#sympathetic reflex | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fayes-fics · 1 year ago

Text

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

I: To Know You….

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II: …Is To Love You

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benedict has no response to that.

—

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

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

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Violet frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, no…”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

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

The piano stops abruptly.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

III: … And I Do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

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

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“What on earth…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would she have?”

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

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

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

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

Even he can read between those lines.

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

—

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

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

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

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

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

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

A resounding yes.

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

And yet.

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are stunned. Speechless.

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

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

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

—

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

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3K notes · View notes

too-much-tma-stuff · 1 year ago

Text

This idea sort of burst out of me like Alien so it's unedited. There will probably be more.

In short, Cas picks up on the fact that Danny is pregnant at a Wayne Gala and have the right idea but the wrong context.

Masterpost

------

Danny was barely holding it together and really he had been for a long time. It had sort of been fun and games at first when he became a hero. Sure his accident had hurt like hell but he'd sort of repressed that and for real? Lunch Lady? Box Ghost? Even Skulker was sort of a joke and he hasn't actually felt threatened. Sneaking around behind his parents backs and sneaking out with his friends had been fun. It had all felt like a game at first, and then somewhere in there things had gotten very real.

He'd known he couldn't count on his family to protect him but they couldn't even see Vlad was a threat. And he felt like he had lost the last of his innocence when he saw the clone Vlad had made of him melt. He hasn't been in time, he had panicked and he had only managed to save a couple by taking them into his own body to shield their still forming cores. Ellie and... should Danny name the other one or would he name himself when he was ready?

He kept touching his stomach over where he could feel the little balls of his mirror children hovering just below his own core. He was so tired all the time as they relied on his energy, he was eating more then ever and he knew his family was worried. He didn't think he could hide this and he couldn't predict when they would emerge. What if they did in front of his parents? They definitely wouldn't react well. And Vlad kept trying to use this against Danny. Promising to look after him and the babies if he was really insisting on carrying them, as if Danny could rip those tiny 'lives' out of himself now.

And no matter how many times he tried to tell his parents that Vlad was bad news, that he creeped Danny out and made him feel unsafe they wouldn't listen! Dad didn't even hear him and mom made sympathetic noises and then told him to bear with it for Jack's sake because he didn't have many friends.

So of course when Vlad had asked if 'Daniel' could accompany him to a gala in Gotham his father had agreed! Even his mother had agreed when Vlad promised it would be educational and safe! And here Danny was, hanging on by a fucking thread in a suit that felt uncomfortably tight around his middle, having just escaped being paraded around as Vlad heir like a particularly expensive watch. He was behind the snack table having piled a plate as high as he could and scarfing it down before Vlad could find him again and scold him for being rude. He hadn't noticed yet that a family of dark haired socialites kept giving him worried looks. A young woman with dark eyes signing frantically to a man with blue eyes and a dimpled frown.

It was the man who slid up carefully next to Danny trying not to startle since he seemed to have genuine food aggression.

"Yeesh kid you seem like you're starving! All those fancy Hors d'oeuvres are fun but not very cooling and I feel like I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you something more filling! If you'll come me to the kitchen I'm sure our family butler would be happy to whip something up for you?" The man said with an inviting some that did nothing to sooth the way Danny's hackles raised instinctively.

He was about to say no on reflex when he spotted Vlad heading towards them with an expression like a thunder cloud. Danny's back went ridged and the other man followed his gaze with a frown. "You know what ya that sounds great let's go now!" Danny said dropping his half full plate on a nearby tray and dragged the stranger away with him as Vlad shouted after him.

"Daniel come back this instant! Unhand mister Wayne! Daniel this is unacceptable!"

'Mr. Wayne' took over leading them and spirited Danny through a back door as a bubbly blonde intercepted Vlad and a small woman slid in behind them like a shadow.

"So, Danial I assume?" The man asked, amusement crinkling around his eyes as Danny grimaced.

"Mr. Wayne I assume?" Danny returned, unaware of the way one arm was protectively wrapped around his stomach, but the girl noticed. It was Dicks turn to grimace.

"Okay ya, I go by Dick. What about you?"

"Danny," he said not reacting to the name, he'd heard far stranger. "And what about you?" He asked Cas, startling Dick a little because she was doing her 'shadow thing' and not many people would have noticed her.

"That's Cas, she has a hard time talking sometimes," Dick explained as Cas materialized and gave Danny a reassuring smile and wave.

The teen harrumphed but he did follow them down to the kitchen where Alfred was drinking a cup of tea, staying well clear of the foolishness upstairs. "Ah, hello young masters," Alfred he said, glancing between the three with a raised brow. Though the two who knew him could see the way his expression softened when Danny shrunk in on himself. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey Alfred do we have any leftovers from dinner or something filling we can whip up fast? Danny here is too hungry for just the fancy font for upstairs." Dick asked cheerfully.

Alfred raised his eyebrows again and looked at Cas who was standing behind Danny. Glancing at Danny to make sure he wasn't looking she grimaced then touched her stomach and mimed holding an infant.

Alfred's expression turned stormy for just a moment then smoothed. "Of course we do, Why don't you make our guest comfortable and I'll see what I can do. Do you have any allergies young man?" Alfred asked and Danny shook his head mutely.

"You're the best Alfie!" Dick said, hovering a hand over Danny's shoulder rather then actually touching him as he leas him towards the comfortable breakfast nook.

The boy seemed tight lipped and gaunt, his eyes flicking around them as if he expected a threat to pop up at any time. Dick slipped into the booth across from him. Trying to think of the best way to ask this kid how... why, and who hurt him.

Cas has stayed in the kitchen, but not for long. She came to them with a tray of mugs moments later and slipped into the booth next to Danny. Gently she took his hands and pressed the warm mug unto them. He blinked and focused of it, as if on autopilot he lifted it to his lips, Cas keeping a hand on his elbow to steady him as he drank.

The warm comforting drink, and hand on his arm, presence by his side as Cas slid imperceptibly closet and closer till she was pressed against Danny's shoulder, felt like they were taking him apart from the inside. Thawing out the cold numbness he shielded himself behind. Half way through his tea he glanced up, at the worried blue eyes so like Jazz, so worried and warm.

He put down the mug suddenly as a sob shook his body. Cas wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, cooing comforting wordless little sounds as she let him bury his face into her chest and just sob heaving, exhausting outbursts of repressed emotion.

"Are the babies okay?" She asked and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. She clicked her tongue and rocked him gently. "Okay, okay, not in trouble," she promised.

"They- I don't know, they were so weak, I’m trying, but I don't know if I can keep them alive." Danny sobbed lifting his hands to cover his face.

"The stress can't be helping," Dick pointed out, climbing across the table like it was nothing to sit next to them and rub Danny's back. Danny gave a little hiccupping hysterical laugh. "Do you have support, or like, do you know your options?" He asked awkwardly.

"I'm not getting rid of my babies! I don't care if the man who made them is an obsessive creep who drugged me! I love them they're MINE!" The feral protectiveness seemed to startle Dick even as Cas continued to make soothing sounds.

"Your choice, only yours," she promised. "Have help?"

Danny sniffled and shook his head. "Safe?" Another shake of the head.

"The man who... did this?" Dick asked as delicately as he could. Another hysterical laugh.

"I've tried! I've tried to tell my parents he's a creep, he's dangerous but they don't listen! My dad thinks he hung the fucking stars, mom says he's harmless. They don't believe me! I-I can't tell them about the babies. They'd make me get rid of them or worse! I can't." Danny sobbed and Cas soothed.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to." She promised. "You stay with us, you and babies safe, never have to see him again."

"Ya right. Wait, your serious? What" Danny asked, pulling back and looking at her with wide bloodshot eyes.

