass. It was a small comfort, one you could look at during the demanding days.

Before you had the chance to prop it up on your new cabinet, Lee entered with a folder in hand. You left your frame face-down as you stood up, and rounded your desk to greet him.

"Saw your email. Everything okay?"

Lee gave you a quick, apologetic smile as he handed you the folder. "Yeah. Won't be able to make the Man United game this weekend."

He handed you a folder emblazoned with the Man United logo, stuffed with the players' reports.

You raised an eyebrow, more concerned than curious. "That's unlike you. What's come up?"

He leaned against the edge of your desk, folding his arms. "Got to attend a family thing, non-negotiable. But that's not the only reason I'm here."

His tone shifted, more serious now. "I need you to step in and travel with the squad as the on-hand psychologist."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Me? But... I mean, I usually handle things from here. Are you sure?"

Lee nodded, his expression firm. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't. You've been great with some of the boys so far, and they trust you. This game is going to be intense, and they'll need your support. Plus, it's good for them to have some consistency, especially with me out."

It all made sense, but the reality of it hit hard. You’d only been here for two months, barely building trust through a handful of sessions a week. Now, being thrown into the deep end at Old Trafford for an away game just felt like career suicide.

You bit your lip, the weight of the responsibility starting to settle in. The thought of traveling with the team, being there in the thick of it, was both exciting and daunting.

"I don't know, Lee. What if-" Your voice wavered, playing with the corners of the folder in your hand.

"You'll be fine," he interrupted, his tone reassuring. "You're more than capable. And look, I'll only be a phone call away if you need anything."

You hesitated for a moment, the nerves swirling in your stomach. But deep down, you knew this was a chance you couldn't pass up. Lee believed in you and it was inevitable at one point.

"Okay," you finally said, taking a deep breath. "Sure."

Lee's face broke into a wide grin. "Good. I'll let the gaffer know and I'll make sure everything's arranged for you."

You nodded, watching as he left. The thrill of the weekend was tempered by the gnawing anxiety that you weren't ready, that you were diving headfirst into something you couldn't fully control. Sure, some of the boys had warmed up to you but others were still keeping you at arm's length.

You scoffed to yourself, more like just the one. You were walking a fine line with him and the last thing you wanted was to make things worse. In the heat of the moment, a sentence, an expression, a word could tick someone off.

You couldn't continue your train of thoughts, the folder staring up at you, waiting to be opened. With a steadying breath, you took a seat at your desk again and finally opened it, beginning to read through the reports.

...

The squad and staff gathered at the training ground, the usual pre-match energy heightened by the knowledge that today’s destination was Old Trafford.

You stood off to the side, watching the players mill around as they waited for the coaches to arrive, the hum of conversation and laughter blending with the distant noise of fans outside the gates.

You were trying to keep your own nerves in check, running through mental notes on the players, when Curtis sauntered over, a relaxed smile on his face.

“Bit of a madhouse out there." He said, nodding toward the entrance where the sound of chanting fans was growing louder.

“Just a bit,” you replied with a smile, honestly grateful for the distraction.

He chuckled, giving you a once-over. “You look a little tense. First time heading into enemy territory got you rattled?”

You gave him a mock glare, though the truth behind his teasing made you sigh. “Maybe a little. It’s just.. a lot. Big game, and I’m still getting used to being around everyone, let alone on a match day.”

Curtis leaned against the wall beside you, his expression softening. “I get it. But you’ve been solid with us. We’re glad you’re here, even if some of us” - he raised an eyebrow - “aren’t great at showing it.”

You smirked, knowing exactly who he was referring to.

“Trent?”

He grinned. “Nah, Wataru." You nudged his shoulder with your hand, and Curtis pushed himself off of the wall. His attention was directed back to the team as Arne brought everyone together.

"You're gonna smash it, see you in Manny." He flashed you a smile before jogging back over.

You adjusted your backpack currently slung over your shoulder, glancing up but accidentally catching Trent's eye across the large entryway.

He was standing a little apart from the others, his posture relaxed but with an air of deliberate composure. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, and his usual stoic expression was softened by a hint of curiosity.

His gaze lingered on you longer than usual, more intent and thoughtful.

You offered him a shy smile, unsure of what to expect in return. Almost immediately, his eyes darted away, his expression tightening as he turned his attention back to the team.

A tinge of disappointment settled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to linger on it as the coach pulled into the parking space out front.

“You’ve got this. You’ve got this,” you whispered to yourself, as if it were a mantra, following the backroom staff out of the training ground.

…

The first half had been tightly contested, with neither team managing to score, leaving the game deadlocked at 0-0.

The only real highlight was Trent’s free kick from just outside the box - a powerful shot that flew high, curling away from the goal before soaring over the bar. The away fans held their breath in anticipation, only to exhale in disappointment as the ball missed its mark.

From the sidelines, you watched as Trent’s frustration grew more evident, his usual composure giving way to visible agitation.

Each missed opportunity seemed to fuel his irritation, and it was clear his emotions were beginning to take over.

You sighed as the referee jogged over after a hard tackle. The yellow card was raised high, and Trent’s reaction was a sharp scoff as he walked away, shooting a disdainful side-eye at the player he had just fouled.

The rival fans seized the moment, erupting in cheers and taunts that grew louder and more fervent.

Old Trafford lit up as the referees became hyper-aware of Trent, ready to penalise any further outbursts. Arne’s nervousness was palpable, and the backroom staff were on their feet, counting down to the halfway mark.

Trent was no longer just reacting to the game; he was actively seeking confrontations with the Man United players. His tackles were sharper, his verbal exchanges more heated.

The tension was building to a breaking point, but the halftime whistle blew just in time, bringing a collective sigh of relief from every member of Liverpool’s staff, whether at the training ground or in the stadium.

As you left your seat to head down the tunnel, Trent’s shoulder brushed against yours, his head lowered and skin glistening with sweat.

You noticed Arne watching him closely, his face a mask of concentration and concern, fully aware of how vital Trent was to the team’s strategy - and how disastrous a second yellow card could be.

...

As the halftime break drew to a near close, the tension in the dressing room was palpable. The players sat on the benches, catching their breath and nursing the aches of the first half.

Arne stood at the front, his arms crossed as he delivered his instructions, his tone firm but calm. You could see the focus in their eyes, the determination to turn the game around in the second half.

Just as he'd finished his tactical breakdown, he turned to you, walking over.

"I want you to say a few words," he said, his voice low.

"About?" You asked quietly, unaware of the boys' wandering eyes glancing between the two of you.

"Keeping their heads in the game. Any insights that might help them stay focused and.. you know, ease off the aggression."

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah, okay."

The players' attention turned to you as you moved to the centre of the room, a mix of curiosity and expectation in their gazes. It was almost comical - this was the first time many of them were hearing you speak in a professional setting.

You cleared your throat, giving a quick glance to the clock hung on the wall.

You took a deep breath and began. “I know we don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief. We need to ease off on the aggressiveness." Trent, who had been staring at the floor, lifted his head slightly, his eyes now locked on you.

"We’re here to play our best football, to get the result we want and then move on. Allowing anger is only gonna distract you and hurt our performance. When you feel it bubbling up, just walk away and refocus yourself." You made an effort to connect with each player as you spoke, though deep down, you hoped your words would resonate with one in particular.

"Focus on what you can control - your passing, your tackles, your game.” A smirk tugged at Trent's lips before his head dipped again.

You scanned the room, noticing nods of understanding. “If you see a teammate getting heated, help them out."

Another breath, "push them away from the fight, back off, and concentrate on our tactics, not on the referee’s decisions or the United players. Don’t sulk on what went wrong. Learn from it and move on, yeah?"

Arne gave you a nod of appreciation as you wrapped up your little speech. "Alright, let’s make this second half count," you finished, your voice carrying a tinge of determination.

Virgil clapped twice, rallying the team as they stood and prepared to exit the dressing room. “Let’s go!” As they began filing out, you moved to the side to let them pass.

Trent was among the last to leave.

"Write me up next time," he muttered as he walked by, leaning in just enough for you to hear.

Your eyes involuntarily dropped to his lips before darting back up to meet his gaze. Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly composed yourself and responded.

"It was meant for everyone." You lied through your teeth.

He hummed in response, a subtle hint of amusement in his voice. "Sure," he said, not even glancing back as he walked out, leaving you with the undeniable sense that he knew exactly who your speech had been aimed at.

...

In the second half, Trent seemed lighter on his feet, more focused on the tactical aspects of the game and less caught up in the aggression that had marked his earlier play.

Liverpool had eventually secured a hard-fought 0-1 victory, with Salah scoring the winner from a beautifully timed assist by Trent. The away crowds erupted as the ball hit the back of the net, and the energy from that moment carried through until the final whistle.

As you watched him on the pitch, his frustration giving way to calm determination, you couldn’t help but wonder if your halftime words had played a part in that change.

Even a small part, that was more than enough to make you feel like you were on the right track.

The journey back to the training ground was a short one, the adrenaline from the win still buzzing among the team.

But by the time you arrived, the place had already started to empty out, with most of the team and staff having headed home to celebrate or rest.

The win had been sweet, but the quietness that greeted you at the training ground felt like a peaceful end to a very intense day.

You hadn’t intended to stay at the training ground as late as you did after returning, but with Kaia staying over at a friend’s house and the stack of unwritten reports waiting for your attention, you found yourself at your desk again.

The evening had unfolded into an unexpected work spell as you prepared for the upcoming sessions and tackled the never-ending paperwork.

The soft glow from your new office lamp created a cozy pool of light, the only sounds in the quiet room being the occasional rustle of papers and the gentle hum of the air conditioning.

Starting to nurse a headache, you rubbed your eyes carefully as to not smudge your makeup.

The words of practising what you preached echoed in your mind, working for hours on end without a break was hardly the advice you’d give to anybody.

So, you eventually pushed away from your desk and decided to step outside your office for a walk.

The halls were quiet and mostly vacant as you strolled, letting your mind drift and find a moment of peace.

You made your way to the large glass windows that stretched across both the first and second floors, providing a panoramic view of the training grounds below.

The evening sky was transitioning into deep blues, with the last hints of daylight fading.

Yet your gaze was drawn to a solitary figure on the pitch, illuminated by the few remaining lights.

It was him.

Even from this distance, his form was unmistakable as he set up a line of balls and readied himself for another round of free kicks. Instantly, you were reminded of earlier - his powerful shot that had soared over the bar.

Seeing him out there, still working hard, your shoulders slumped in realisation.

The scene was almost surreal, marked by the quiet dedication of a player refusing to call it a day.

You stood there in complete silence, taking in the sight as if it were a scene from a film - each deliberate movement and focused effort holding your rapt attention.

It was a side of him you hadn’t seen before. Alone and immersed in his own world, completely absorbed in his craft without a care for the outside distractions.

Deciding to join him, you headed out of the building and towards the pitch. The evening air was crisp, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of nearby trees.

You crossed your arms over your chest, maintaining a respectful distance as you approached. You hoped your presence would neither startle him nor prompt him to leave.

"Mind if I watch?" You asked, keeping your tone light and casual.

Trent glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned back to the pitch. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but no trace of annoyance.

"Suit yourself, psychologist," he replied, his voice steady. You nodded - guess that was good enough for you.

You watched as he rolled the first ball to his feet, his focus razor-sharp as he stopped it and took a few steps back.

The ball sailed through the air, curving beautifully into the top corner of the net. You couldn’t help but be impressed.

"That was perfect," you said, genuinely admiring his skill.

Trent shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just another shot."

"Give yourself more credit than that. It’s not easy," you countered. "I admire the dedication."

He glanced back at you. “Guess you’d know.”

“Sorry?” You asked, slightly confused.

Another shot.

“The picture in your office. You played once,” he remarked, a hint of a challenge in his tone.

You found yourself wondering when he had been in your office to notice the picture, then it clicked. He'd helped you assemble the cabinet where you later placed it.

He must've spotted it in one of the boxes.

You watched as he set up another ball, and somehow, in a way that only Trent could manage, that shot was even better than the last.

You scoffed lightly, dismissing the comparison. “Nowhere near your level, obviously. But you’re right, I guess I can imagine the passion. The pressure.”

You hoped your words were reaching him, echoing the sentiments he'd talked about in so many of his interviews.

He breathed out slowly. "So why psychology?" He asked, bending over to position the next ball.

"Because mental strength is just as important as physical ability," you explained. "I've seen talented players crumble under pressure, and others rise above it. The difference often comes down to how well they manage their minds."

Trent didn’t respond immediately. He set up another shot, this time, it hit the post with a loud thud.

Frustrated, he sighed.

