#lith lilium

[fadedday]

Lith Lilium by Javier Fernández Carrera (Pintureiro)

[fayes-fics]

Lightening & Lilies

Pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Simply put, greenhouse sex during a thunderstorm

Warnings: smut, 18+, minors dni, light bondage, vaginal sex.

Word count: 1.9k

Author's note: Unbetaed. Set in the Sonnet #29 universe. This is a bit cliched, but was written in a few hours of classic work avoidance. Inspired by the tweet below, minus the Victorian dress. Also inspired by the gif above, because, come on now, who wouldn't be? The title of ‘my lord’ used here is part of their d/s play. Edit: now with beautiful artwork by @wysteria-clad 🧡

“Please…” your whine is pathetic, and you know it.

“Please what?” he teases, circling you, close enough for you to smell his skin. He's bare-feet, just his trousers with braces hanging around his hips, his lithe torso on display, taunting you.

“Touch me,” breathless and desperate. You writhe ineffectually against your binding, but it's just no use; you can’t move. The wrought iron pillar is cold against your bare back; the rope chafes against your wrists—the heady botanical smell in the air from the riot of tropical plants. In the distance, you hear an approaching summer storm rumbling on the horizon, creating a hum in the air. Intoxicating. 

He smirks and plucks a lily from the beautiful patch blooming opposite you, its neatly hammered brass sign Lilium candidum glowing in the moonlight. He takes a deep inhale of the flower and slowly trails the white petals over the skin of your neck, down your breastbone over the centre line of your stomach. The feathery touch is enough to enlighten your senses but not enough to satisfy. His gaze is intent on the flower as he twirls its petals across your belly button, the tickle making your stomach ripple.

“Is this what you want?” His voice is deep and teasing. 

“No,” you exhale; it's not enough and too much all at once. 

“That's a shame,” he says ponderously, tipping the flower to drag the stamen up under your breast. Ticking the skin there, trailing up until its sticky yellow pollen dusts your nipple, pebbling under his gentle teasing.

“How about that?” he knows how to torture you to the point of frustration - this is his favourite way to make you crazed for him. 

“No, I want you, your hands, your body,” you whimper.

He hums as if contemplating your request. Instead, he tucks some loose strands behind your left ear and slides the flower into your hair, long fingers trailing down the side of your face admiring his handiwork.

“Such a beautiful sight; I should go get my easel…” he sighs thoughtfully.

“Don't you dare,” you grit through your teeth.

“Beauty should be captured so that others may admire its wondrous nature,” he intones, every inch the art professor he is.

“You are not at work now,” you reply, squaring your jaw, frustration bubbling into insolence.

“An artist is never at rest, my love,” he lectures. “But, then yes, I suppose there are other ways to use my time,” he adds, suddenly crowding his whole body against you. 

You inhale sharply, fighting against your bindings again, desperate to have your hands, to touch him. His chest catches against your nipples, tickling.

“I really should have tied your hands above your head rather than behind your back,” he breathes against your temple as if disappointed in himself for not thinking of it sooner. “You are always a little frantic when your discomfort is ratcheted just a little higher.”

His left hand runs down your side, mapping the contours of your skin, listening to your breath hitch as there is a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder much closer than the last. The hand rounds your bum cheek and loops the back of your thigh, pulling your leg up off the ground, hooking it over his hipbone. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he questions again, slowly pressing you further into the pillar.

“Yes, more of this, please,” your voice drunken, feeling his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, the metal clasp at the waistband of his trousers grazing your belly, his breath hot on your hairline.

He growls a little and pulls your leg higher and out further, exposing your slit to the humid air of the greenhouse.

“You smell better than all of these flowers, my love,” his voice lower and dusky, inhaling deep. His ravishing filthy words bring more moisture, almost dripping down your thigh.

“Please,” you implore again as another ominous clap of thunder rumbles across the room, rattling some of the looser glass panes.