"She's very serious young master," Alfred said as he approached making Danny jump. there was a hard set to the old man's jaw and steal in his eyes that left no room for questions as he set a plate of eggs, sausage, and fruit in front of Danny. "Master Bruce has a foster license and is a mandatory reporter. I'm sure once he hears even a fraction of this he will insist you stay. I will prepare a room for you. Am I to assume the man who's shouting demanding your return upstairs is the source of this distress?"

Danny swallowed and nodded, Alfred nodded back and paused to rest a gloved hand gently on Danny's hair before walking away briskly.

"Eat," Cas said, nudging him gently to let go of her. "As much as you want. Still hungry? We raid Tim's secret cereal stash."

"Gasp! You know where it is? You've been holding out on me?!" Dick demanded with exaggerated betrayal and as the two started to banter Danny ate. He was glad of the distraction, of not having the attention on him as he devoured the healthy, and nutritious meal the butler had made for him. It had been a while since he'd had a good home cooked meal, it made his core feel warm and he could feel the two little echoes as his hummed.

The babies were happy too, he didn't believe these people could keep him safe from Vlad really, but this was nice. Maybe he would let them try, get a few more good meals, a respite, and maybe... maybe his parents would finally notice that something was wrong and actually stand up for him?

That was probably wishful thinking but he could hope right? there was no harm in that.

Part 2

#fanfiction #danny phantom #dc x dp #angst #misunderstanding #the bats think Danny is normal pregnant not incubating cores #Vlad is a creep #stalker Vlad #vlad plasmius #dick grayson #cassandra cain #feedback and comments welcome #for some reason it won't let me add a title #I wouldn't really know what to call it anyway

3K notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 1 year ago

Note

Mei! You know how sometimes when you put a bra on that has padding you sometimes have to adjust it a little? I feel like Anakin would see reader do that one time and offer to “help” from then on “to make sure it’s in the proper spot” but really it’s just to touch your boobs.

You're not surprised to feel a large palm pressing against the heft of your breast, and you wish you could say you're disappointed, but you're not. That doesn't mean that you can't act like you are, though.

"Anakin."

"I'm helping!" He insists, his voice thick with sleep but fiery with intensity, "I'm rearranging the foam thing in there."

"The pad?"

"Yeah, the pad. I'm rearranging the pad."

"The pad is in perfect position," You swat his hand away, "Thank you very much."

"Gimme the other one," He demands, palm flat and fingers curling and uncurling, "I'm the bra inspector."

"You're a perv," You accuse, taking advantage of his still-closed eyes to reach over and press his face into the pillow. Perhaps you shouldn't be smothering him so early in the morning, but you're admittedly a little jealous that he gets to sleep in and you have to work.

His reflexes may be slowed by his grogginess but his muscles aren't, and he wrestles your hand away from his face and uses it to yank you back down onto the bed. You go from towering over his sprawled out form to being pinned beneath it, and his victory spoils come in the form of a prompt squeeze to your previously untouched breast.

"Mm-mm. Pad's all wrong." He laments, clicking his tongue sympathetically as he settles his hand over your chest, "It's so bad I think we just need to scrap the whole thing. Take it off?"

"The pad is fine!" You laugh, but Anakin's lithe fingers have already slipped into the gap between layers of fabric to yank the foam pad out of your bra. He's quick to slip it down the front of his pajama pants, grinning smugly at you as he leans back with tousled hair against the headboard of your bed.

"Hey!"

"Take it."

"I have more bras," You huff, stripping off the lopsided bra and digging in your drawers for the others, "I'm gonna be late for work, Anakin!"

You expect a groan of defeat from Anakin but it's cheekiness you hear instead, "They're empty."

"What?"

He's right. There's a distinct lack of form in each piece of fabric laying limp in your drawers.

"Anakin!"

"I'll give them back! Just let me put them in," He grins doggedly, "Deal?"

"Only because I'm late for work," You gripe, glaring at him with all the force you can muster even though you're beginning to flush.

"Liar," His eyes gleam with excitement as he lunges for the drawer beside his bed, withdrawing two foam bra pads from within, "Once I get my hands on you you'll be begging me not to stop."

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker scenario #anakin skywalker oneshot #anakin skywalker one-shot #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skywalker headcanon #anakin skywalker headcanons #anakin skywalker hcs #anakin skywalker hc #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker blurb #anakin skywalker drabble #anakin skywalker dialogue #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker smut

2K notes · View notes

just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 9 months ago

Text

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, “How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. “I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

#annatar x reader #sauron x reader #annatar smut #sauron smut #the rings of power

634 notes · View notes

dilfsfordinner · 1 year ago

Text

summary- toji fails to prevent a completely preventable messy incident from occurring, involving his son

pairing- husband toji x fem!reader

—————————————————————————

“You wanna do it?” Toji grinned, eyebrows raised as he watched little Megumi tug the ratchet from his grasp, waddling towards the raised car, brave enough to face the thing he’d thought a transformer just months prior.

Your car was in dire need of an oil change and being the caring husband that he was, Toji took up his place as mechanic for the day, his worry about typical shop workers taking advantage of women evident in his pleas for you to just stay home and let him do it.

Megumi also took up his place as the incredibly curious and stubborn one year old, his job apparently to make Toji’s work as hard as humanly possible, every babble or questionable crash tearing Toji’s attention away from the task at hand, which is why he stopped trying, and just let his son indulge in his childlike curiosity.

Of course, you would lose your mind if you knew that your baby was around such a large machine, but Toji knew himself and his capabilities, his reflexes practically inhuman, so he didn’t really mind a little thing running around his feet, as long as he kept an eye out.

“Alright, Megs, give it back,” Toji said gently, hand curling open to reveal a waiting palm, Toji realizing that the young boy did not intend to help him underneath the car. Rather, he’d started a game of tag, little feet scurrying to the other side of the garage, awaiting his father’s move.

Refusing to let a one year old bruise his competitive spirit, Toji used his skills to be across the room in a split second, large hands grabbing Megumi before he could run away, a loud slew of giggles leaving the young boy’s lips, Toji smiling as he held him up with only two hands, walking towards the car like he was holding a feral cat.

Setting the babbling child down, Toji got down on his level, kneeling to tell Megumi to stay back and watch for a second. Pulling himself under the car, Toji then began to use Megumi like a little assistant, asking for tools as needed. “Wrench please” and similar phrases continued for a while before Toji was ready to actually do the task at hand.

Humming in approval at his handiwork, Toji made one final request to the boy sitting beside his feet. “Can you get the jug of oil for me, please?” he asked gently, hands busy holding the port above him closed, his ears catching an excited “yes” and the patter of running feet retreating farther into the garage.

Too preoccupied to notice the unusual length of time it was taking for his son to grab the requested bottle, Toji continued his tinkering before an odd smack sounded, glugging sounds following soon after.

Pausing his movements, Toji craned his neck to try and see his son but before he could even question what had happened, a familiar sniffle sounded at his feet, loud cries flowing from his baby’s mouth.

Sighing, Toji quickly screwed the oil duct tight, and pulled himself from under the car. The sight he emerged to was certainly a surprising one. There, right next to all of his discarded tools, was an oil-covered Megumi, his whole body completely drenched with the thick, black substance.

Letting out a sympathetic laugh and sweet “It’s okay”s, Toji scooped up his crying child, tutting as the dripping kid hid his face in his dad’s chest, trying to hide or remove the liquid, Toji couldn’t tell.

Completely clueless to the situation outside, you were busy in the kitchen, making a snack for your husband as a thank you. For the first time in an hour, familiar footsteps sounded behind you as you chopped up some vegetables, smiling to yourself as you expected two arms to come wrap around you. What you didn’t expect was to hear the wails of your baby boy, and you especially couldn’t have prepared yourself to see him in the flesh.