You picked up the ball as it bounced near you, letting it roll between your hands before walking over to him. Once there, you dropped it to the ground, letting it settle by the side of your foot.

When he looked at you, his gaze was softer than you’d ever seen it.

You felt a flutter in your chest, the kind that made your stomach dip slightly. Your fingers curled into your palms, a subconscious effort to ground yourself as the moment stretched on.

“I know I’m just a stranger,” you began gently, your tone careful and steady.

“But I’m not here to push you and you don’t have to share anything with me. I just want you to know that if you ever feel like talking, we can - no titles, just two people who might understand each other.”

You added with a slight smile. “You’ll never know unless you give it a shot.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider something. You would’ve traded anything in to know what was going through his mind at that moment.

But he shook his head, glancing out over the pitch. “I’m good for now.”

“Okay,” you replied, giving the ball a gentle nudge, just enough to pass it to him. With a nod, you stepped back and turned towards the building, heading inside.

Before entering, you turned around, surprised to find him already watching you. “Thanks for hearing me out, yeah?”

You offered him a final smile before disappearing inside.

Trent’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure for a moment longer before he returned to his practice, a slight shift in his expression as he continued his routine.

...

Part 6

Masterlist

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 8 months

Text

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre.

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp.

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?”

Or somethin’ along those lines.

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark.

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in.

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice.

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor.

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned.

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone.

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice.

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up.

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick.

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression.

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly.

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain.

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread.

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me.

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose.

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it.

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be.

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile.

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him.

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else.

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me.

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?”

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply.

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.”

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest.

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight.

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too.

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits.

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!”

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices.

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate.

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow.

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me.

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down.

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work.

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause.

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought.

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen; Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night.

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes.

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter.

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger.

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it.

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face.

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin.

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.”

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently.

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving.

Give me strength. Give me strength.

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe.

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly.

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact.

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive.

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation.

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?”

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace.

“Kiss me again, then.”

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth.

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second.

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid.

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own.

A switch in his brain must flick on.

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt.

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable.

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return.

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?”

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this.

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me.

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.”

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him.

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.”

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton.

I sigh, try not to squirm.

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering.

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips.

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back.

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world.

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine.

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra.

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut.

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip.

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead.

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl.

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point.

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.”

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager.

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter.

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.

“Lie back.”

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth.

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger.

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit. My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse.

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers.

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here.

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away.

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see.

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him.

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders.

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him.

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside.

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound.

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out.

“It’s okay,” I reply.

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver.

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what #the idler wheel TD

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rainroses45 · 4 months

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Rain, Please Never Go Away

Description: You try to stop Harry from running into the house and leaving a mess, while he tries to stop the water from escaping. (James Potter x Wife!Reader) (Mom Reader & Harry Potter) A/n: I was watching one of my favorite shows (bluey) and I could not stop crying to this amazing episode so here is my take on it :) NOT EDITED AT ALL Song Inspo: Rainbow - Bluey Warnings: None zip zero nada

"We'll be back darling," James called out to the two of you. The boys had to go finish some paperwork for tomorrows early mission, leaving you alone in the house with your son.

"I don't know why we couldn't have taken the bike," Sirius grumbled from the backseat of the Ford Escort. "It would have been far more exciting than riding this hunk of junk."

"Frankly my dear, I don't give damn," Remus readjusted his rear view mirror starring at his husband in annoyance. "And I quite enjoy having all my bones in tact to answer your question."

"It was one time!" Sirius shouted causing Harry to let out a giggle.

You stood on the front porch of your house with Harry in your arms watching as your three troglodytes argue with one another.

The pot of English Pearls you had outside, hanging from the exterior of the railing, swayed with the wind. The sky was still clear but the wind gave its surprise shower away. "Surely, the storm won't be here till tomorrow," you thought.

"Be careful," you yelled as you saw them begin to pull out of the driveway. Harry waved his hands, shouting continuous "goodbyes" and "I love yous."

"I love you two so much," James smiled as he sent air kisses to Harry and you, his window still rolled down in order to hear your voices.

"We love you to dada!" Harry jumped up and down on your hip trying to see the car over the tall trees. All that could be heard as a response was a couple of laughs and coos for the young five year boy.

"Okay angel, I'm going to go start on dinner," you carried him inside, closing the door behind you. "Would you like to help or would you like to go play?"

"Can I play in living room?" He asked, looking at your hair as he fiddled with the strands. You thanked Godric he no longer had the habitat of pulling your hair anymore.

"Of course love," you set him down on the carpet, before heading to the kitchen to make dinner.

You opened the pantry to see what you could make tonight. Maybe a soup, or some sandwiches - in the end you decided to make tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Just as you finished cutting off the crust of Harry's sandwich, you heard the strum of pitter patters on the window. Quickly you looked out the window above the kitchen sink and saw that the sky had darken. Without a second thought you grabbed the empty laundry basket near the sofa and ran outside.

A confused Harry followed along behind you, soon falling behind as he mesmerized at the water coming down from the clouds. He soon dashed his way to happy green grass and enjoyed the rain drops.

You on the other hand headed to the side of the house, quickly pulling down the clothes from the clips on the line and shoving them into the basket. "Out of all the days it decided to rain, why on earth now?" You muttered as you tried to take down all the clothes as fast as you could, laughing a bit at James's soaked unicorn boxers.

"Mum can we play in the rain?" Harry asked as he spun around on the grass looking up at the rain falling from the sky.

"Just for a while darling, I don't want you to get sick," you replied before entering the house and placing all the clothes in the mud room. You stretched them out on the counters before heading outside to watch Harry.

The gentle fall of the rain from the roof through the gutter, soothed the house as its magic came to life. Your little garden you and your husband started began to dance with joy with the clouds tears just as your son did.

Harry giggled and laughed as he felt the squishing of the mud beneath his feet. He stuck his tongue out to catch raindrops, feeling a rush of happiness in the weather - when something caught his eye. A funny growing trail of rain water began to follow down the stoney path of their porch towards the empty road.

Jumping into stream on the path, he laughed as the cold water splashed against his ankles. You saw him jumping in the stream of water, and let out a soft smile. If only you have your camera right now to take a photo of this memory.

"Harry, darling," you called out, "I'm going to get an umbrella for you." Your son continued to jump in the stream completely infatuated with it, "okay mum."

Watching as the water flowed, Harry put his two feet together watching as the stream began to build up. Soon it tried escaping his little wall, until he placed both of his hands down and tried stopping it once more.

Looking around he tried to find something to help stop it, and when you came out with the umbrella an idea struck. Without another thought he quickly ran to your arms grabbing the umbrella and running back to stop the flow. You looked pleased at first, thinking he was going to use it to not get wet, but then you were soon let down. "If that is not James's kid I don't know at this point," you thought, grumbling as you walked back inside.

Although in his mind it did seem like a wonderful idea to use the umbrella, he then realized that it would fly backwards as the weight of the build of water was too heavy for him to hold.

Closing it, he threw it away and soon decided on finding another way. In his five year old mind, your son decided to use the newspaper on the lawn to stop the flow of the water. That idea also failed him, so quickly he went inside, startling you with the slamming of the front door as he ran towards his room.

Carrying four toy blocks in his hands he ran towards the front door, but was soon stopped by you.

"Harry James Potter!" You yelled, "look at the mess you made, where is the umbrella I gave you?" You asked as you pointed towards the muddy shoe prints on the floor.

"Mum I'm sorry but I-" He tried explaining but you kept talking about the mess on the floor. Harry tried wiping it away with his foot but it just made you sigh.

"Go," you pointed outside annoyed to which he gladly left to go complete his mission.

This process continued over five more times to the point you even tried barricading the open front door with your body to which harry swiftly made it through any open gaps left. Curse those stupid quidditch practices.

Finally you ended up giving up, leaving the front door open and sitting on a chair outside. You watched as Harry ran back and forth from the house to the path trying to stop the run off of water. The little wall made out of newspaper, towels, blocks, and boxes outside the path made you smile. Even if your house is a mess, its living with excitement.

Harry put his feet on the side of the other and placed his hands the same way as before trying to finish off this little wall. And as the water slowly began to reach his hands he soon realized he wasn't going to make it. There was still a gap left.

Disappointed and sad, he prayed that the water would stop at his finger tips but it didn't seem it was going to end that way. To his great surprise, you walked up from behind and placed your feet on the side of his hands.

"I thought you didn't want to make a mess mum?" Harry looked up at you, his face finally clear of the rain thanks to the umbrella you held above you.

"I learned that a little mess isn't something we should fuss about love," you shrugged, smiling down at your son.

"Mum, quick, its going to escape!" Harry said as he watched the water begin to turn over your sneakers.

You looked up at the umbrella and smiled before throwing to the floor and placing your hands next to your feet.

"I don't think we are going to make it Harry," you said as the water began to flow farther than your hand could stop.

"We need more blocks." Harry said, just before he was about to get up a pair of shoes appeared next to your hands.

"Look like you might need a little help."

"Dad!" Harry looked up to see his father. James was completely soaked from head to toe but he didn't care. He just wanted to be home.

"Darling I thought you had to finish some paperwork?" You smiled up at your husband.

"Canceled the mission because of the weather." He shrugged, "and plus how would you two ever survive without me? I mean look how the stream almost escaped- OW!" James crouched down to hold shin. "What was that for?!"

Harry tried holding in a laugh at his dads pained expression.

"That was for criticizing us," you smiled, "and this is for helping us." You gave him a peck on the lips causing a faint blush to appear on James's face.

"Ewwwwww!" Harry twisted his face in disgust.

"Oh pack it up Romeo," James said as he tried stealing another kiss from you.

Gosh you really did love you family.

i kinda of rushed it a bit at the end but potato potatoe 🦦 (also i’m kind of crying BECAUSE WHY WAS THAT EPISODE SO BEAUTIFUL) also im out of storage soooooooo I don't know what to do

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tkaulitzlvr · 11 months

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Hii! Could you please maybe do one of where the reader and Tom are like on a break from each other, and the reader and him end up being at the same party and he gets all touchy with this girl and the reader gets jealous and she ends up making out with this guy out in the crowd and Tom sees and gets jealous and ends up beating the guy up and the reader and him get into a heated argument in the car on the way to his place and he ends up doing yk as soon as they get there but in a angry way 👀

(sry Im really bad at explaining. And if you cant do it I totally understand, plus your writing is AMAZING, like seriously I appreciate all the time and effort you put into your writing I could never 😭)

BELONG TO YOU - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: you and tom had decided to take a break from your relationship a few weeks back, and you hadn’t seen him until now, at some random party, flirting with another girl. you want payback, but tom notices straight away, acting on his jealousy.

content: angst & smut

a/n: this is such a good idea omgg these types of fics are my fav to read and write. this took me three days omg i made this like unnecessarily long & detailed sorry about that.😭 thank you so much for the request and ur kind words anon!! 💞 also this clip is so hot like hello rail me pls.

my eyes burn into his figure from across the room, fingers clutching the plastic cup in my hand so hard that the material begins to crumple, though i don’t care. i am far too immersed in the interaction taking place in front of my eyes, watching the way he places a hand on her thigh, whispering things into her ear with that same playful smirk i had seen too many times, completely oblivious to the fact that i am here, seething with rage at the sight. god knows how long i had been watching the pair for, time had seemed to stop altogether the second my eyes landed on him, all i know is that i am getting closer and closer to losing my sanity.

it didn’t matter that i was a considerable distance away. i noticed everything - the way his tongue poked out of his mouth and repeatedly brushed against his lip piercing, the lingering touches which, though failing to reach the cleavage spilling out of her tight dress, were pretty close to getting there - too close. not that it matters too much that his hands hadn’t reached the most intimate parts yet: his eyes were already doing the work for him, staring so intently at her overtly prominent chest that he should’ve made physical contact with them and put me out of my misery, tearing away the only remnant of hope i had left - hope that he wouldn’t stoop so low and give himself to the first girl that he saw.

though i know that my expectations are way too high for someone like tom. he hadn’t cheated whilst we were in the relationship, but outside of it, he couldn’t help himself. and, even though we hadn’t actually broken up, ‘giving each other some space’ as he called it, it seems that his morals haven’t at all changed, and i am the last thing on his mind - my chest heaving up and down in utter rage as his hand travels suggestively further and further upwards, fingers dipping underneath her dress slightly. that was it. admittedly tipsy, i strut toward him, stopping just a few feet away from him, now in front of a semi-attractive guy who seems to avert his gaze to me almost instantly. i don’t even have to look in tom’s direction to know that he has spotted me, i can feel his eyes on me, burning intently into my figure.

indirectly aiming to maintain tom’s attention as i soak it all in, i go that extra step further, whispering a small ‘hi’ in the boy’s ear, making sure to flutter my eyelashes, noticing the way a subtle smirk etches upon his soft lips. my hands trail aimlessly up and down his chest, his own slipping to rest comfortably against my lower back, the words ‘you’re cute’ falling from my lips, smooth as silk. it didn’t matter if i meant them or not, i am not looking for a conversation, and i think he knows that too, our intentions pretty much mutual. tom doesn’t have to know that though.

all he has to know is that two can play at whatever game he thinks he has started. though the second he spotted me with whoever had his hands roaming my body, he had stopped playing, no longer finding the small blonde beside him as interesting as he did five minutes ago. i am more than willing to carry it on, messily colliding my lips with the stranger’s, the kiss sloppy and heated - everything that i want it to be. my tongue finds its way inside his mouth, deepening the kiss even more, my hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers raking through his soft brunette curls. his own hands travel further downwards, cupping my ass and using it to bring our bodies closer together, the kiss soon becoming more heated than it was before, fuelled by the alcohol in my system and the jealousy i felt, somehow trading it all in for intense anger, eager for tom to feel the way i had just a few moments ago.