“What is it now? I'm touching you am I not?” he chides, kissing the dewy skin of your forehead.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper against his stubbled jaw, almost ashamed of your need, but there's a heavy ache deep inside that only his cock can remedy now.

“Oh no, darling,” he drawls, "you're going to have to ask me nicer than that or you won't get it at all." He surges his hips against you, so you feel him hot and rigid through his trousers, divulging what you will be missing out on if you don't play along. Your moan is unsolicited but loud, but he soon pulls back again, leaving a few inches of humid, sticky air between your bodies.

“Please give me your cock. I need it,” you beg, thrusting your hips out to chase what you just felt, your hands catching against the metal; you can't move far; he has made sure of it.

“But my love, are you sure you don't want my fingers?” He toys, running feathery touches over your biceps “or my tongue?” he adds, dropping his face lower to lick a hot line up your clavicle. 

“Anything you want to give me, my lord,” you breathe.

“Now we are getting somewhere,” a flash of lightning illuminates the smirk on his handsome face as you finally use the words he loves to hear from you when he has you like this.

“Good thing for you, my love, is that I'm not in the mood to tease tonight either,” he speaks casually, kicking an upturned terracotta pot towards the pillar and dropping the leg he holds; your foot falling on top of it. A loud clap of thunder makes you jump, and you feel a static buzz across your skin from the ozone in the air. 

“Ask again very nicely, and maybe I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs silkily, his hands tugging on the buttons of his trousers.

“Please, please, I love your cock, and I need it. Please, my lord, I'm aching.” You give up any pretence of propriety, just plain begging at this point.

“That's my girl.” A swaggering lilt, knowing he has you right where he wants you. He drops his trousers, and before you can look down admiringly, he takes himself in hand, crowds into you again and presses into you slowly. 

Your eyes roll back, and you let out a long, high-pitched noise as he stretches you out, your foot on the floor being pushed up onto your tip toes with the force of it. Just as the sky is torn apart by a massive lightning streak and a loud thunder roll.

“Yessss,” you hiss, finally the remedy your body has been screaming for, as he reaches your hilt. This feeling, so full, so hot, never gets old. His hands grasp you, thumbs digging harshly into your hipbones. For the first time since he tied you up, he moves to kiss you, his tongue lashing deep into your mouth as he begins to move.

Suddenly the rain begins, a symphony of sound tapping on the glass roof above you. He breaks the kiss to look up at the sky.

“Oh, my darling, do you know anything of the properties of lightning?” he asks as he pushes in and out at a steady pace. Of course, you do - if anything, you are the more voracious reader of scientific discoveries than he is. But the vibration of his voice through your body means you just want to hear what he has to say.

“Enlighten me, my lord,” you chime.

“It is said to be attracted to metal objects,” one hand moving above your head to tap on then grasp the wrought iron pillar you are tied to, part of the skeleton of the greenhouse holding all this glass aloft. “With a moment of bad luck from mother nature, we could expire.” The last word is a harsh staccato - the danger, the tang of fear of being against a metal post amid an electric storm, heightening his arousal. And now yours. 

He speeds up his pace. “If I have to die, my darling, I prefer it be with you, inside you,” his voice passionate and breathy.

You push your breasts up against him, aching to feel more. “Yes, my lord. If I must die, I want to be with you.” Your wrists fight against the rope he has lashed them with. Your shoulder blades drag heavy against the pillar as he takes you harder.

A boom of thunder coincides with his loud moan as you latch your lips onto his neck, biting gently on his overheated skin. “More, my lord, please, give me more,” you implore. 

With a growl, he reaches down and pulls your butt up, wrapping your legs over his arms; you are now pinned entirely at his mercy; he’s carrying your weight, your hands still tied. “I've got you,” he soothes, sensing your disquiet.

The storm is now in full force, the glass rattling as the rain pours heavier and an almost constant drone of thunder echoes around the sky. His pace is unrelenting. He kisses you so many times, each possessive and rough. Tomorrow, your spine will have bruises from the unyielding metal, but it doesn't bother you; you are desperate to come, desire knitted tight in your lower belly. The angle means his public bone is striking against your clit with every stroke; you won't even need his fingers to take you over the edge in this position.