“What happened,” you gasped as Toji held the young boy to his chest, a black trail of droplets gathering around his feet as you rushed up to the two of them. Cradling little Megumi’s face, oil coated your hands, anger bubbling inside of you, the only funnel being a slap to your husband’s shoulder, narrowed eyes turning up to meet his own.

“I told you to leave him in here,” you huffed, your angry tone fizzling into sympathetic coos as your attention turned back to your son. “It was an accident,” Toji’s voice had that humorous lilt to it, one that was really good at making your very motherly nature less worrisome. “It happens to workers all the time, he’ll be okay.”

And he was right, because after what seemed to be hours of scrubbing and a whole bottle of dawn dish soap later, the previously oily Megumi was squeaky clean, and incredibly happy as he munched away on his dinner. Toji couldn’t help but retell the story a million times, ignoring your reprimanding words as he fell into a fit of laughter, which eventually had your lips starting to pull into a smile, Megumi none the wiser, his memory about the incident already wiped away.

—————————————————————————

#toji fluff #jjk #toji x female reader #toji x reader #baby megumi #dad!toji #mamaguro #jjk fluff #jjk x fem!reader #toji fushiguro fluff #toji zenin x reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #dad toji #jujutsu kaisen fluff

2K notes · View notes

butchsucker · 1 month ago

Text

WANNA BET?

pairing: ellie williams/abby anderson

contents: 18+ content!! bottom!ellie, service top!abby, fucking out of spite?, pussy eating, fingering, finger sucking, hair-pulling, slight edging, squirting

word count: 4,967

It’s always a fight between Ellie and Abby. Always. Not the serious kind, but the kind that feels incredibly immature and incredibly fun. And, keeping it honest, it’s pretty much always Ellie’s fault. She thrives on competition like it’s oxygen. Loves to win. Loves it even more when she can lean back, all smug and triumphant, and shove that win right in Abby’s face.

She’ll turn literally anything into a contest—arm-wrestling, five-second trivia, how long they can go without blinking. On occasion, she's even childish enough to stoop to the random breath-holding contest. The thing is, Ellie doesn’t really care what they’re doing. She just wants Abby’s full attention, undivided and locked on her, like a spotlight. She wants to feel like she’s the center of the goddamn universe, even if it means being obnoxious to get there.

Naturally, she doesn’t always win. Honestly, she suspects she loses more often than she realizes—Abby has that frustrating little half-smile she wears when she’s holding back, letting Ellie have the victory like she’s a kid who needs it more. And that makes Ellie absolutely feral. If Abby’s letting her win, it doesn’t count. It’s not real. It just lights a fire in Ellie’s chest and makes her double down, desperate to prove she’s got the edge fair and square.

Which is how she ends up in her current predicament: flat on her back at the mercy of Abby Anderson.

It had all started earlier that evening. Joel had gone off on one of his trips with Tess, and Ellie—left alone in the big, echoey farmhouse—texted Abby like reflex. Come over. I’m bored. Abby showed up less than an hour later, because of course she did.

They made dinner. Or rather, Abby made dinner while Ellie hovered, stealing bites straight from the pan and offering commentary like a backseat chef. Abby grumbled but let her do it, because she always does. Afterward, they sprawled on the couch in the den, half-watching a movie neither of them were really paying attention to. It was comfort. Familiar. Normal.

Then, inevitably, things derail because Ellie can’t help herself. It's a talent, really. One minute they’re trading stories and half-watching a movie, and the next, the conversation takes a sharp left into explicit territory. It’s just what she does. She could say it’s because she’s sexually liberated, a modern woman unafraid to talk about her desires. Abby, however, tends to chalk it up to Ellie being a huge pervert.

“I refuse to believe you’re fucking more than me,” Ellie declares, throwing her head back onto the couch with theatrical flair. “I bet you suck at it anyway. That’s why you have so many lovers.”

Abby snorts, low and indulgent. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t feel too bad, Abs,” Ellie says, patting Abby’s arm in a mock-sympathetic gesture. And if her hand lingers just a second longer than necessary, if her fingers press lightly into the definition of Abby’s bicep like she’s taking mental notes? That’s her business. “Some people just aren’t good at making girls come. It’s a skill. Not everyone’s got it. I do, though. You be safe out there.”

Abby turns toward her, slow and deliberate. The kind of shift that feels like it changes the air pressure in the room. Her gaze sharpens, unreadable and dark, eyes narrowing like she’s solving an equation Ellie doesn’t even know she posed.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Abby says, voice calm but with just the barest edge of amusement, “I’d think you’re fishing, Williams.”

Ellie barely manages to suppress the smirk that tugs at her lips. She angles her face toward the ceiling, wide-eyed and faux-innocent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Abby leans in slightly—close enough for Ellie to catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and vaguely woodsy. Her smile is razor-sharp and wickedly patient.

“If you want me to make you come,” she says, voice dropping into something low and rich and dangerous, “you can just ask.”

And just like that, Ellie’s brain short-circuits.

A logical, intelligent person would hit pause here. Maybe consider the ramifications of sleeping with your friend—of crossing a line that once blurred won’t easily go back. But logic has taken a backseat, and her brain is currently mush. Abby’s voice has gone husky, oozing with intent, and Ellie is struggling to remember her own name, let alone any sound reasoning.

Still, she can’t give in. Not all at once. That’s not how this works. There are rules to the game. Posturing. Banter. Pride.

“As if you could make me come,” she fires back, with the kind of cocky bravado that’s meant to provoke. Because it always has to be a fight.

"Wanna bet?"

Ellie can't help the shit-eating grin that spreads across her lips. "Oh, you're on." She has never wanted to lose more in her life.

There’s a beat where neither moves, but everything shifts. And then they’re moving, like a dam’s burst open and both of them are caught in the flood.

Abby’s the first to stand, and Ellie scrambles up after her, grabbing Abby’s wrist with a breathless, “Come on,” as she tugs her toward the stairs.

They barely make it through the doorway before Ellie’s kicking aside the piles of laundry cluttering her floor. She grabs a shirt, a pair of jeans, maybe a sock—who knows—and tosses them all toward the corner in a desperate attempt at clearing space.

“Jesus, Els,” Abby says with a grin, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her. “You live like this?”

“Shut up,” Ellie huffs, a little out of breath, “you’re lucky I even have sheets on the bed.”

Abby wastes no time. She crosses the room in three easy strides and suddenly she’s there—right there—crowding Ellie back until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. Her presence is impossible to ignore, all heat and height and solid muscle. Ellie swallows, defiant and breathless all at once.

And then Abby kisses her.

It’s not a soft, testing kind of kiss—it’s all confidence and hunger, her hands already on Ellie’s waist, her mouth insistent and sure. Ellie meets it with fire of her own, hands fisting into the front of Abby’s shirt like she can anchor herself there, like she needs something to hold onto or she’ll float off the planet entirely.

Abby pulls back just long enough to smirk. “Going soft already? You must really like losing.”

“I’m not losing,” Ellie snaps, cheeks flushed, lips kissed pink. “You wish.”

But her voice trembles slightly, and Abby doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, baby,” Abby murmurs, low and indulgent, brushing her fingers under the hem of Ellie’s shirt. “You’re already squirming.”

“I’m not,” Ellie lies—bold-faced, trembling, backed up against her own bed while Abby towers over her. It's a difficult sight not to be moved by. “I just didn't know you'd be so aggressive.”

Abby laughs, that slow, dangerous laugh again. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

She tugs Ellie’s shirt up and off in one smooth motion, Ellie raising her arms automatically, like her brain’s too busy short-circuiting to protest. Abby’s hands are on her immediately, calloused and warm, slow enough to be thorough, fast enough to make Ellie’s knees feel like a suggestion.