‘you wanna get out of here gorgeous?’

his voice is low as it vibrates through my lips, his words slightly muffled, thanks to both the almost deafening music reverberating through my ears, and the close proximity between us. knowing that i wouldn’t think of doing anything more with this guy, i still nod my head slowly, purely to intensify tom’s jealousy, sensing his presence slightly closer than it was before, somehow easily identifiable through the crowd.

the guy smiles against my lips, kissing me roughly once again, though this one is much shorter than the last - not because either of us want it to be. he is harshly pushed away from me, my eyes opening in a mix of confusion and shock, frantically scanning the room for any clue on what had just happened, the answer becoming crystal clear as i spot tom inches away from him, hands balled into fists against the stranger’s chest.

a small crowd begins to accumulate, my hands pushing through desperately, scrambling my way to the front, the entire thing escalating impossibly fast, tom’s fist colliding with the boy’s cheek with such force he stumbles backward, body slamming against the wall harshly. but that isn’t enough for tom. he continues to land strong punches to his face, the guy finding some strength to fight back, though they are completely pointless, having little effect on tom. after a few harsh blows, the boy is defenceless, lip swollen with blood trickling just below it, a large red mark printed across his cheek.

my fast steps make their way over to tom, who is clearly just as angry as he was before he had beat the shit out of that poor guy, his cold expression failing to waver even when i grab his shoulder, turning him to face me in one swift motion.

“what the fuck? have you lost your fucking mind?” i shout over the loud music, noticing that the people seeking entertainment from the ordeal had returned back to their own company, all immersed in random conversations, or making out with someone they had never met before - not that i was in any position to judge, i had done the exact same thing moments ago.

“have you?” he shoots back, voice a level louder than mine, oozing with rage, carrying thousands of harsh words yet to be spoken.

“take a look at the guy with the fucked up face thanks to you, then think about asking me that question again! what the fuck is wrong with you?” i question, eyebrows knitting together, wondering how he can dare to turn this on me, ignoring the fact that he has just left someone with a bloody nose, seemingly unfazed by it. his eyes scan mine, narrowed slightly, a few wrinkles lining along his forehead as he does so. i hadn’t seen those eyes in so long and, despite the indisputable fury within them, it is impossible to deny how much i had missed them, regardless of the circumstances.

“we aren’t doing this here, not in front of this crowd.” he shakes his head forcefully, grabbing my hand and attempting to lead me away from it all, my body hesitant to do so.

“why? i’m not leaving.” i state confidently. he tilts his head to the side, mouth falling open slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as he appears to be in a fight with his own mind, clearly contemplating something, the decision seemingly difficult to make.

“well i am.” he replies, shaking his head slowly, turning around to walk away.

“what the fuck? are you serious?” i ramble, chasing after him shamelessly, not yet aware of how humiliating it is that he has me wrapped around his finger. my hands clutch at his jacket, wrapping firmly around the material as i pull him backwards, just before his hand reaches to clasp the door handle.

“you don’t seem to care about us anymore.” he shrugs, expression fixed, though despite the hostility it shows upfront, i can sense the sadness behind it. “so why the fuck should i?”

he shakes his head at my silence, looking for something, anything, that hints to a response, no matter how small and totally ridiculous. i stay quiet, in total disbelief of his ability to manipulate this whole situation, somehow attempting to put me at fault, as if he hadn’t had his hands all over that girl. he doesn’t seem to care about his own mistakes, focusing purely on my actions, choosing to act as a saint despite knowing deep down he is far from being one. it is this realisation that prompts him to turn around once again, his back to me as he tugs the door open, walking through it without looking back. yet i refuse to let it end like that, hurriedly following him, not considering the consequences.

“what are you talking about? seriously, instead of being such a pussy and walking away, fucking talk to me!” i demand as he momentarily stops in his tracks, eyes glued on my own, his jaw clenched. i no longer need to raise my voice, the music drowning itself out, but that doesn’t stop me, the volume of my words far louder than they need to be.

he reaches his car, hands moving into the pocket of his baggy jeans as they scramble for his keys, pulling them out without a word, though i still have plenty to say. “i’m talking to you!”

finally, he turns to face me, expression still harsh; not giving away anything that he truly wants to say. for some strange reason, he seems to hold back, restraining his mouth from acting out ahead of his mind, this unexpected, especially considering just minutes ago he hadn’t restricted himself from making particularly rash decisions, the smear of blood on his knuckle concrete proof of this.

“what, are you deaf, hm? my words not registering up there? i’m speaking to you, answer me!” i know exactly what buttons to press, exactly how to make him crack, and, once again, i do so with some success. he briefly hesitates, letting out a heavy sigh, seemingly reaching his breaking point as his mouth opens, ready to pour out the thousands of emotions he has kept in thus far.

“some fucking break this is.” he mutters, shaking his head slowly, his hand clutching the car keys with such strength his knuckles begin to turn white. “i say that we need some space and then catch you with some random guy’s tongue down your fucking throat. really seems like you missed me.”

not waiting for me to respond, he opens the car door, climbing into the driver’s seat hurriedly. i don’t know what compels me to follow him, perhaps it is my desire to find answers, possibly i am eager to continue this argument, or maybe i just missed him: his voice, his presence, everything about him somehow being exactly what i need. whatever it is, i am far too lost within him to care, my body acting ahead of my mind as i enter the passenger side, tom’s eyebrows furrowing in confusion. he doesn’t object though, clearly needing me as much as i do him, a brief look of relief taking over his expression, silently wishing that i would give in since the argument began despite his initial standoffish-ness, thankful that i have.

“don’t act like you’re all fucking innocent! the only reason i did all that was because i saw you with that slut! you clearly don’t love me anymore, not with the way you looked at her!” each word pierces him right in the chest, the daunting realisation of what he has done hitting him faster than ever. but it is the confession that i think his love for me has diminished that strikes him the most, his face softening when i utter those words. despite this, his voice is still harsh, volume meeting my own.

“don’t be ridiculous. you know she meant nothing.” he states, this apparently sufficient reassurance for his actions, the car silent for a moment as he starts it, hands on the steering wheel. i don’t know where he is going, far too frustrated to even care, wanting nothing more than to carry on this argument, in no position to let him off the hook.

“do i?” i scoff, face harshly turning to him. “i don’t see you for two weeks, and when i do, your hands are all up on some girl. the fuck am i supposed to do with that?”

his hands forcefully clutching the wheel, jaw clenched as he looks ahead, i know that he hears every word i say, processing them with ease, yet he stays quiet for a second, an uncomfortable silence in place of the harshness of my utterance, making the words ten times harder to digest. he knows that i am right, that it would be hypocritical for him to be mad at me right now, but that doesn’t stop him from being angry. in fact, his stubbornness only increases despite the realisation that he is just as guilty as i am, if not more.

“what was i supposed to do, hm? i didn’t have you, i just-” he trails off, a heavy sigh leaving his parted lips, head moving backwards to rest against the back of the seat, one hand coming upward to rest on the bridge of his nose. though the hesitation suggests otherwise, he knows exactly what he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to utter the phrase, perhaps out of shame, or reluctance to admit how he truly feels. whatever it is that holds him back, i am no longer interested in his skepticism, wanting clear answers, not the mixed signals that i am receiving.

“what? you just what? stop being so fucking weird and just talk.” i order, turning in his direction, eyes burning into his features regardless of his hesitance to do so, strangely scared to look in my eyes.

“fuck…” he begins, exhaling shakily, almost preparing himself for the effect that his words are bound to have. “i missed you, okay? i missed you, and i didn’t know what else to fucking do.”

“don’t be stupid. i know that’s bullshit, and so do you. be honest with me, have you fucked someone else? since we went on whatever you want to call this weird distance between us.” i know that i shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question, the answer bound to disappoint me. for some strange reason, i want to hear him say the words, to make me realise that i’m not as important to him as i thought, that in reality, he can find someone prettier within a heartbeat. because the false hope that i continue to hold onto doesn’t seem to fade, even after watching him with his hands all over another girl.

“of course i fucking haven’t.” he scoffs, shaking his head as his face twists in anger, shocked that i would even ask such a question, the thought completely unheard of, apparently. “what, you really think i care that little? your expectations of me really that low?”

“you expect them to be high after i see you acting like that with her? you’re unbelievable.” i state, briefly looking over at him, his eyes fixated on the road, though i notice the quick glances he throws my way, assessing my expression, not giving the impression that he is going to apologise anytime soon.

“you know what? pull over, this was a mistake. we should’ve just stayed away from each other.” i say, turning to look at him, my hand moving to the door handle, desperate to get out of the situation, soon realising that we are never going to come to a solution, instead the back and fourth of our arguing will only continue until it becomes out of hand, unless i put a stop to it now.

he refuses to stop, the pressure his foot applies to the gas only seeming to increase, the speed of the car getting faster, making it pretty clear that he doesn’t plan on letting me leave.

“i’m not letting you go, not when it’s this dark out. you should know that i care about you too much to do that. i want to talk about this.” he replies, his voice assertive yet calm, the desperation behind it more evident than ever. the surroundings soon become familiar, having travelled along this road thousands of times, it would be impossible to not recognise it. countless times i had seen the same houses, same trees, same buildings either side of the road, each small detail reminding me of how much i had become used to this area, able to distinguish it much easier than i realise. the familiar house comes into view, it’s four walls holding more memories than any place i had ever been. thousands of nights of passion, mornings of lazy affection, afternoons spent simply enjoying each other’s company spent here, each one unforgettable - to me, at least.

but the comfort it brings me isn’t enough to make me forget about the situation, instead it makes me resent it even more. “why am i here? you want to ridicule me even more, yell at me for kissing that guy some more, rub it in my face that you had your hands on her-”

“you’re here because i want to you be. please can we talk about this? instead of being so fucking stubborn, just let me talk, for once.” he interrupts, confessing his feelings as they spill freely from his lips, eyes finally brave enough to look into my own.

“why should i?” i scoff, stepping out of the car as he does the same, hurriedly catching up to me, my steps towards the front door heavy and fast. his hands fumble with the keys, swiftly unlocking the door and opening it for me to step inside, all whilst i continue to ramble on, a mix of upset and anger sounding from my lips. “you have your hands all over her, and when i do the same thing, you don’t like it? and then you say you did it because you miss me? you’re the most frustrating person i’ve ever met, you know that? nothing is ever simple with you. you mess with my fucking head, and you don’t even care! why? why do you have to make me so-”

as much as i want to continue the sudden burst of rage, eager to show tom the frustration i feel right now, my words are abruptly cut off by a soft pair of lips, the harshness of them mirroring the venom within my tone, silencing my rushed speech in a way too tempting for me to dream of refusing. without thinking, i quickly kiss back, soon reflecting the hunger that tom displays as his lips move against mine, hands moving to my waist to pull me closer, my own behind his neck, his black braids tangled between my fingers.