“Oh god, right there, please don't stop,” you scream loud, knowing the storm will drown out the noise. He is also more vocal than usual, loudly groaning with each stroke and babbling your name and how good it feels.

An intense flash of lightning blinds your vision, and you're tumbling over and over, yelling and shaking, dimly hoping he can hold your strength as you writhe and buck hard against him. Pulsing hot all over - he roars at the sensation.

“Please look into my eyes,” he entreats desperately, his movement becoming uncoordinated. You move to lock eyes with him, his face appearing to morph shape with the lightning flashing from all angles. “Tell me you love me,” he pleads; you can tell he is so close to his peak now.

“I love you, Benedict,” you stare into his eyes and use his name for the first time tonight. His responding moan is long and thready as he spears deep and freezes, his head drooping and biting down on your shoulder. Every time he empties inside you, it feels powerful and potent.

“I love you too,” he responds softly when his voice returns. He gently lowers you to your feet as he breathes hard, resting his forehead against yours, pulling out slowly from your body. The storm seems to be easing as it passes east over the woods. 

“Please untie my hands,” you whisper after a few beats. He nods and disappears behind the pillar, making quick work of the knots. You breathe a sigh of relief as your wrists are freed, and he brings them to his lips to soothe the ache.

“I'm sorry, this should be better by tomorrow morning,” he promises, inspecting the red marks.

“I know,” you mollify, crowding into him with a yawn as the storm becomes pacifying background noise. “Mmm, tired,” you drawl against his shoulder.

“I can tell,” he chuckles affectionately, “come on, Mrs Bridgerton, time for bed.”

“Okay,” you yawn again, watching him pick up all the discarded clothing, comfortable in his nakedness, “lead the way, Mr Bridgerton”. 

He plucks the lily you had forgotten about out of your hair and hands it to you. “A souvenir, my lady,” he says with a slight comic bow.

“A night of lightning and lilies?” you giggle.

“Indeed,” his smile is warm as he throws the clothing onto his shoulder and picks you up, carrying you back into the main house.

Tagged: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @kkpolakow

[homesteadbrooklyn]

⁣ “You have to bend down and take a whiff of that flower,” I’d say to an unsuspecting friend.⁣ ⁣ It was a good thing that the bright orange tepals dotted in black of the summer-blooming Tiger Lily (Lilium lancifolium) begged any onlooker to have a closer inspection, otherwise my victim would see the wry smile forming on the corners of my lips.⁣ ⁣ At the apex of flowering, a Tiger lily’s perianth curls back as if in yogic bow pose, exposing its sweeping filaments and ample anthers toward the ground. Its flower head, so heavy from the summer sun, nods and bobs in a stiff wind, hanging off tall, lithe stems with lance-shaped, alternating leaves. Butterflies are most attracted to the flower’s ostentatious tiger suit, delicately hanging upside down on the anthers like aerial ballerinas. ⁣ ⁣ Tiger lilies produce purple-black bulbets, polished to a high-gloss sheen, nestled in the axils of the leaves. As a kid, I found some satisfaction gently plucking them from their resting place and spreading them over the garden. If a bulbet was lucky, it would become a clone of the parent plant. It’s been said that Tiger lilies are sterile, which was always quizzical to me, considering that their pollen sticks (stamens) seemed to be generously dipped in the richest mixture of cocoa and cinnamon. Plants are not sterile, however; they just need to find a compatible species to set seed (L. maximowiczii seems to do the trick). ⁣ ⁣ Turns out the noses of young boys and girls are physiologically incompatible to tiger lilies—and as the owner of said nose will eventually discover, ( upon close inspection of their reflection in a mirror), tiger lily pollen is a damn pain to remove. 😝🤣🧡 https://www.instagram.com/p/Br7pG4UlIk7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1jugl8vtw9qq6