“You gonna keep running your mouth,” Abby murmurs, pressing her thigh between Ellie’s legs as she lowers her gently onto the bed, “or are you gonna let me win for once?”

Ellie grabs a fistful of Abby’s shirt, yanking her down for another kiss that’s more teeth than lips. “M'not like you. I never let you win.”

“Oh, I know,” Abby says, mouth trailing kisses down Ellie’s jaw, then lower still, “But I don’t need you to let me.”

Ellie’s breath catches. Abby grins against her skin.

“God, you’re responsive,” she says, voice low and awed and way too smug. “You act all tough but the second I touch you…”

“I swear to god,” Ellie hisses, fingers digging into Abby’s shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself back to that last shred of dignity, “if you keep narrating—”

“What?” Abby grins, biting lightly at Ellie’s collarbone. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up.”

Ellie’s demand is only granted because Abby, mercifully, finds a better use for her mouth.

She closes her lips around Ellie’s nipple, warm and wet, flicking her tongue over the hardening bud with maddening precision. Ellie’s breath hitches. Her hips twitch. Abby anchors her with one firm hand splayed across her stomach, keeping her grounded, steadying her like she knows exactly how close she is to unraveling already. And maybe she does.

Her free hand trails downward, fingers tracing the bare skin of Ellie’s stomach with infuriating slowness, dancing just above the waistband of her sleep shorts. She doesn’t even slip her hand beneath them—just grazes along the edge, lazy and teasing, and it’s shameful how much that alone affects Ellie. She bites her lip hard, trying to choke down the sound trying to claw its way up her throat.

Abby hums against her skin, lips dragging to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention—this time adding a gentle bite that makes Ellie gasp aloud, sharp and helpless.

“That was a pretty sound,” Abby murmurs, her voice low and smug against Ellie’s chest, breath hot and heavy. Her fingers finally slip beneath the soft cotton of Ellie’s waistband, knuckles brushing lower. “Got any more for me?”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breathes, voice trembly and defensive and far too raw to sound convincing.

“That’s not very nice,” Abby says, straightening just enough to pout. Pout. Like she hasn’t already wrecked Ellie’s ability to form complete thoughts. “And here I am being so generous.”

Ellie opens her mouth to throw something back—something cutting or flippant or clever—but Abby’s already sliding down, mouth dragging hot kisses lower and lower, along her ribs, the curve of her belly, across the sensitive dip of her hip. Her fingers hook the waistband of Ellie’s shorts and panties, tugging them down slowly as she goes, her lips following every inch of skin revealed like it’s a damn pilgrimage.

By the time the shorts are halfway down her thighs, Ellie’s practically vibrating with tension, propped on her elbows and watching with wide eyes, like if she looks away she’ll lose her grip on whatever control she thinks she still has.

Abby kneels at the edge of the bed and makes a show of dragging Ellie’s shorts all the way off, tossing them somewhere behind her without so much as a glance. Then she slides her arms beneath Ellie’s thighs, lifting and pulling her forward with ease—like she weighs nothing, like Abby’s body was built for this exact moment. Ellie lets out a surprised, involuntary breath as her back hits the mattress and Abby settles between her legs on the floor, close and steady and entirely too composed.

“Jesus,” Ellie mutters, trying to sound annoyed instead of wrecked. “You having fun manhandling me?”

Abby grins, her hands spreading over the outside of Ellie’s thighs like she’s staking a claim. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Ellie snaps, then immediately realizes how that sounds. “I mean—I wasn’t not—ugh, shut up.”

Abby chuckles, low and satisfied, like Ellie’s fluster is a gift. She presses a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then another, working her way in slow, teasing circles, watching Ellie squirm above her.

“You know,” Abby says between kisses, her breath hot and maddening against sensitive skin, “for someone who talks so much, you’re awfully quiet now.”

Ellie glares down at her, chest heaving, hair wild. “Maybe you should take a page from my—fuck.”

The rest of the sentence dissolves into a ragged moan as Abby licks a long, purposeful stripe through her center and buries her face like she’s been starving for this. Her arms hook tighter under Ellie’s thighs, dragging her closer with the kind of strength that makes her head spin. There’s no patience, no pretense—just Abby, utterly gone for it, moaning into her like she’s tasting something sacred, rocking slightly like she can’t help herself.

Ellie fists the sheets at her sides, back arching off the mattress. “Holy shit,” she breathes, voice cracking at the edges.

Abby doesn't let up. She’s messy with it, relentless. Her tongue works in slow, devastating patterns one second, then flicks quick and eager the next. She’s loud—obscene, even—the wet sounds, the soft groans of appreciation, the way she keeps muttering things into Ellie like she’s praying into her.

“So fucking good,” Abby mumbles, barely audible but desperate, needy. “Tastes so good, baby. Can’t get enough.”

Ellie feels like she’s going to combust. Her pride, her wit, her well-practiced bravado is slipping through her fingers like sand. She tangles one hand in Abby’s hair, tugging sharply, and Abby groans in response—like she likes that, like it only eggs her on.

Ellie tries to keep her voice steady. “You're such a try-hard.”

Abby doesn’t even look up. “You love it.”

Ellie lets out a frustrated, fractured sound, thighs tightening around Abby’s shoulders. She’s getting close, closer than she’s willing to admit, her hips rocking helplessly, chasing the rhythm Abby’s set. Her other hand clutches Abby’s wrist like a lifeline.

“God—fuck, Abby—don’t stop, don’t—”

But she does. Just as Ellie’s about to tip over the edge, Abby pulls away with a slick mouth and flushed cheeks, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Gonna come already?” she asks, smug and breathless. “Ready to lose already?”

Ellie glares down at her, panting. Her legs twitch in protest, every nerve still thrumming.

“No,” she bites, trying to sound indignant instead of wrecked. “I wasn’t.”

“Oh?” Abby’s eyes sparkle as she kisses her inner thigh again, slow and teasing. “Sounded like it.”

“I wasn’t,” Ellie insists, dragging her fingers through her own hair, trying to collect herself and failing. “You stopped before anything happened.”

Abby tilts her head, resting her chin just above Ellie’s knee. “So you’re saying I should keep going?”

Ellie narrows her eyes. “I’m saying you better.”

Abby grins, pleased beyond measure. “Say please.”

Ellie groans. “I hate you.”

Abby clicks her tongue, amusement dancing behind her eyes as she stands with a slow, predatory stretch. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and for one harrowing second, Ellie thinks she’s going to stop. But then Abby’s gaze drops back down, dark and knowing.

“Looks like you just need a little more,” she says, voice rich with promise. “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”

“Gotta make you work for it,” Ellie fires back, trying to sound flippant—but the tremor in her voice gives her away.

That smug grin on Abby’s face only sharpens. Without breaking eye contact, she peels off her clothes with calm, deliberate ease, letting each piece fall into a careless pile. Ellie tries not to stare. Fails spectacularly. The muscle, the sheer presence of Abby is overwhelming. Broad shoulders. Defined arms. Solid core. It’s all too much and not enough all at once.

Abby climbs back onto the bed like she owns it—like she owns her—and drags Ellie with her. There’s no room for protest, not when Ellie finds herself suddenly straddling Abby’s hips, bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between them like an open flame.

Ellie swallows hard, pulse hammering in her throat. Her hands instinctively find Abby’s shoulders, clinging there like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Abby lifts one hand, cradles Ellie’s jaw with unexpected tenderness, thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. “Be good,” she murmurs, voice low and intimate. “Open for me.”

She traces her finger along the seam of Ellie’s lips.

They part with a shameful sort of eagerness.