“you drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he breathes out between kisses, my mind too lost within the moment to even respond, his words barely registering. “so stubborn, but fuck, i need you, can’t live without you...”

i moan against his lips in response, deciding that actions speak far louder than words, channeling all the built up frustration into the kiss, parting my lips to allow his tongue to slip inside my mouth, my own entering his. the process of his arms hoisting me upwards, legs wrapping around his torso roughly and walking sloppily into the living room, our lips never parting is all a blur, my back ending up flat against the couch, tom’s body situated in between my legs, hovering over me. it didn’t matter that five minutes ago i could’ve punched his face. truthfully, i could do the same right now. however i decide to exercise my anger in the most pleasurable way possible, figuring that if he is trying to apologise, this is a pretty damn good way of earning my forgiveness - the silent promise of feeling him inside me meaning i’d probably accept whatever half-hearted attempt he put together to make amends, if it meant that we could get to the point faster.

my hair is disheveled, lipstick smudged, traces of the deep red now present on tom’s lips, proving just how desperate the both of us are - whether i am willing to admit it or not. his hand travels upwards, fingers grazing the soft skin covered by my hair, eventually making contact with the zipper of my dress and carefully tugging it downwards, despite his kisses being anything but. it is so wrong, knowing that he has entertained someone else not even an hour ago and he is touching me now, but it feels so right, against all of my morals, every part of me willing to make my body his and his only. my mind silently thanks whatever higher presence up there for gracing me with tom, though the things that we are doing forbid us from ever reaching heaven, not that it matters, because the feeling of his lips against mine is pretty damn close to it.

“fuck- i love you so much baby, so much…” he trails off, pulling away momentarily to allow his hands to take my dress, sliding the material down my body, exposing it all inch by inch until the soft cotton is bunched at my knees. his lips are curved into a small smirk, so subtle it is almost unnoticeable, though once his eyes flick between my face and now bare figure, i know that it is real - his being in some sort of trance as it rests above me, giving away his silent admiration. eyes twinkling as they take in my curves, perfectly defined, adorned with smooth skin, begging to be touched by his calloused hands which now reach outwards from his sides, giving into the temptation.

he is careful, despite the look on his face suggesting that he wants to be everything but. he desperately tries to hold on to the gentleness, hesitant to spoil moment of passionate bliss that resumes as his hands continue to run along my stomach, moving further and further upward. but deep down, he wants to ruin me, to give up the sweet act that he is putting on, and i want it just as bad - each second that he continues to be tender, his actions restricted and mild, slowly tortures me.

“why are you holding back?” i breathe out, eyes locked on his hands as they finally make contact with my breasts, moulding the flesh into his palms. i can sense the way he pauses slightly, refraining from applying any pressure, instead maintaining his steady movements, gaze locked on my breasts as he drinks in the view, mesmerised by the sight as if he hadn’t seen it a hundred times over.

“we don’t have to rush, i want to be gentle-” he speaks, voice slow and soft, though i have passed the point of caring about taking our time, the concept of it long gone. because i could spend an eternity like this, completely connected with him, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“be gentle tomorrow.” i interrupt him, eyes flickering to his lips, wanting nothing more than to feel them against my own once again, tired of his accidental teasing.

his eyes meet my own, the lust within them taking over, my words barely considered as he acknowledges them immediately, capturing my lips in a kiss. it is rough, lacking that hesitance he showed moments ago, because now he has my permission, he no longer cares about being gentle, able to act out on his desires the way he needs to.

with a simple tug, he takes down his jeans, discarding the denim somewhere on the floor, far too focused on my exposed body in front of him to care where. if his demeanour didn’t give away his desperation, the bulge in his boxers said enough, his length brushing against my leg through the material as his head dips downward once again, reconnecting our lips in another heated kiss. i shift my hips slightly, mouth falling open once his dick brushes against my clit through my panties, the sensation, though only slight, enough to restrain my ability to kiss back.

he quickly senses this, hands moving to my panties, fingers hooking under the material, slowly raking them downwards, letting the lace pool at my feet. his arms lift upwards once my fingers make contact with the hem of his t-shirt, making it easier for me to remove the heavy fabric. i sit upwards, face inches away from his own, lips ghosting over each other’s whilst i pull the t-shirt upwards and over his head, releasing it onto the floor.

within seconds, his boxers are lost somewhere on the floor, joining the piles of clothes scattered around the room. his dick presses against his lower abdomen, the sight only making the aching between my thighs intensify, just about ready to get on my knees and beg, if he doesn’t put me out of my misery in the next few seconds.

and he does - just not in the way that i want him to. instead, his lips move downward at an agonisingly slow pace, eyes never leaving my own, even when he begins to place open-mouthed kisses along my stomach, his teeth grazing over the skin ever so slightly, though the sensation is enough for small whines to leave my lips, hands reaching for his head, fingers running over the rough bumps of his braids.

“shit- you’re so beautiful, so pretty schatz…” he praises between kisses, hands coming upward to pry my legs apart as they instinctively clench together at the pleasure. if it weren’t for his body in between them, they probably would’ve closed completely, not that tom would ever complain about being in such a position - especially not now when he had been without it for so long.

“please…” i whine, back arching slightly off of the couch, his teasing movements no longer enough. i need one thing, and he knows exactly what that is, his desires mirroring my own.

“shhhh. i know baby, i know.” he coos, head finally moving from my stomach as his whole body shifts upward, his forehead now resting against my own, lips placing small kisses all over my face, attempting to distract me from the feeling of his tip aligning with my entrance. he is foolish to think that anything could divert my attention from this sensation - i have been waiting for it for so long that it is the only thing on my mind, mouth falling open once it finally becomes a reality.

his lips curve into a smug smile at my reaction, watching the way my face contorts when he pushes inside of me, his length stretching out my walls as they clench around him. my mind is hazy, tuning out everything else around me, nothing else seeming to matter once i have gotten what i want. sure, thirty minutes ago i resented him, wanting nothing more than to hurl words of irritation at him until my throat turned hoarse, but it seems that i’ll be reaching the same conclusion anyways - the way his cock slowly thrusts in and out of me eliciting moans from me that are bound to leave my vocal chords sore. this doesn’t stop me from vocalising my pleasure though, inaudible whines not far from screams leaving my parted lips once he speeds up his pace a little.

“that’s it baby, let me hear those pretty sounds. show me how much you missed me, mhm?” he grunts, his own mouth hanging open a little as his hips continue to grind against my own, knowing exactly how to move, paying close attention to when my noises would become particularly loud, angling himself to elicit those same sounds from my lips, eyes squeezing shut whenever i do so.

somehow he hadn’t reprimanded me for when i would squirm a little, back arching ever so slightly, legs closing tighter and tighter around him. instead, his eyebrows would furrow when i do so, my movements drawing him deeper inside of me, so deep that i swear i can feel him in my stomach. even if he had scolded me, reminding me to be good, to behave myself as this is what i wanted, he knows that his words won’t stop me from acting out, especially when i know he is too lost in his own pleasure to even consider halting his movements - my climax guaranteed regardless of how much i irritate him so, why not misbehave a little?

“fuck- stay still.” he finally orders once i squeeze my legs around his waist one too many times, my hips lifting instinctively from the couch. his hands firmly place them downwards, fingers digging into the skin ever so slightly, providing just the right amount of pain to make me go close to insane, a moaning mess beneath him. he starts to circle his hips swiftly, his dick moving in and out of me at a different angle, and god, that’s all it takes. that is all i need for my mouth to fall open in a silent scream, quickly acknowledging that his tip no longer brushes weakly against that sensitive spot inside me, it hits the flesh directly.

if i had the ability to speak, i would be encouraging, no, begging him to carry on, to keep his movements going, his cock hitting every spot inside of me that causes me to moan that little bit louder, legs to squeeze around him just a little tighter. but he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on me, knowing the reaction that he elicits out of me is one of unmatched bliss, so he keeps going, much to my relief. through the small part of my vision that isn’t overtaken by the tears that soon begin to cover my eyes, i study tom’s face, his expression causing the already prominent knot in my stomach to tighten even further.

if the pleasure he brings me isn’t enough, the evidence of his own tips me over the edge - his eyebrows knitted together, sweat lining his forehead as he moves in and out of me, mouth open with his tongue occasionally swiping across his bottom lip. he stays relatively quiet, though i know exactly how to elicit small sounds out of him, noticing the way deep groans sound from the back of his throat when i clench around him, almost inaudible words of encouragement that follow his moans prompting me to repeat my actions, noticing the way he twitches inside me as i do so.

“gonna cum, c’mon baby, cum with me.” he prompts, bending downwards to plant quick kisses onto my lips, his thrusts now slow and deep, pushing me over the edge as i manage to nod my head, hands reaching to clutch his biceps. my nails dig into the skin once i feel his hot cum shoot inside of me, an elongated ‘ohhhh’ leaving his lips as he throws his head backward, hips lazily rocking back and forth at an irregular pace, one final thrust being all it takes for the knot in my stomach to quickly unravel.

my eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open as a high-pitched moan escapes it, back lifting upward off of the couch once his pointer finger reaches to make contact with my clit, rubbing slow circles over it as my release washes over me. he continues to move in and out of me, fucking his seed further into me, his heavy breathing sounding through the silent room. he collapses on top of me, not bothering to pull out just yet, instead using the little energy he has left to softly run his fingers up and down my arm in an attempt to slow my rapid breathing, taking notice of the way my entire body trembles slightly.

“you okay schatz?” he mutters, his low voice vibrating against my bare skin, lips inches away from my breasts as his head rests in between them, placing a lazy kiss there. i mutter a small ‘mhm’, noticing the strain that the small utterance places on my throat, silently cursing myself for being so vocal, though deep down i know that i don’t really regret it, the sex warranting every sound i let spill from my lips.

“you still angry?” he asks, the soft smile that graces upon his lips telling me that he knows the answer to his question before i even open my mouth. he chuckles lowly, squeezing my waist and moving closer, intertwining our legs together, our bodies tangled as we lay on the couch.

“depends if you plan on touching someone like you did that girl again.” i shrug, honestly still a little frustrated at what i had witnessed, the thought making me seethe with jealousy. even after i had tom inside of me just moments ago, the small amount of satisfaction it brings me isn’t enough, wishing that i could somehow go back in time and stop the entire thing from ever happening, realising that my life would be better without knowing he had entertained someone else, even for a few minutes.

“what girl?” he grins, beginning to place sloppy kisses on my neck, hands running up and down my waist. he knows exactly what i am talking about, continuing to sweet talk me, all whilst his lips continue to work against my neck, tongue running soothingly over the skin after his teeth nip against it. “the only girl i want to touch is you, baby.”

“you know what girl.” i breathe out, trying to continue the conversation, my head tilting backwards to give him more access, failing miserably to maintain my composure as his kisses hold me under his trance, getting me just as worked up as i had been ten minutes ago, before he had pleasured me.

“hmm, i don’t care about her.” he mutters against me, his voice vibrating above my chest, sending chills through my body, the feeling soon soothed when he moves on top of me once again, trailing the suggestive kisses lower and lower, hovering just above my breasts. his eyes are half-lidded, filled with tired lust as they peer innocently at me, the intent behind them crystal clear as they darken just before his mouth opens, his voice low. “why would i? just want you beautiful. need you all to myself…”

tired moans leave his lips as they continue to work against me, leaving no part untouched, his kisses becoming slow and sloppy. though he doesn’t show any intention of stopping, muttering small compliments in between kisses. ‘so beautiful.’ he mumbles, taking the skin between my breasts and slowly sucking on it, teeth digging in momentarily, soon pulling away once he is satisfied with the small bruise left in place of his soft lips. ‘love you so much.’ he whispers just before his tongue swipes over an existing mark, head tilting to the side to press open-mouthed kisses just below it. “shit- so fucking perfect.’ he mutters, lips hovering above my breast for a few seconds, breath fanning over it, watching the way my chest falls up and down, anticipating his touch. ‘meine schatz, all yours.’ he murmurs, taking my nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, his free hand kneading the flesh of my thigh, slowly continuing to work against me, noticing the way my whines become lazy and restricted.

he looks upward briefly, my own eyes on the verge of closing, completely exhausted, entire body aching as it manages to calm down, no longer trembling the way it was moments ago. his hands reach upwards, fingers threading through my hair, removing any knots within it. his own eyes struggle to stay open, yet he forces them to, holding back on falling asleep until he knows that i have, instead resuming his fingers’ slow movements through my hair, paying close attention to my breathing pattern, humming in satisfaction once it becomes slow and shallow, signalling that i have finally let exhaustion take over. even when he falls asleep, he refuses to reduce his hold on me, bodies tangled together as we are finally at peace, belonging to each other once again.

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

#tom kaulitz #kaulitz twins #tokiohotel #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz smut #tomkaulitz #tom kaulitz angst #kaulitz #tom kaulitz fluff #bill kaulitz

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romanoffsbish · 11 months

Text

The Tournament

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Natasha was never one to shy away from a challenge, and your body paid the ultimate price. | WC: 1,254

Natasha was exhausted.

It had been ten hours of this. On and off

Mostly on, and you, well you were not cognizant.