Abby’s smile deepens—something soft but wicked. “Good girl,” she praises, and Ellie nearly melts on the spot.

Then Abby slips two fingers past her lips, slow and sure. Ellie lets her, her mouth closing around them automatically. Abby doesn’t thrust—yet—just lets them sit heavy on Ellie’s tongue, warm and slick with the faint taste of her. Ellie breathes through her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Then Abby begins to move.

She fucks Ellie’s mouth with her fingers in lazy, controlled strokes—gentle at first, coaxing her open, then deeper, filthier. Her other hand rests on the back of Ellie’s neck, holding her steady, thumb brushing the nape of her neck in an oddly grounding rhythm. The whole thing is maddeningly slow, and Ellie can’t tell if she’s being teased or tamed.

“You look so good like this,” Abby murmurs, watching her with open hunger. “Mouth full. Eyes all hazy.”

Ellie glares at her—well, tries to. The effect is somewhat undercut by the fact that she’s choking slightly around Abby’s fingers, breathing hard through her nose, cheeks flushed with heat.

“Still gonna pretend you’re not into this?” Abby teases, fingers pressing deeper. “You’re dripping. I can feel it.”

Ellie whimpers, just barely, and hates herself for it.

Abby pulls her fingers free with a soft pop, dragging them slowly across Ellie’s bottom lip, wiping up a mess she made.

“There she is,” Abby whispers. “Still gonna be stubborn, huh?”

Ellie licks her lips, refusing to look away. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

Abby grins—sharp and devastating.

“Oh,” she says, voice rough with anticipation, “I will.”

At a maddeningly slow pace, Abby works her middle finger into Ellie’s warm heat. Ellie’s thighs twitch where they straddle her hips, her whole body instinctively clenching down around the intrusion.

“You’re so fucking wet, Els,” Abby murmurs, utterly transfixed by the slick glide. Her voice is low, reverent, almost awed. “You can take another, can’t you, baby?”

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, already nodding, hands clutching at Abby’s biceps. “Fuck. Yeah.”

Abby obliges, sliding a second finger in with deliberate care, watching the way Ellie reacts—her eyes fluttering, lips parting around a sharp, desperate gasp. Abby flexes her fingers inside her, curling up just enough to make Ellie jerk, her hips stuttering without her meaning to.

“There it is,” Abby says with a grin. “Thought I felt that spot.”

She keeps her fingers still for a moment, just inside, letting Ellie get used to the stretch—but also letting the anticipation build. Her free hand travels up, calloused fingers skating over Ellie’s ribs before cupping one breast, thumb brushing lazily over the nipple.

Ellie moans—quiet, but unmistakable.

“Ride ’em,” Abby says, her voice slipping into something firm. Commanding. “C’mon. Show me how bad you want it.”

Ellie hesitates for half a second—then obeys, sinking down onto Abby’s hand with a shaky breath. The stretch, the fullness—it’s too much and not enough, and the angle has her grinding forward without even thinking. She rocks her hips again, then again, building a rhythm that makes her whole body tremble.

“That’s it,” Abby coaxes, her thumb pinching Ellie’s nipple just enough to make her gasp. “God, you’re so fucking hot like this.”

Her other hand slides between them, finding Ellie’s clit with a practiced touch that’s almost cruel in its precision. The moment she brushes it, Ellie’s hips falter, a broken whimper escaping her throat.

“Sensitive, huh?” Abby teases, fingers curling again deep inside her. “Thought you were gonna win, baby.”

“I—shut up,” Ellie pants, aiming for stern. Her breath is coming in uneven bursts now, every nerve in her body strung tight.

“Oh, I like you like this,” Abby whispers. “All loud and needy. So much for keeping quiet.”

Ellie chokes on a sound that might be a moan or a curse—she doesn’t even know anymore. Abby keeps up the pressure, circling her clit in time with the thrust of her fingers. Every curl inside her makes her thighs shake. She tries to keep control, tries to hold on, but it’s slipping—fast.

“Abby—fuck—Abby, please.”

Abby’s lips curve in smug delight. “There she is. Begging already.”

“Shut up,” Ellie groans, but it’s breathless, wrecked, her hips chasing Abby’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Say it again.”

Ellie shudders, her pride crumbling around her. “Please. Please don’t stop.”

Abby rewards her with a rougher thrust, curling her fingers deep and brushing right up against that devastating spot inside her. Ellie cries out, head thrown back, mouth open.

Ellie’s rhythm starts to stutter, her breath catching with each snap of her hips. Abby’s fingers are relentless now—slick and steady, curling just right, rubbing against that unbearable spot inside her while her thumb circles her clit with maddening precision.

“You close, baby?” Abby murmurs, gaze locked on Ellie’s flushed, wrecked face. “You gonna come for me?”

“Fuck...you,” Ellie gasps, which isn’t a no.

Abby grins, cruel and delighted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Ellie tries to hold on. She wants to hold on. But her body betrays her—hips jerking erratically, thighs trembling, a guttural sound clawing its way out of her throat as her climax tears through her. She crashes forward into Abby, moaning into her shoulder as she rides it out, her whole body taut and shaking.

Abby slows her hand, easing her through it, fingers still buried inside her. When Ellie finally collapses, boneless and breathless against her chest, Abby chuckles low in her throat.

“So,” she says, cocky as ever. “Looks like I just made you come.”

Ellie lifts her head, hair wild, eyes still half-lidded and hazy. “Nu-uh.”

Abby blinks. “What?”

Ellie smirks, voice hoarse but triumphant. “You can't prove it.”

Abby narrows her eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Ellie says, trying to shrug even as her limbs are jelly. “It's your word against mine.”

Abby withdraws her fingers slowly—so slowly that Ellie shivers at the loss—and holds them up between them. They glisten in the low light, absolutely soaked. Abby raises one brow as she licks them clean, savoring the taste with an exaggerated hum.

“Well,” she says, tone dripping with faux sweetness, “this tastes like someone came.”

Ellie bites her lip, not quite hiding her blush. “Well, when you really think about it, I was the one doing the riding. That orgasm was pretty much self-inflicted.”

“Oh, is that right?”

Before Ellie can blink, Abby grabs her by the hips and flips her over with terrifying ease, pinning her to the mattress with one strong arm braced above her head. Her body hovers over Ellie’s, all heat and muscle and unyielding presence.

“You just love making things difficult,” Abby growls, dipping her head to nip at Ellie’s jaw. “Guess we’ll just have to go again.”

Ellie stares up at her, lips parting like she’s about to protest—only to let out a breathless squeak as Abby presses her back into the mattress with her hips, grinding slow and heavy against her still-sensitive core.

“I'm not stopping until you know it was me,” Abby whispers, grinning against her throat. “No more technicalities.”

Ellie swallows hard, already breathless again. “Fine,” she mutters, trying to sound unaffected.

Ellie doesn’t even get the chance to gather her breath before Abby’s trailing kisses down her body, slow and deliberate, all heat and teeth and quiet little promises. Ellie tries to keep her face neutral, tries not to look as undone as she feels, but her heart is hammering and her thighs are already trying to close.

“Don’t even think about it,” Abby warns, pushing them apart with ease. Her strength is casual, effortless, but Ellie feels it like a pulse in her core. “You wanted to be stubborn. Now you get the full treatment.”

Ellie snorts, or tries to. It comes out as more of a shaky exhale. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re so wet,” Abby shoots back, dragging her tongue along Ellie’s inner thigh. “Which means I get to be.”

She licks a path up, purposefully avoiding where Ellie wants her most. Ellie groans, rolling her hips upward in a silent plea, but Abby presses a firm hand to her stomach to keep her pinned.

“Nu-uh. Use your words.”