——

The redhead had mistakenly read one of Tony's world record books, it was a gag that he childishly bought. In the section dedicated to fornication she had read that the longest "episode of sex" to have been recorded, with no change in intimacy partners, was five hours long. So of course, Natasha Romanoff, the competitive devil, took the challenge on to double it, ensuring that no one (human-wise) ever beat her record.

You knew when you met her on the battlefield that she was an overachiever. It was the way that she had been graceful the entire time she choked the enemy with her beefy, as well as soft, thighs. To the now, where she fell beside you with an arm that held no functionality. All of the adrenaline faded and she huffed a tired chuckle.

What a night it had been she mused within the hollow confines of her dimming mind. Though sore she was able to get out of bed and work to clean you up. The moment you two had hit hour eight you were snoring. Natasha admired the way your body convulsed with every sleep time orgasm, even if you couldn't feel it, you were having the time of your unconscious life.

The you of the morning will be gobsmacked and in some way turned on. Your vagina that should be in ruins would likely pulse with a sharp, painful need. For now though she settled your core beneath a pair of fresh panties and slipped you up the bed and onto the pillows that were designed for you. Then she cleaned up the room of any evidence. She took the toys down to the small, second kitchen you had and tossed them into the designated dishwasher. Then she finished off the tray of peanut butter sandwiches she'd made for the nights necessary fuel station. She also had vodka, and an assortment of chocolate and fruit to munch on.

The rules of the book stated that breaks that lasted less than three minutes were ebbed into the flow of things.

Natasha was terrified to let you down, and by you she meant her very annoying sense of pride. Which is why the night started off with you in the captains position. Your soft lips painted her skin a lovely blend of maroon and lilac, the blue to forge a galaxy would come later.

The way she mewled for you felt pornographic, and then you remembered she had planned to record this for proof. You shakily agreed so she set up five cameras around the room. At each two hour mark when she stopped to drink some water or bite into a peanut butter sandwich she'd stop the one and start the other when she was back. Each clip got a different angle, each with their own feature and timestamped to the second to further prove the breaks weren't prolonged.

Natasha nearly killed you when her knees locked behind your head; but you didn't mind. You whispered a prayer against her pussy that she'd hopefully find you in paradise one day, then she came with a miracle on the dancing tastebuds of your tongue. Oxygen filled your lungs just as it excavated hers, the both of you spluttered as you choked on her slick, and she forgot how to breathe in place of the dizzying pleasure.

Thirty minutes down, but you were far from tired. It showed in the wild irises Natasha's soft emeralds met. Whenever you looked at her like that she lost all of her sense of authority. You'd flipped her over and fingered her while backhanding and palming at her smooth ass. Natasha grunted at each slap then moaned at the thrusts, it was husky and made your body tremble.

Natasha chased every single high you offered her, and she was near to losing count when you slowed down. You'd made it to hour three, and that's when the need to rest began to set in. Natasha saw it, and flipped you over so she could take over. You'd lasted longer than anytime before in one straight session and she was so incredibly proud, but more importantly turned on.

"Fuck Y/N," she panted against your cheek as her fingers slid through your slick folds. "You made me cum eight times and my pussy is still throbbing as you moan in my ear." Her lips lowered further, hot breath tickled your ear and you giggled breathily. "Keep going my sweet girl, you're in for a long night so keep it up."

You did your best too, entertaining her with answers to her filthy questions, moaning and thrashing as she found a new way to get you to your new best orgasm, but then your lethargy began to set in once again.

At hour six Natasha had sat your limp form up and nourished you back to life within the time constraint. Offering you a bit more enjoyment before the eventual KO took place. Your cries turned into whimpers, then choked moans until the sound of skin slapping and slick sliding was all she could focus on as she thrusted.

There was no time to feel any aches when focusing on keeping your body mindlessly jolting so Natasha built up her mental walls and in the long run gave herself carpal tunnel. In the end she felt it was worth it, as she won the fictitious title of "longest sex (love making) session ever recorded," and then she found you three days later after coming home early (at midnight as opposed to 7am) with your fingers inside you as your eyes were transfixed on her head between your legs.

"Wanna make a new record?" You jumped up and held your slick hand out in front of you to stall her request from happening, but all the redhead did was lunge and take your fingers into her greedy mouth. She moaned at the uniquely tangy taste, but her eyes creased in contradiction as your slivered nail scraped her palate.

"I need to taste you," she grunted and you gasped, "Natasha baby please." She shushed you with a bruising kiss and rubbed your cunt against her latex suit. You choked on her tongue and she chuckled, "It's okay detka, you can admit that you need me, I'm here."

"I'm sensitive," you whimpered and she kissed the bridge of your nose in comfort. "I'll be gentle detka, I just want to spend four hours talking to your pussy. Gonna tell you all the reasons why I love you while your moans convey the same message back to me."

"Please," you were breathless now and this time you were beckoning her closer instead of away. She pecked your lips then pulled away abruptly to keep her focus on a shower, while also making you stumble. "Get on the bed with nothing on detka, keep your hands to yourself and sit pretty while I take my quick shower."

"Be fast mommy," you cried and she cackled as the door shut, showing you her intentions to edge you.

You smirked, excited that your plan had worked, much unlike your legs would come morning; Natasha would now likely spend the entire week at your beck and call.

In the end, everyone wins.

Well, except for Tony, who had to fork out the cash for sound proofing the walls and sending Steve to therapy.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff blurb #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x female reader #gxg #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #natasha x you #natasha x fem!reader

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reidreaders · 10 months

Text

Spencer Reid, Celebrity Crush

Summary: Every now and then, you see this FBI agent on TV and you have been crushing on him for years. What happens when you finally meet him in real life?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: use of y/n, they are both really awkward lol, it's like soon to be idiots in love yk, not proof read, idk what else lmk if I missed anything.

A/N: this idea has been rotting in my brain for so long and I finally decided to write it lol. I had sooo much fun writing this so lmk if you a part 2!!! Enjoy!!!!

MASTERLIST

Your favorite time of night was when you and your roommate would gather around the TV to watch the five o’clock news. This might not seem like totally normal behavior for two women in their twenties, but you guys didn’t tune in to keep up with what was going on in the world. Rather, you tuned in every night to hopefully catch a glimpse of the man of your dreams. It’s fair to say that most people have a celebrity crush, although normal people are usually infatuated by famous singers, movie stars, and the like. Not you however, the man that you pined for was a local FBI agent. Your roommate would even go as far as to say that he doesn’t count as a ‘celebrity crush’ because he’s not even famous, but he was to you.

You grew up not far from Quantico, meaning that the nightly news was always full of stories about the town’s own personal superheroes, the FBI. You had never been particularly interested in anything having to do with them, until you started hearing about the Behavioral Analysis Unit. You had seen a clip of one of the agents tricking a bystander into proving he was lying on TV, and you instantly fell in love. So, when you sat down to watch the news, you were more than excited to hopefully see him.

You had gotten lucky tonight. The news ran stories about the BAU almost nightly, but it was rare you got to see anyone other than the blonde woman they called Agent Jareau. But tonight was different. You practically screamed when you saw him come on screen, not even paying attention to whatever psychopath he was talking about. Instead, you focused on how his lips moved when he spoke, and the way the breeze outside the police station lifted his hair just ever so slightly. Needless to say, you were practically swooning. You were captivated by his big brown puppy eyes, his mop of messy brown hair, and the way he seemed so passionate about whatever he was talking about. It may have been the delusion talking, but you were pretty sure that if you ever met him, he would fall in love with you too.

A few weeks later, you were rushing to get to work on time. Your alarm hadn’t gone off when it was supposed to, leaving you frantic. Normally, you woke up early, giving yourself time to make breakfast and enjoy a cup of coffee. But today the fates had decided that you would have to settle for a cup of coffee and a croissant to go from the coffee shop down the street from your office.

You placed your order and began to fumble through your purse looking for your wallet.

“Sorry,” you mumbled to the cashier, who seemed to be growing impatient, “It must be in here somewhere.”

After looking for a few more minutes, and creating a giant line of annoyed customers behind you, you had come to the conclusion that in your rush to get out the door this morning, you had forgotten your wallet. Just as you were about to give up and leave the coffee shop, hungry and tired, a familiar voice piped up from behind you.

“Here,” he said, handing the cashier his card, “I’ve got it.”

“Oh my gosh thank you so much!” You said, not yet looking up from your bag.

“It’s no problem really,” He extended his hand to you, “I’m Spencer.”

Oh.

You quickly realized where you had recognized that voice from. He was Spencer. As in Spencer Reid, the FBI agent you were so hopelessly in love with. This was your chance. You had to play it cool. You couldn’t have him realizing that you were some freak who was obsessed with him, you wanted to land a date.

“H-hi!” You stuttered, a little more excitedly than you were hoping to, “I-I’m Y/N.” You reached out to shake his hand, your own becoming a little clammy at the sight of him.

He was tall. Much taller than he seemed to be on TV. You looked up into those big brown eyes you had gazed into through the screen and thought you were going to throw up because of how nervous you were.

“Um-” You cleared your throat, “Do you-uh-do you work around here?” You said in an attempt to seem calm, cool and collected.

“Uh yeah I do. I work for the FBI, so it’s just up the road.” He said, seemingly chuckling at your behavior a little bit.

“Oh! That’s cool! I work just up the road too! Although it’s nothing as exciting as what the FBI must be like I mean-” You were cut off by the barista calling your name, saving you from your incessant rambling.

You collected your coffee and turned to head towards the door, stopping to thank Spencer once again. Just as you were about to leave, you got a wave of courage. There was no way you were going to completely blow this opportunity. I mean, you have had a crush on this guy for forever and there was no way you were going to walk out of here without at least trying to ask him out.

“Hey,” You said much more calmly, “I know we literally just met, and I have been babbling like a freak at you, but I was wondering if you might want to have dinner with me sometime?” You asked, your voice getting higher as you spoke.

“Oh-um,” He sputtered back, clearly taken aback by your proposition, “Um… yeah?” He said it like a question.

“I mean, if you’re not into it that’s totally okay,” you feigned a chuckle, trying not to seem as embarrassed as you actually were, “I just thought it might be nice to uh-um pay you back for the coffee!” You spoke through the world’s fakest smile.

“No!” He practically shouted at you, “I’m into it! I am definitely into it.”

Before you could catch yourself, you were giving him the biggest smile you think you’ve ever managed.

“Great!” You weren’t even trying to hide your excitement anymore, “Here, I’ll give you my number and we can try to set something up!” You said as you wrote your number down on one of the coffee shop’s napkins.

“Y-yeah! That sounds great. I’ll-uh I-I’ll call you!” He stuttered, it was becoming clear that you weren’t the only one who was nervous.

The two of you made your way out of the coffee shop, taking turns stuttering and rambling at the other. You were starting to feel less self conscious about your earlier performance because it seemed as though he had a tendency to be awkward and ramble as well.

“Well, I should probably get to work.” You sighed, not wanting the encounter to end.

“Yeah me too.” He chuckled.

The two of you just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, trying to figure out what to do next. You didn’t want to have to make another move, considering you were the one to ask him out. However, it was becoming apparent that he was too shy to do anything, so you moved closer to him. He made no effort to put any more distance between the two of you, so you took that as your go ahead. You leaned in and threw your arms around his neck, giving him a semi-awkward hug goodbye. He wrapped his arms around you and you realized that you could smell him. All those years of looking at him on TV and yet you never wondered what he might smell like. You were pleasantly surprised. Not that you thought he would smell bad, just that you were used to men who thought that Axe body spray was the same thing as a shower. But Spencer didn’t smell like that, he smelled like old books and good cologne. Like, real, expensive, good cologne.

You realized that you were lingering in the hug for a little longer than what would probably be considered normal, so you pulled away.

“Well, uh, I’ve got to get going,” He blushed and looked at his feet, “But I’ll definitely call you.” He said holding up the napkin with your number on it.

“You better!” You joked, now blushing as well.

With that, he turned and went on his way to work. You stood there for a moment longer, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You reached into your bag and pulled out your cell phone, dialing your roommate’s number. It rang twice before she picked up.

“Y/R/N, you are never going to believe what just happened!” You squealed into the phone, ready and willing to relay the story to your best friend.

You hung up as soon as you got to the office, and spent the rest of the day unable to focus on work, your brain preoccupied just praying that he would actually call you.

I'm literally obsessed w this lol lmk if you want a part 2 or anything else bc my requests are open!!

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine

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lostdreamr-blog1 · 11 months

Text

Beautiful Stranger

Summary: Jake was talked into picking up the coffee order for the group, but little did he know he would be leaving with more than that.