“Are you serious right now?” Ellie huffs.

Abby gives her a look. “I haven’t even started being serious.”

Then, without warning, she leans in and finally takes Ellie into her mouth. She flattens her tongue and drags it slow and heavy up through her folds, lingering on her clit just long enough to make Ellie whimper.

Ellie’s hand flies into Abby’s hair, fingers tightening, not guiding so much as holding on for dear life. Abby moans against her, the vibration shooting straight through Ellie’s spine.

Then, just as Ellie’s starting to fall into it, Abby pulls back.

“Beg.”

Ellie blinks down at her, eyes wide. “Are you kidding me—”

Abby raises a brow, her fingers already teasing at Ellie’s entrance. “You wanna come again?” she asks, all saccharine cruelty. “Then tell me what you want.”

“You are such a fuckin' asshole.”

“That’s not a request.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Abby please make me come with your stupid mouth and your big, stupid fingers.”

Abby looks at her for a long moment, clearly not amused by her lack of effort. Heat rises to Ellie's cheeks as she chokes down what little bit of her pride remains. "Abby," she says, voice impossibly soft. "Please...please make me feel good. I want you to make me come."

Abby grins, savage and satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

And then she’s on her again, mouth latching onto Ellie’s clit with unrelenting purpose. Her fingers slide in—three this time, easy from how wet Ellie is—and immediately curl, hitting that same devastating spot that made her fall apart the first time.

Ellie’s whole body arches off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from her lips. Abby keeps the pressure perfect, sucking and flicking her tongue while her fingers work a steady rhythm that has Ellie falling apart at the seams.

“Abby. Abby. Abby! Don't stop...fuck, please don't stop.”

Abby doesn’t. If anything, she doubles down, one arm thrown across Ellie’s hips to hold her down as she fucks her with mouth and fingers in perfect, brutal tandem. Every flick, every thrust sends sparks up Ellie’s spine, her vision going white at the edges. She feels like she's going to die.

“Abby—Abby. Fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Abby growls, pulling back just enough to speak. Her breath is hot and damp against Ellie’s skin. “You’re gonna. Come on, Els. Give it to me.”

That’s all it takes.

Her hips buck, legs trembling violently as her orgasm hits like a tidal wave. It’s too much, her body going tight, then loose, then tight again as a gush of wetness spills out around Abby’s fingers. Abby groans, watching it happen like she’s witnessing something holy, and doesn’t stop until Ellie is gasping for air, her voice hoarse and broken, hands fisting the sheets.

Abby finally slows, drawing her fingers out gently and licking them clean without shame.

“Well,” she says smugly, collapsing beside Ellie with a self-satisfied sigh. “I think that one was definitely me.”

Ellie, still blinking up at the ceiling like she’s trying to remember what year it is, manages a breathless, “...Fuck...my sheets.”

But her voice is ruined.

Ellie isn’t sure how long she’s been lying there, half-sprawled and vaguely boneless, but she's more concerned with corralling her soul back into her body.

Abby finally climbs off the bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and walking like she just won the fuckin’ Olympics.

“Stay put,” she says, voice a low rumble as she leans down and presses a kiss to Ellie’s forehead. “I got you.”

Ellie hums something between a groan and a purr as Abby disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, a drawer open and close, and then Abby’s back—gentle, focused, and annoyingly competent as she helps Ellie clean up with a warm, damp cloth and soft hands.

“I can do that,” Ellie mutters, face burning even as she melts under the attention.

“Yeah?” Abby raises an eyebrow, dabbing at Ellie’s thighs with exaggerated care. “You seemed pretty out of commission a second ago.”

Ellie flips her off weakly. Abby grins and kisses the tip of her finger before heading back to the bathroom.

When she returns, she tosses Ellie a cold bottle of water. “Hydrate or die-drate.”

Ellie fumbles it but gets it open. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you with this.”

“I’ll take that as gratitude.”

Ellie doesn’t answer. She’s already rolled off the bed and curled herself into the squishy embrace of her oversized beanbag chair, wrapped in nothing but Abby’s shirt—which swallows her whole and still smells like detergent and sweat and Abby.

Abby starts stripping the bed of its very damp sheets without complaint, balling them up and tossing them into the laundry bin in the corner like this is just…everyday shit.

“Jesus,” Ellie mutters, watching her. “You’re so domestic.”

Abby glances over her shoulder and winks. “Just for you, Els.”

When the bed’s remade with fresh sheets and everything’s clean again, Abby scoops Ellie right out of her beanbag like she weighs nothing. Ellie squawks but doesn’t fight it, just buries her face in Abby’s shoulder and lets herself be carried like a very grumpy, very pleased kitten.

They settle under the blanket, tangled together, and it’s warm and quiet and soft. Abby stretches out on her back, Ellie half on top of her, tracing idle lines on her stomach with one finger.

“Just admit it,” Abby murmurs, her hand brushing lazily along Ellie’s spine. “I won.”

Ellie snorts. “You’re really proud of yourself, huh?”

“Extremely.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Oh?”

Ellie shifts, just enough to glance up at her. There’s still heat in her eyes, but now it’s tempered by sleep and something that might be affection. “I could probably make you come harder.”

Abby’s eyes spark with interest. “Wanna bet?”

Ellie grins, slow and sharp and sleepy. “Always.”

#ellie williams #abby anderson #ellabs #ellie x abby #the last of us #tlou #ellie smut #abby smut #lesbian #the lesbian of us #18 + content #this one got away from me a bit lol #baby's first tumblr fic #i write for the people that want ellabs no reader #i see u #and im here for u

193 notes · View notes

kirschteinoir · 10 months ago

Text

twelve minutes.

zayne (love&deepspace) x reader.

❝ seeing both of your eyes at the same time shouldn't be this attractive... ❞

zayne is uncharacteristically late and you're not pleased, but the reason why definitely makes up for it.

wc; 1.8k

[zayne forehead zayne forehead zayne forehead...inspired by this gorgeous art by sesamefruit on twt / X!!! i haven't stopped thinking about it since i saw it like UGH HE LOOKS SO SCRUMPTIOUS!!! implied suggestive stuff towards the end bc i couldn't help myself so 17+ please! ]

he was late.

zayne was never late. in fact a small but prominent part of his personality was that he was always on time - something he was so fond of reminding you about every time you happened to arrive a minute or two after him to your scheduled date. you sort of understood him though; his job was a harsh reminder that time waits for no one, especially a cardiac surgeon hours into a surgery with a life on the line.

your eyes dart to the giant clock ticking warily above you in the ballroom, its ornate hands and roman numerals mocking you as you stood in the corner with half a glass of champagne in your hand.

it had occurred to you to perhaps text him, although you pulled a face at the thought of being too clingy or rushing him. you trusted zayne and you knew he wouldn't be late without a good reason - you just hoped that he knew what he was doing by showing up almost fifteen minutes after your agreed meet time.

tonight was a charity gala, or something like that, hosted by akso hospital to raise funds for various wards, ones you hadn't even heard of before. the bulk of the guestlist included important patrons of the hospital who most likely had relatives in akso’s care, all of the most significant hospital staff and whoever they brought as a plus one - which is the category you and zayne fall into, respectively.

despite being a guest on zayne’s behalf, the two of you had arrived in separate cars. this was not something you had initially agreed to as the image of showing up on zayne’s arm with both of you dressed to the nines had been all too alluring and a small, smug part of you had wanted to show him off to everyone in attendance. but as always, zayne's work had shattered your grandiose dream and thus he couldn't make it on time to pick you up; he'd paid for your taxi to the venue though, and tracked your location on an app to make sure you arrived safely.