Word count: 2k

A/N: Wow friends…it has been a hot minute since I have posted. Life got crazy and my motivation to write had lessened. But I am back and slowly going through my inbox requests! Thank you all for the constant love and support. Excited to put out more writing for you!

Jake had no idea how he was the one picking up coffee for the group, but here he was standing in line at an overly crowded coffee shop, twenty minutes out of the way of base.

It was obvious that he didn’t fit in with this crowd. Hipster was the word that came to mind seeing the strange outfits and unruly haircuts. Someone wearing a crisp uniform and hair with every strand in perfect place screamed odd man out. He was uncomfortable to say the least and swore up and down he would never be doing this again.

Bradley told him they ordered ahead so he wouldn’t have to worry about going through the order of nearly ten coffees, but scanning the pick-up counter told him he would have to wait some.

He found a small corner out of the way of traffic and took in his surroundings. One of the benefits of a place like this meant people watching would entertain him until the order was ready.

There was a couple splitting a bagel not too far from him. It looked like something out of a cheesy movie, with the whispering and lovey smiles. He had to bite his tongue to keep from snorting out loud.

The next group he saw looked to be college students strung out on entirely way too much caffeine with the way they were frantically typing. He didn’t miss those days of cramming for exams and writing pointless papers at the last minute. But he did think he at least looked a bit more put together when he was their age. Or that’s what he told himself.

Jakes eyes nearly passed over the young woman in the opposite corner from him, quietly writing in a notebook. She was locked into whatever she was working on, despite all the noise around her. Between the music playing throughout the store, expresso machines going off, and countless conversations being had, Jake had no idea how the woman could get any work done. But here she was, chewing on the end of her pen lost in thought, not giving anything around her an ounce of attention.

He found himself starting to really look at her. She was dressed casually but somehow managed to make it look almost professional. Her hair was pulled back into one of those giant clips that he never understood how it stayed in place all day. The makeup was minimal, but she didn’t need it in his opinion.

“Hangman?” Jake nearly jumped when he heard his order called out, breaking him away from the thoughts of the random stranger across the way. He politely nodded thanks to the barista and took the two drink carriers from her. But before he walked out, he threw a quick glance over his shoulder nearly tripping over himself when he saw the woman looking up at him. He recovered as quickly as possible, making it through the door without dropping anything.

It was on the way to base that the thoughts starting spiraling out of control. Was it a coincidence that she looked up as he was leaving? Was it his call sign that pulled her attention? And if so, why? Jake shook his head, stopping himself from continuing down the rabbit hole. He had zero interaction with this woman and yet his mind wouldn’t get off her. It was early in the morning, and he wasn’t fully awake to be making rational decisions. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Bradley and Natasha met him outside the locker room, thanking him for grabbing the coffee. He grumbled a response and went to his locker to put his things up. Bradley didn’t give much thought to the minimal interaction with the pilot, but Natasha did. “Everything go okay with the order?”

Jake nodded his head and shut his locker. “Just don’t see why you need something that expensive and out of the way when we have a perfectly good coffee machine here.” Natasha shook her head with a smirk, realizing just how out of his element he must have been.

“It’s good coffee. Can’t help that I have expensive taste.” Jake huffed out a breath, “Lord help your future husband.”

It was a week later when he got a text from Natasha begging him to grab her a coffee from the same damn place. He went to reply no, when another text popped up saying she was running late and would buy lunch to make up for it. Rolling his eyes, he replied back saying he was feeling something expensive for lunch to match his taste. An emoji with a lovely hand gesture was sent back with the word “fine”, making him chuckle. At least it was one coffee this time.

Jake took a deep breath as he walked into the coffee shop, mentally preparing himself for what seemed like unorganized chaos. The place was packed with nearly ten people in line waiting to order. He looked down at his watch and saw that he was here around the same time as last week, but for some reason today was busier than before.

The counter was filled with drink orders, taking him a minute to read through all the names. His friends’ wasn’t there yet and he turned to find refuge in his corner while he waited. He looked around at the people and while they weren’t the same as before, the types of groups remained the same.

“For someone who looked like he’d rather gouge his eyes out than be here last week, you came back.” A soft voice pulled his attention down to a woman sitting at a table close to him, revealing the beautiful stranger he had just managed to stop thinking about.

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but for some reason words wouldn’t form. He could slap himself for looking like an idiot in front of her. He had never once been at a loss for words with a woman, but something about her made himself conscious of everything he did.

“I didn’t mean to call you out like that. I just didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” She was smiling up at him, making the tops of his ears burn.

“A friend was running late and asked if I could pick up her order.” It was a short statement, but the smile on the woman’s face dimmed a bit. “Must be some girl for you to put yourself through this first thing in the morning.”

Jake quickly shook his head trying to back track, “She’s my teammate and promised me lunch if I did this. Nothing more.” The woman hummed and looked back down at her notebook.

“Well, if you make this a regular thing, I am good friends with the staff and might be able to get your order out a bit quicker. Wouldn’t want you to go into crisis mode over a coffee shop.” She was biting back a smile as she poked fun at his clear discomfort of the place, but Jake couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Darlin’, you have no idea how much that would mean to me.” Why he just committed to this being a regular thing, he had no idea. But he did know he wanted to see the beautiful stranger again.

“Hangman, right?” His eyebrows shot up at the remembrance of his call sign. “Hangman is my call sign. You can call me Jake.” Her eyes sparkled in what he thought was amusement.

“Well Jake, my name is Y/N, and I would be happy to help you out. I am here most days working on things. Why don’t you give me your number so you can text me when you plan on stopping by. That way I can let my friends know to look out for your order.” This girl was nothing but confident. Jake didn’t think he had ever had a woman ask for his number before and he couldn’t get enough of it.

“Hangman?” His name was called out like last time, but instead of feeling relieved to get out of the overcrowded shop, he wanted to stay as long as possible. “Better get going, pilot. Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” She gave him a wink, something that he normally did with women, and knew he was already in trouble.

He chuckled and shook his head, grabbing the coffee and headed out to work. He hadn’t made it out of the parking lot before his phone vibrated with a text. “Make sure it’s not another week before you come back in. I might forget all about you.” Jake smiled and drove to base, texting her back when he pulled in.

“Wouldn’t want to keep a beautiful woman waiting.” The smile never once left his face as he walked in. Natasha thanked him over and over again for the coffee but stopped when he saw the difference in his demeanor this time. “What’s gotten into you?” He shrugged his shoulders, “You were right. The coffee there is worth the drive.”

She gave him a skeptical look but didn’t push him any further. She would rather have a happy Jake than one who was ready to pick you apart at a moment’s notice.

And that’s how it was for the next month. Jake volunteered to get the coffee, finding any excuse to talk to his beautiful stranger. But the visits became longer, and the texting became more regular to the point where every free moment he had was spent getting to know her. It wasn’t long before Jake asked Y/N on a date, and he quickly found that this girl was the one for him.

Everyone knew something was up with their teammate. He had become less selfish and more of a team player. A feat no one thought was possible but didn’t want to push their luck. It wasn’t until Natasha said she would get her own coffee that the truth came out.

“Jake, you have been getting my order for me for nearly a month now. I can get it this once and give you a break from the drive. Just let me know your order.” Jake shook his head at her and said he had no issues getting it.

Natasha kept pushing until Jake blurted out, “I see someone every time I go there. It is one of the few times the two of us get to spend time with each other because of our schedules.” She stopped and thought about what he had said. Who there would he see every single time?

And then it clicked.

“Oh god. Tell me you aren’t seeing Y/N.” Jake tilted his head in confusion. “How the hell do you know her?”

Natasha looked at him in shock. “Because she owns the coffee shop. And her dad is our boss.”

Jake froze as he took in her words. Owning the coffee shop made sense. She was there all the time and said she knew the staff well, because it was her staff. That didn’t bother him. What did was not knowing who her dad was.

“I didn’t know Maverick had a daughter.” Natasha shook her head.

“Not Maverick you idiot. Admiral Simpson.”

And that was when certain things clicked into place. She looked up at him the first day because she knew the call sign. Her dad had to of talked about them a time or two, especially with this new assignment. The amusement she had when he told her his name was for the same reason. She knew who he was, but he didn’t have the slightest clue who he had been talking to. This girl was okay with the last-minute changes in plans or the late replies due to his schedule because she had grown up with it. The group insisted on getting coffee there because they were supporting someone in the TopGun family.

He was head over heels for the Admirals daughter and was royally screwed when he found out.

A/N: Thoughts? Likes or dislikes? I always love hearing back from you all! Thank you so much for reading!

Tag list: @rosiahills22 @sunlitsunflowers @dempy @mamaskillerqueen @luckyladycreator2 @atarmychick007 @bobfloydsgf @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @topguncultleader @alilstressyandlotdepressy @avengers-fixation @chaoticassidy

#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #topgun maverick #top gun maverick #topgun #hangman #chelsea writes

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froggibus · 1 year

Text

Corruption - Kol Mikaelson

Genre: smut/nsfw

Pairing: Kol Mikaelson x f! reader (reader uses f! pronouns & has a pussy)

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: when you meet an original vampire at the Grill, the last thing you expect is to come home with him

CW: corruption, coercion, dubcon, blood drinking, seduction, use of good girl, praise, degradation, dry humping, nipple play, dom! kol, sub! reader, semi-innocent reader, riding, size diff if you squint (he's a big boy ong), creampie, unprotected sex (pls be smart lol)

omg day one of kinktober, I’m so excited!! this is a bit of a curveball given I’ve never wrote about TVD on here but me and my bf were watching it and I’ve had absolute Kol brain rot lol.

also ow grand finals today!! ante up 💚

Kinktober Masterlist

The usual hustle and bustle of the Grill fills your ears as soon as you push past the door. You have your apron thrown over your shoulder, attempting to tie up your hair and run to the back at the same time.

You manage to make your way through the maze of tables without bumping into anyone, thankfully. You wrap the straps of your apron around your waist and clock in just as the clock strikes 4:30.

“Close one.” Matt Donovan nudges your shoulder teasingly.

You shrug him off, slinging a cloth over your shoulder. “Hey, some of us actually need to study.”

The blond rolls his eyes and heads to the sink. You clip a pen onto your waist and drop a pad of paper into your pocket, smoothing over your hair before heading onto the floor. The Mystic Grill opens at noon, but since you and Matt are in school, more often than not you find yourselves working later in the afternoon.

And with working late comes the drunken idiots and vampires.

You’re on your way to clean tables when a rowdy group of men burst through the doors. Usually, you’d just roll your eyes and wait for them to settle before coming over. But something about this group just seems…different. Your mind practically screams vampire.

Aside from the fact that they’re so hot you would have noticed them before, their accents make it clear that they’re not from around here. A mix of a classic English accent with a hint of something else behind it, a hint of something more ancient. Another red flag.

You come to their table almost as soon as they’re settled, not wanting to keep them waiting too long. “Hi, welcome to The Grill. My name is y/n and I’ll be serving you today. Anything I can get you guys started with?”

The one in the suit speaks first. “A gin and tonic, please.”

You nod and scribble it down on your notepad, turning to the blond one in the center. “And for you?”

“Martini, love.”

On any other day, the pet name would make you roll your eyes, but you find yourself fighting the urge. There’s something electric in the air, something dangerous, and you don’t want to aggravate them.

The younger one on the end smirks at you, dark eyes raking over your figure. He’s by far the tallest and broadest of the group, muscled shoulders hidden underneath his brown jacket. You shiver beneath his gaze.

“A negroni, darling.” He says casually, but there’s a hint of patronizing beneath.

Unlike the blond man, the name doesn’t make you roll your eyes. There’s no bitter taste in your mouth—just the chill of something new.

“Right away.”

You overhear them laughing as you practically sprint to the back, your heart racing in your chest. You can feel eyes on you but you don’t dare turn around. By the time you’re out of sight, their laughter has faded to hushed whispers around the table.

Kol can’t help but glance at the swinging door that leads to the kitchen, waiting for his cute little waitress to emerge. The innocent air around you is intoxicating in itself, and he finds himself wondering how your blood would taste, and how pretty and wet you would look opened up in front of him.

He pushes the thoughts away once he feels his pants tightening.

You come back a few minutes later, their drinks piled on the tray in your hand. You place them on the table one at a time, starting with the man in the suit. He thanks you, and it’s clear he has the best manners of the three.

When you get to the last man, you have to lean in slightly to place the drink in front of him. As you get close, you can smell his cologne, like a combination of sandalwood and iron. The scent draws you in, and you have to force yourself away from him.

Your body heats up and your heart pounds, voice shaking as you ask: “C-can I get you guys anything else?”

“No, love, I think we’re—”

He interrupts the blond one with a smirk, “hang on a minute, Niklaus. Maybe there’s something else I want from our pretty waitress.”

You swallow hard at the compliment. You don’t trust yourself to properly form words right now, so you simply nod at him and wait for him to speak.

“Hmm,” Kol picks up the menu and pretends to examine it.

He knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t help it. He loves the sound of your racing heart, of the blood rushing through your veins. God, he’s so tempted to compel you to come and sit on his knee and offer him a drink. But compulsion is just too easy, and where’s the fun in that?

He looks up at you through his lashes. “What would you recommend, love?”

“Um,” you shift your weight from foot to foot, “I-I’m not too sure, what are you in the mood f-for?”

You curse yourself for stuttering so much, but you’ve never felt like this before. It’s like all your senses are in overdrive, your body turning into an inferno. Just him looking at you is enough to turn you into a weak kneed mess.

Dark eyes look you up and down, that fucking smirk coming through again. “Something…sweet.”

“I-I can go get you the dessert menu.”

You don’t even wait for an answer before you’re practically running to the kitchen and gulping down half of your water bottle. You can hear them laughing once more, laughing at you, probably.

“You’re so cruel, brother,” Elijah scolds him.

Kol just shrugs and sips his martini.

“You can’t exactly blame him, can you? She smells delectable.”

He freezes up at that. He’d almost forgotten for a second that his brothers could smell you too, and that if it came down to it, he would be last in line for a taste. No, he shakes his head. That simply won’t do. You’re his.

“Ah, don’t worry little brother,” Klaus nudges his shoulder. “She’s all yours.”

Their conversation is interrupted when you come back, tail between your legs, with the dessert menu. You practically toss it on the table in front of them, refusing to make eye contact.

Kol resists the urge to laugh at your bashfulness. Your shy demeanor only makes him want you more, the alcohol just barely sating his need to lay you across the bar and fuck you then and there.

“On second thought,” Kol says after examining the menu, “I think I’ll wait til later.”

You nod and take the menu from him, your hand brushing his larger one. The contact sends sparks through your nerves, goosebumps forming on your arm. You make a blissful second of eye contact with him before scurrying off.

—

Hours pass, and your shift is coming to an end. You managed to avoid that group for the rest of the night—Matt insisting on taking your shift so you don’t have to deal with what he calls the “Original” vampires.

Of course, just as you’ve walked out of the back with your hair loose and your apron stuffed away in your bag, a familiar voice calls to you.

“Leaving so soon darling?”

You stop dead in your tracks. You’ve always ignored customers as soon as you got off the clock, only focused on getting out of the door and back to your house. But that electric feeling in the pit of your stomach is so strong that it compels you to turn around and face him.

He’s so much taller than you, so much broader than you. He’s standing so close that you can smell him and that you have to look up to meet his eyes.

“Well, my shift’s over and I-I should really go study, so…”

“What a shame,” he offers you a dazzling smile, eyes practically ignited while looking at you. “I was hoping I could entice you into a drink.”

“A drink?” You swallow hard, “with you?”

“Of course, unless there’s someone else?”

Something about the darkness that falls over his face when he says that tells you to tread lightly. That dangerous electricity is back, and it's holding you in place. You know you should go home, you should study and go to sleep and never speak to him again. But you can’t.

“No! There’s, uh, there’s nobody else.”

He offers you his hand. “So, a drink then? My place?”

You reach hesitantly to grab it, knowing those sparks are going to consume your body like kindle the minute you do. The palm of your hand touches his and you know there’s no going back.

Twenty minutes later and you’re sitting on his couch, sipping a vodka cranberry. Kol sits next to you, just close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of you. Anytime he shifts or speaks, that sandalwood scent floods your nostrils and stirs something in the pit of your stomach.

He gently sets a hand on your thigh, not missing how your blood pressure spikes. He inhales that sweet scent of your blood, now mixed with something else. Something that smells suspiciously like arousal.

“So, love,” he leans in closer, “how about a taste, hm?”

“A-a taste?” You can’t tell if he means a taste of your blood, or a taste of something else.

“Just a little, I promise it will be quick. It might even,” he lowers his voice, moving his lips closer to your soft neck, “feel good.”

His words have you clenching your legs, your pussy starting to ache from need. You’re sure he can smell it, with his super sense and all. His hot breath on the side of your neck already feels so good, you’re so tempted to let him drink from you.

“O-okay.”

Kol almost moans at that alone. He lets his fangs pierce through his gums, dragging the sharp teeth across the most sensitive part of your neck. One of his big hands wraps around the base of your throat, holding you still.

The graze of his teeth against your skin has you softly whimpering, biting your lip to not make too much noise. Just the thought of him sinking his fangs into your skin and sucking the blood straight from your vein has you gushing, panties beyond ruined.

There’s a slight burn and then a sharp pain as his fangs sink into you. You whine and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stay still. You can feel the vibrations of him groaning at the taste, feel his fingers tapping against your throat. It’s almost overwhelming, the pain and pleasure combined.

“You’re being so good,” he mumbles into your skin, “such a good girl for me.”

You moan from his words. You are being a good girl, and god, it feels so good. He pulls away, keeping his hand on your neck. You shiver from the cold air on your warm skin, missing his touch.

He rubs his hand up and down your thigh. “That was very good, darling.” He gently squeezes your inner thigh, “do you want to keep being good for me?”

The offer is enticing, and despite having class tomorrow, you find yourself wanting to stay. Wanting to please him in any way he asks.

“I-I have class tomorrow, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You start to get off the couch, but just as you make it to your feet, he’s pressing himself against your back.

His hand squeezes the base of your throat, the other one rubbing your pussy through your jeans. “But didn’t it feel so good? I know you want more, love, I can smell it.”

You swallow, biting your lip to keep from moaning. His hands on you feel so good in themselves, and you wonder how other parts of him would feel.

“Just a few more minutes, hm? Then you can go home, snug as a bug.”

“I-I’m not sure…”

“But doesn’t it feel so good, being my good girl?” He digs his hand into your clit as if to prove his point. He knows he’s won you over when he feels you start to soak through your pants.

You sigh weakly, “okay, just a few more minutes.”

He guides you back to the couch, leaning over top of you. Your blood outlines his lips, his breath tasting like copper and liquor. He leans in, smashing his lips against yours.

One of his hands moves down to dig into your waist, fingers gripping you so hard you’ll bruise. He forces his tongue into your mouth, running it across the backside of your teeth.

You melt into his touch, letting him do whatever he wants.

His other hand snakes under your shirt, going to massage your chest. His cold fingers meet your overheating skin, pinching your nipple between them. You whine into his mouth, only granting him easier access to you.

“You’re being such a good girl,” he moves his lips down your neck, “such a good slut for me.”

“‘m not a slut,” you whine, your back arching into him against your will.

He pushes his knee between your legs, grinding it into you. The contact is all too much, and you’re hardly aware of the noises you’re making. Hardly aware of your own actions.

“Not a slut,” he says breathlessly. “But you’re fucking yourself against my leg.”

“I-I’m…” you trail off as you realize he hasn’t been moving his leg this whole time—you’ve just been grinding against him.

There’s a wet spot forming on his jeans from where you were rubbing yourself, and hot shame floods your body.

“I-I think it’s been more than a few minutes,” you go to stand but he tugs you into his lap.

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself? Enjoying being my little slut?”

You only get wetter with his words, and sitting on his lap like this, you can feel the imprint of his hard cock through his jeans. You can’t help but rock against him, desperate for friction, desperate for anything. Maybe being his slut isn’t such a bad thing…

He tugs your shirt over your head while you move, giving himself easier access to your chest. He sucks dark marks into your neck, fingers playing with your nipples while you grind your pussy into his bulge.

“Such a good little girl.” He groans, gripping your hips so he can grind against you.

You whine, trying to grind harder against him. You need more friction, you need more pressure.

“Tell me what you want, darling.”

“I-I—” you’re cut off by him pinching your nipples hard.

“Use your words.” He teases, biting into your neck.

You try to tell him you need more, but your words are failing you. All you can do is close your eyes and bite your lip and rock back and forth on his lap.

“Do you want me to fuck you? Fuck you hard and cum inside you, hm? Is that what my slut wants?”

You nod furiously, “yes, please.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I-I want you to fuck me, please fuck me, Kol. I-I need you so bad.”

Kol throws you over his shoulder faster than you can register, carrying you up to his bedroom. He tosses you on the bed, tugging his shirt off before hovering over you.

He strokes your jaw with his thick fingers, “if you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna prove how badly you want it.”

“P-prove it?”

He flips the two of you over so that he’s laying under you, his bulge grinding perfectly against your throbbing core. He bounces you up and down slightly, his hands gripping your hips.

“Prove how badly you want it, fuck yourself on my cock and then if you’re a good girl, I’ll give you what you want.”

You look down at his hard cock straining through his jeans. You’ve had sex before, sure, but you’ve never been on top. You’re not even quite sure how to ride.

You straddle his waist, tugging down your pants and panties. Your panties are absolutely soaked, ruined with your own slick. You gasp once the cold air hits your aching pussy.

Kol helps you to take off his own pants, his thick cock hitting his stomach. The pink tip is practically dripping with precum, coating his hard base in his own juices.

You can’t help but lick your lips at the sight. He’s so big, and you can practically taste the precum from here.

“What are you waiting for? Get on with it then.”

You slowly stroke the shaft, your hand barely wrapping around his girth. “I just,” you sigh, avoiding eye contact, “I’ve never really—”

“Been on top?”

“Yeah,” you squeeze his cock.

“Lucky me,” he smirks and grabs your hips, “don’t worry, love. I’ll guide you.”

You climb on top of him, lining up his cock with your dripping entrance. Just the feeling of his length hovering below you. You lean forward and slowly drive your hips back, Kol holding up your hips so you can push down onto him.

You sink onto his cock. It stretches you out as you push farther down on him, his cock perfectly filling you up. You whine, pressing yourself against his chest and driving your hips all the way down. Kol groans, digging his fingertips into your sides.

“Such a good whore,” he mumbles, letting you do all the work.

You desperately fuck yourself up and down his length, trying to get him all the way. He’s so big inside of you, all you want is to stuff yourself full of him. Your pussy gushes with every thrust, your juices leaking out and coating his groin.

“I-I need more,” you whine, pressing your face into his shoulder.

“Hm? You need more?”

“I need to cum, I’m so close, please…”

Kol grips your hips and flips over so that he’s laying on top of you. He drives his hips forwards, slamming his cock all the way inside of you. He grabs your ankles and throws your legs over his shoulder, giving himself a better angle.

He pistons into you, balls smacking against your ass with every thrust. “God, you’re so fucking tight. My little whore, spreading herself open for me.”

“I—Kol—”

He leans in to kiss on your neck, his teeth grazing where he’d bit you earlier. His tongue reaches out to lap up the dried blood, moans filling your ears.

“Kol, I-I’m so close!”

“Be a good girl and cum around my cock, huh darling?”

The pet name has those shivers traveling up your spine again, the pleasure reaching a point where it’s overwhelming. You dig your nails into his back, desperately whining for him to fuck you harder.

One more thrust and you’re coming undone, that knot in your stomach exploding. Your pussy gushes around him, that ache that’s been plaguing you all day finally fading.

Kol props himself up, shoulders straining to keep himself steady as he drives his cock inside you. Every thrust is a challenge, as if he’s trying to completely lose himself in your pussy. He’s gasping and grunting, and as soon as you feel his cock twitching, you know he’s close.

A few more sloppy thrusts and suddenly he’s cumming inside of you, hot streaks filling your pussy. He’s left gasping, lazily pumping inside of you. He flips you over so that you’re laying on his chest.

“Did that feel good, darling?” He strokes your hair, keeping you close to him.

“Mm, so good,” you mumble, eyes starting to close.

“You did so good for me, love. I can’t wait to see what that pretty little mouth can do, too.”

You feel yourself heating up at his words, but for now, all you can focus on is his hot cum running out of your pussy and coating your thighs. Kol rubs your back, letting you rest.

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kol mikealson x reader #kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson x you #tvd #tvd x reader #tvd x You #the originals #the originals x reader #the originals x you #the mikaelsons

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koishiro · 10 months

Note

Hi! For your JJK fluff event, could I request dialogue prompt number 5 & number 15 for Megumi Fushiguro?

♡ - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 : (dp 5) “apparently everyone has a bet going that we’ll get together” + (dp 15) “I’ve loved you for years”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐂/𝐖 : f!reader, third person at times, short lil thing

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 : sorry this took so long but this is probably my favourite concept lol like everything you listed!!

prompt list | event masterlist | upcoming anon asks | masterlist

Looking at one of jujutsu tech’s most powerful sorcerers, we often forget that he’s just a boy. Specifically, a young 15 year old who’s seen more in his life than any one of us will see in our lifetime.