apart from a sending you a happy snowman emote at your arrival to the gala's location, he hadn’t given you any indication of when he would show up. you think back to his text from earlier this afternoon, scrunching your nose slightly as you recall how he'd said that he would definitely be there in time for dessert - his attempt at humour, you supposed.

so here you are, waiting nervously amongst the growing crowd with a watchful eye on the entrance. many of zayne’s colleagues had already arrived and greeted you with a sympathetic look as they knew all too well how busy the schedule of the cardiac surgeon could be. you took their pitiful gazes in your stride, assuring them with an easy-going laugh that he would be here soon. you hoped you sounded more convinced than you felt as an ugly apprehension gnawed at your stomach at the thought of zayne standing you up tonight.

oh well, at least you looked good.

throwing caution to the wind you swallow the last of your champagne with a slight pained expression and discreetly whip out your phone. your fingers find his contact reflexively and are about to hit the 'call' button when suddenly a hushed whisper sweeps through the room like a blizzard and your curiosity is piqued for a moment. the only thing that stops you from going through with the call is the sound of zayne's name rippling through the crowd and then the placid lilt of his voice that you knew so well.

zayne was finally here!

an hour or so ago, zayne had been stood in front of his bathroom mirror, his usually composed visage marred by a troubled expression. remnants of his steamy shower clouds the glass and his deep sigh adds to the frostiness as he continues to stare at himself in discontent.

he was already dressed for the evening, his shirt sleeves cuffed and tie clipped, but had yet to style his hair. usually, it would be the easiest part of his routine as he doesn't stray much from his signature windswept fringe. something was different today though and maybe out of the sudden urge to surprise you, he itched for something new. he was nervous as he weighed out the potential cons - what if it didn't suit him? what if you didn’t like it? what if he stuck out too much? was a fancy gala really the best time and place to experiment with his appearance?

as much as he was nervous, he was also tired of looking the same every time you saw him. well, except for when he was fresh out the shower and his hair was damp, but it was still relatively similar to his daytime look...

zayne looks at the short video tutorial on his phone again, replaying it a second time for good measure. the tub of gel was as daunting as his surgical scalpels as he carefully unscrewed the lid. he pauses the video on a particular shot of the final styled product, tentative fingers dipping into the cool gel.

he ended up leaving the house twelve whole minutes later than he had expected and his slight rushing had caused a few strands to break free from their gelled confines already - he thought it would at least hold until the first course of the evening. he was late enough as it was and didn't want to push it by continuing to style it in his parked car, knowing that you were probably growing restless as you waited for him inside.

you peer through the crowd that seems to have coagulated at the entrance of the grand hall, wishing you were just that bit taller so you could catch zayne’s eye and let him know where you were.

“excuse me,” you mumble to no one in particular as you push through, side-stepping and shimmying your way to your date. a few of them grumble at your forcefulness and you mentally apologise, only thinking of zayne at the moment.

“has anyone seen- ah, never mind.”

you hear zayne approach before you see him, the timbre of his voice suddenly swirling in a comforting embrace around your ears.

the first thing you're met with is his expensive suit, the woven navy fibres filling your field of vision. you stumble back a little, afraid of bumping into him, and take in his appearance properly. he was wearing a classic three-piece, navy with a black waistcoat, and you remember that you picked it out for him on your last shopping date. at the time he had seemed indifferent to your choices, but your cheeks suddenly feel warm as you realise right there and then how much zayne really likes you.

“zayne, there you are! i-“ you begin, looking up at him with a smile.

expecting to see pear green eyes hidden by a gauze of black fringe, you're shocked when instead those same eyes are crystalline and unobstructed as they regard you with an amused expression, perfectly poised underneath an arched black eyebrow.

the soft skin of his forehead, which you had often traversed with your fingertips on countless sleepy nights, was now exposed to the warm glow of the ballroom. his fringe, which so often tickled your cheek as he burrowed into the crook of your neck, exhausted after an overnight surgery, was gelled neatly back. some rogue strands still burst forward, daring to defy zayne's signature put-togetherness, but even they looked purposefully rogue and elegantly styled to suit his new look.

you could do nothing more than gape at him dumbly as he became increasingly concerned at your lack of response. he'd been fraught with worry about your reaction to his tardiness, expecting to get chewed out for being so ungentlemanly as to leave you standing alone in a room full of his colleagues that you hardly knew. but he surmises quickly that it was all worth it as he takes in your dumbfounded expression; he has to hold back a chuckle at the way you not so subtly check him out. however you aren’t the only one who’s doing so in the room, and he softly clears his throat to bring you away from your thoughts for a moment.

“here i am,” he says smoothly, taking another step forward. he offers his arm to you, his ears tinting that pretty shade of crimson that you loved so much as he finally cracks under the scrutiny of everyone else in the room.

“let’s find some privacy, my dear.”

dazed, you just nod as zayne leads you away from the crowd. it disperses soon after anyway, although everyone is now whispering about that cardiac surgeon and zayne's popularity seems to grow just that little bit more.

he takes the two of you to a more secluded part of the room, exhaling softly when you're finally by yourselves. he's almost disappointed by your silence at his new look and he no longer has his fringe to hide behind as his eyebrows knit together slightly.

“you haven’t spoken a word since you saw me,” he comments, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your cheek. he almost gasps in shock as your hand stops his, gripping his wrist gently. “what’s wro-“

his voice trails off as he notices the change in your expression, one he recognises all too well from the privacy of your bedroom. his own ears colour more and he peers down at you in confusion.

“seeing both of your eyes at the same time shouldn’t be this attractive,” you finally murmur, unable to stop staring at zayne.

he clears his throat again at your words, looking around you briefly to make sure no one was listening in.

“i take it you’re fond of my new look?” he asks, hopeful undertones betraying his casual question.

he was so cute, you wanted to squeeze him.

you smile, a mischievous glint in your eye as you suddenly grab him by the tie with your other hand, tugging his face down to hover inches in front of yours. his eyes widen almost comically, his vulnerable expression fully exposed to your devilish eyes.

“i can show you exactly how fond, my love. it doesn't hurt to have dessert first tonight, right?”

as a bashful zayne crowds your giddy self into the empty bathroom stall and locks the door behind him with unusually shaky hands, he thanks astra for those extra twelve minutes he spent in front of the bathroom mirror today.

about me.

#zayne love and deepspace #zayne #zayne lads #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne fluff #zayne l&ds #love and deepspace #love and deepspace fluff #l&ds zayne #l&ds x reader #lnds fanfic

691 notes · View notes

sugardollcurse · 1 month ago

Note

would you feel up doing more mcbeardy smut? the one about him getting back from the get back sessions is driving me crazy !! you’re incredible doll!

𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑒 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 contains; nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, semi-public sex, overstimulation

𐙚 summary ; paul needs to unwind after the sessions. you offer your thighs.

𐙚 note ; you know what you're doing to me with these… teeth sunk in my knuckle writing this one! keep making me suffer, alright? xoxo

The sky was dark with London rot. Damp. Bone-cold through coat seams, wet up the backs of thighs, that winter kind of chill that makes breath fog and leather squeak. Paul had just slammed the passenger door of his car, red and rattling and smelling like an ashtray some days, cologne and lemon rinds on others. Today, it smelled like sweat and music. You were already in the driver’s seat, for some reason, hands curled around a chipped thermos of tea you’d brought for him, legs stretched out, boots braced against the gearstick.

He was in his white shirt under a wool coat, loose, two buttons open even in the cold. He wiped at his jaw with a wrist, then leaned over, breath catching.

“God, y’don’t know what today was like.”

You knew.

“You said yesterday was hell.”

“Yesterday,” he muttered, fingers sliding up the inside of your knee, “was nothin’. Today John nearly threw a bloody amp. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Mm,” you said, pretending not to react to the way his knuckles were climbing now. Slower, firmer. “So this is your therapy?”