Yet here he stands in the hallways of his school surrounded by the hushed whispers of his classmates bouncing from the corridors walls. It’s a regular occurrence, always revolving around some poor soul and often not having a clue either.

So it doesn’t exactly faze Megumi to hear the quick spread of whispers and passing of phone screens as their eyes dodge around the school’s hallways nor does he even notice.

But he couldn’t care less, not when the sight of you barrelling your way through the sea of faces knocking past idle students with your bag almost twice the size of your own body consumed his thoughts. The way you looked so pretty in the obligatory navy uniform, your hair pulled back by the usual Sanrio clips you insisted on always wearing and that pretty white smile you threw his way that always made his heart pick up.

His stern frown and eagle eyes weaken the tiniest bit, even his crossed arms loosen as he takes in the sight of his best friend, nearly cracking a small smile at your futile attempt of slowing to a stop - nearly knocking other students down with you.

“Megs!” Just his name slipping from your mouth caused his heart to pick up pace.

As soon as you made it within a few feet of him you practically dived into arms, Megumi already prepared with his arms held out after years of this almost daily “tradition”.

“I missed you!” Megumi could’ve sworn his face was red by the sheer burning sensation running through his cheeks when you tilted your head to look up at him, “I saw you not even two days ago?”

You almost shy away from the stare of Megumi. So much so nobody would think you’ve been friends for almost six years now. You send him the tiniest toothy smile, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a flick of your head not wanting to release your hold on him.

Megumi’s left cheek quirks up in a smile, nearly going unnoticed if it weren’t for the entanglement of limbs you both had wrapped around the other.

It seems cliche to explain it as them both being in their own world but they both interacted like they were. A bubble circled around them, an impenetrable one that only onlookers can look into.

Which is exactly where Nobara and Yuji found themselves, staring from the sidelines clearly unnoticed by the two, too immersed in the conversation - or teasing was more appropriate.

Y/n rests her chin on Megumi’s chest, looking up at him as he continues his teasing. She lifts a hand to brush the insistent stray hair from her cheek before he quickly snatches up to hold whilst he fiddles with the fabric of her uniform with the other.

He leans to mumble something to her, easily making y/n laugh light and bubbly, eyes crinkled at the corners. Then she turns, body pressed closer to his, lips to his ear to whisper something back. Megumi’s laugh comes out as a small rumble, his eyes a brighter viridescent.

“Do you think…?” Yuji’s voice cuts through the scene playing out in front of them, causing Nobara to flick her eyes back and forth from the pair to her friend.

The idea isn’t exactly far-fetched, it kind of made sense actually. The way Megumi was always stiff and cold until you bounce into the room and his posture would completely relax, or the way he holds his drink as far away from anyone as possible to avoid sharing the same straw and “cross contamination” as he put it but if you asked? He wouldn’t even blink twice.

Just simply the way you held each other in the halls was enough to start the clogs turning in everyone’s heads.

It’s not impossible right?

“How much you putting down?”

The quiet rushed whispers of the first and second years were being passed back and forth. The five students all huddled around the pink haired boy’s desk in back corner of the dimly lit classroom.

The energetic panda replied without hesitation, almost as if he had been waiting for that very question all day. “1,800 yen and a pack of kataage!" Everyone in the room stared at the towering figure of a six-foot seven panda bear with a near copy of a deadpan face.

“What are you guys doing?”

The black haired boy stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he faced the other students with a confused expression adorning his face.

He was tall, with a shock of inky black hair falling haphazardly across his forehead, and pale skin that seemed luminescent against the darkness of his locks. His expression betrayed confusion but also determination as he stood before a sea of students; his hands stuffed deep into pockets creating an atmosphere suggesting social unease. Even so, there was comfort in the familiar pensive pose which only served to add further dimensions to the picture this young man presented - strength inside uncertainty.

The cracking of everyone’s necks could almost be heard in the silence of the room as they whip their heads towards the intrusive voice.

“Ah - Megumi, what are you doing here?” Yuji held a tight lipped smile, eyes wide in faux ease, trying to take attention away from the small pile of trinkets and yen splayed out on his desk only hidden by the backs of Maki and Toge.

“It’s a classroom? One we’ll be using in five minutes? You didn’t hear the bell?”

Megumi’s voice was laced with confusion with a hint of his usual sarcasm as he slugged his way towards his chair, the strap of his bag slowly slipping down his shoulder by the time he reached the old desk.

Reaching into his bag to retrieve his headphones to listen the voice message you sent not even two minutes ago he stopped midway slouched over his bag and slowly turned his head towards the multiple pair of eyes burning holes to the side of his head before they hurriedly averted their eyes elsewhere, finding the walls conveniently interesting.

It became a routine at this point. A low buzz began to float through the halls, a sea of whispers bubbled and eddied around him, their hushed voices buzzing in his ears like bees. At first it didn't bother Megumi much; he was used to the odd antics of his classmates but as time went on, the murmuring only got louder and more frequent until they followed him everywhere he went: an ever-present reminder of whatever strange thing people were saying about him behind his back.

The whispers seemed to follow him, during lunch as he sat opposite you while you rambled on about your day while the constant buzzing and passing of whispers caused his eyes to train around the cafeteria, or even as he leaned against your locker waiting for your class to finish only to feel the burning stares of passer-bys.

“What’s wrong?” Drawing his head back towards your voice Megumi noticed the worried look you held, “Hm? ‘m fine”

You however didn’t seem too convinced at your friend’s answer, “You sure? You seem a little spaced out?”

“Yeah jus’, have you noticed the weird stares we’re getting?” Megumi’s eyes flitted over the halls as he said this, suddenly conscious of the other bodies in the long corridor.

Megumi watched as you scrunched your eyebrows in thought and darted your own eyes across the stretch of land before they landed back on him.

“Aren’t they always like that?” You had a point, there was always something happening in Jujutsu High whether it be a bad breakup or a rumour of someone having a crush on another.

But Megumi unsurprisingly liked to fly under the radar, not caring for silly rumours and gossip or whatever they heard down the grapevine.

If he was honest Megumi never really noticed it before, always too absorbed in your own antics. Too focused on you.

Even now as he slugged his way towards the joint kitchen, thinking about the way you looked so cute earlier that day under the mountain of layered scarfs and jackets you had on, along with the small swipe of red across your nose brought on by the chilling temperatures outside.

Barely even passing over the threshold, he heard the familiar high pitched laugh of his best friend.

“There’s absolutely no way! I have this in the bag!” Peaking his head round the corner, he caught sight of the mop of pink hair shaking his head adamantly.

“You sure about that? Have you seen the way those two look at each other?” Nobara practically launched herself across the coffee table, slamming down the amount of yen she found suitable while the others watched on in silence.

“A week max!” He heard the overenthuastic ginger continue, he could already imagine her leaning back, arms crossed and a smug smile planted on her face.

Megumi felt a twitch at the back of his mind as he reached outwards with invisible force from within the shadows of safety and dipped his feet into this unfamiliar environment. He poked his head round the corner of the open arched doorway, quickly identifying the two figures surrounded by the second years.

Yuji shifted in his spot, seemingly unsure of Nobara’s confident words. “How do you know? It could take up to a month for all we know”

“You heard Nobara right? Just standing in the same room as those two is enough to make you feel like a third wheel” quickly followed Maki’s voice before placing her bet at the centre of the table where everyone collectively placed their own.

They were betting? On him? On you?

“How do you know they’re not already dating huh? I mean, we never actually asked right? And they seem pretty close” Panda’s words caused a beat of silence to travel around the group, quick glances and shared thoughts passed round like a game of Chinese whispers.

“Okay new bet, place your money down now if you think Megumi and Y/n are already smackin’!”

Megumi’s eyes practically popped out at this, quickly diving back into the cover of shadows where he attempted to calm down his racing heart by clutching onto his shirt with great strength.

They thought you were dating? Were you really that close to give the impression of being together?

The never ending thoughts seemed to plague Megumi’s mind for the next week, his body unconsciously aware of every passing move you made and his ears automatically tuned in to every breath you let escape.

Now acutely aware of the inescapable eyes from idle onlookers, Megumi seemed hyper-fixated on every detail and move you made. The way your eyes would double in size at the mere mention of your favourite show or the happy dance you never failed to do as soon as the tangy taste of orange slices he specifically cut for you hit your tongue or even the way that said orange burst in your mouth and dripped down the plush skin of your lips as if waiting for an unsuspecting ki-

“-gumi!” The sweet sound emanating from the girl he sat opposite to came as a shock to his system, not realising his mind slipped away as his attention focused in on the concerned expression you held.

“You’re doing it again” he almost wanted to laugh at the small pout you gave him, clearly not happy at having to stop midway from explaining your new weekly fixation to him.

“Sorry, ‘m just a lil’ distracted is all” he grumbled out in his usual less energetic voice. But this didn’t deter you, it would a lot more than that to brush you off, he should know after-all.

Titling your head to the side, a confused expression adorning your face, you didn’t even seem to think twice before asking, “distracted? Why, what’s wrong?”

Your questioning made the poor boy stumble, not quite sure what or how to answer without coming off like a fool, so he tried the subtle approach.

“You haven’t noticed the stares?” He barely mumbled out as he let his eyes wander the large open space of the cafeteria.

“I’ve never seen you so concerned before” gravitating his eyes back to you once more, he witnessed an emotion he never thought he’d see adorn your usual jovial face - hurt. “This is the second time you’re bringing this up, why does it matter if they’re staring, so what? What difference does it make?”

The usually unbothered Megumi wasn’t so unbothered after seeing your heart snap from behind the glass shield of your eyes.

Quickly leaning across the table to grab ahold of the end of your sleeve, he fidgeted with the soft material as he thought over his words, “I didn’t mean it like that - ‘m sorry. I just meant - if you heard about what people are saying is all”

This didn’t seem to comfort you much though, even with the unwavering grip of his fiddling with the ends of your cuffs. “What d’you mean? I haven’t heard anything?”

Usually it was you who came running to him with news on the latest ‘gossip’ yet it completely flew over your head this time, missing it by a long shot.

“Do you like me?”

Blinking once, then twice, you took a minute to register to what your best friend had just told you.

It took a minute of buffering to finally register what you were just told, “sorry?”

“apparently everyone has a bet going that we’ll get together” Megumi was now fiddling with his fingers, finding the fabric of his uniform conveniently interesting.

You now found yourself nervously fiddling with your fingers, eyes bouncing back and forth from your best friend to the walls of the cafeteria, “Well…I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, right?”

Now this, this caught Megumi off guard. Of course he thought about the idea, the possibility before but never did he think the opportunity would actually introduce itself.

The silence that followed caused your nervous smile to sink, forcing Megumi to splutter out anything that came to mind.

“N - no, that’s not what I meant! - I’d go out with you anytime!” Once again, silence followed suit - except this time both your eyes were blown wide, not too sure where to go from here.

Until a sudden muffled giggle broke the silence, bubbling from none other than you, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t laugh, but now Yuji owes me ¥2,000”

Bewildered, Megumi couldn’t fathom any words but his scrunched up eyebrows must’ve said enough going by your quick explanation.

“I couldn’t help but take part in the bet, it was too hard to resist, I had a feeling you liked me and thought this would be a good opportunity to do something about it” you chuckled out before leaning forward on your elbows, “I like you too by the way, and I’d go out with you anytime as well”

As soon as his confused expression came, it went - replaced by a small tug at the corner of his lips and followed by a fast approaching blush.

Letting a scoff escape, it was your turn to hold a confused look. Returning his attention back to you Megumi went on explain - a small smile slowly taking over, “it’s just crazy to think, I’ve loved you for god-knows how long - years maybe. And now you’re sitting in front of me and saying you like me . Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

At first, Megumi wanted to strangle Yuji with his own two hands, although now - thinking about it, he should really thank his friend for the outcome.

Not too far away, amongst the line of hungry peers queuing for their food was the less than enthusiastic teacher trailed by the ever so nosy white haired Sorcerer peaking over the younger’s shoulder at his students.

“I knew it! Didn’t I tell you Nanamin~ love is in the air!” Gojo’s eyes practically gleamed with hearts. His hands clasped together as the blond didn’t even spare a glance at the overly joyous Sorcerer.

“Are you aware of your age?”

——

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 : I just wanna say thank you to Biski for helping me through my major writers block!!! <3

— 𝘒𝘰𝘪 𝘹𝘰

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