Paul smiled. His voice dragged like a cigarette burn: “You are.”

You didn’t say anything yet. You knew better. You just passed the thermos over without a word. He took it gratefully, curling one hand around it like it was a lifeline, the other settling on his thigh, thumb twitching rhythmically.

He took a sip, hissed when it burned, then did it again anyway. His eyes closed. “Mmm. That’s real tea. That’s salvation.”

You smiled, leaning your head back against the seat.

“George left early,” Paul muttered. “Didn’t even stay through the playback. Mal had to chase Ringo round the car park for a cigarette break that never happened. I think John said all of four words the whole afternoon, two of which were ‘fuckin' hell’ and ‘shit.’”

You made a low sound. “That’s three.”

He cracked a grin despite himself, eyes still shut. “Smart.”

Then silence again. His hand drifted from the thermos and back to your knee, his palm splaying flat against the fabric of your trousers. Just rested there, warm. Heavy. You didn’t move. You weren’t cold anymore.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll walk in and it’ll just be music,” he said eventually. “Y’know? Not a fuckin’ war. Dunno where it went sideways.”

You hummed, low and sympathetic. “Sounds like you need a new coping mechanism.”

He turned his head to look at you. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but that glint there. That fire that didn’t go out, even under pressure. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’ve y’got in mind then?” His voice dropped a little, just the edge of mischief cutting through.

You glanced out at the frost-edged windows, the muffled hush of London beyond the glass. The night was quiet. Your breath still made clouds in the air. And his hand was moving now, inching just a little higher.

He leaned in close, nose brushing your cheekbone, voice curling like smoke.

“Tell me.”

You smirked a little, hips tilting forward, just enough that his palm pressed a little firmer between your thighs.

“Figured we’d find a better use for that backseat.”

He twitched, subtle at first… a breath hitching in his chest, fingers reflexively clenching like a tremor ran down his spine. His eyes dropped, fixated where your thighs parted slightly under his hand, and his voice didn’t come immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. Looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment before it spiraled out of control

His hand moved slow, careful. A palm dragging up the inside of your thigh, calloused heat through the thin fabric. He moved with deliberation, tracing the seam, knuckles grazing where you were already warm. The pressure wasn’t much, just enough to tease, to keep you barely there and wanting more. He was watching your face now, mouth parted, eyes locked on how your lips parted at the friction.

“You feelin’ that?” he murmured. The accent thicker, low and curling like smoke from a match just struck.

You leaned back against the seat, legs parting more in invitation than answer. He didn’t need to be told twice. His hand disappeared beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding up and over until his fingers met the soaked fabric of your underwear. He paused.

“Oh wow,” he breathed, the words a reverent curse, thumb dragging a lazy stroke over your center. “You’re already-yeah, that’s somethin’, love.”

He pressed the heel of his hand into your mound, grinding down as his middle finger trailed the slick outline, teasing through the fabric with maddening care. He worked you slowly, rhythm shallow, languid, like he had all night to play and no intention of rushing the crescendo. You gasped, hips canting, and he smirked.

And then his hand slipped beneath the waistband. Warm fingers met hotter skin. He groaned, loud, primal, like it gutted him to feel how wet you already were. A groan that caught in his chest, all gravel and hunger. He tugged the fabric to the side with a single-minded urgency that almost made you laugh.

Almost.

Then his fingers were inside you.

Thick, knuckle-deep, one after the other, working in slow circles that made you squirm against the faux leather seat. He watched your mouth as you moaned, biting it in reflex. His pupils were blown wide, almost black.

“Keep makin’ that noise,” he muttered, pushing deeper, curling inside you until your knees knocked. “I’ll never write a ballad again. Jus’ that noise.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears, your clit, your lungs. He kept working you like he was tuning a bass, thumb brushing just barely where you needed it and then pulling away again, sadistic.

“Paul,” you gasped, grabbing his wrist, but he didn’t stop. Only twisted his hand deeper.

He pulled back suddenly, fingers soaked in your slick. You whimpered at the loss, thighs twitching. He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, two at once, slow and grateful like the taste saved him. The sight of it made your whole body clench, needy.

“Driver’s seat,” he said suddenly, hoarse. “Get in the back.”

You clambered out into the bitter night on shaky legs, icy air biting bare skin. The cars metal squealed as the door slammed. He was already in the backseat, manspread like a fucking prince, white shirt sticking to his chest in patches. His trousers were already undone, the soft weight of his cock resting heavy in his palm. He looked like sin. He looked like the second coming. He crooked a finger.

You climbed in.

Your knees pressed into the seat, trousers shoved down past your thighs, your hands braced. His mouth found the inside of your leg like a starving man. Kissed the skin high and hot until you bucked toward him. When he finally dragged your underwear off, he buried his face between your legs with no ceremony.

You were panting already, your hands buried in his curls, knees quaking. He ate you like his life depended on it, but not fast. Not frantic. No, Paul was methodical, wicked, loving in the most obscene way, like he was crafting a melody with the tip of his tongue, note by wet, slow note. Every lick was deliberate, drawn-out, his mouth open just wide enough to sink into the warmth of you and stay there, breathing you in like he couldn’t get enough, tongue dragging through your folds, then retreating, then circling again. You could feel the shape of his lips when he kissed you down there. Tender. Greedy.

His nose pressed to you, soft scratch of his beard catching where you were most sensitive, and he groaned as he moved, like the taste was anchoring him, saving him from everything he'd left behind in that studio. You swore you felt him smile against you, just the corner of his mouth lifting, when your hips jerked up to chase his tongue. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hands kept you spread open and still, one arm looped under your thigh, the other bracing your pelvis flat against the seat so he could keep you exactly where he wanted. Where he needed you.

“Mmphh... look at you,” he murmured once, voice thick and muffled against your cunt, barely lifting his mouth before diving back in again. He licked in long, slow strokes, tongue flat, then pointed, then fluttering at just the right spot that made your thighs tremble. He could tell. Of course he could tell. He adjusted instantly, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking with a rhythm that built and built and built.

Your breath hitched with each pass. His tongue made slow, rhythmic laps over your clit, then slid lower, dipping between you, then back again, working you open, coaxing every twitch, every whimper from your body until you were squirming.

“Shh,” he whispered, lifting his head only enough to speak, his chin slick, mouth swollen, voice husky with lust. “Let me. Stay still, love.”

And you did.

You melted under him, spine arched against the cold seatback, one hand tangled in his curls, the other gripping the window rim. The glass was fogged now, your breath painting it opaque in sharp exhales. He moaned into you, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your whole body, and you let out something between a sob and a curse. His mouth moved with more purpose now, tongue flicking fast and then slowing, like he was teasing you with the brink. Your orgasm built slowly, painfully, a hot, humming pressure that kept cresting and dipping.

When it hit, it stole your breath.

Your thighs clamped tight around his head, and he growled into you, never stopping, never letting up as you came against his mouth, moaning high and breathless and raw. He eased you through it, slow drags of his tongue now, soft kisses, lips wet and reverent as your body trembled. But he didn’t pull back. Didn’t pause. He just kept tasting you, kept licking like he hadn’t gotten his fill.

You gasped, fingers twitching against his scalp. “Paul, fuck, I-I need a second-“

He pulled his mouth back at last, lips parted, chin slick, eyes half-lidded like he’d been drugged, drunk on you. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then again, higher, then looked up, those eyes, warm and spent and stupidly proud.

“Christ, look at you,” he whispered. “Can’t believe I get to do that to you.”

You could barely breathe.

He grinned, crooked and sweet, and thumbed your inner thigh where it was still twitching. The movement was light, casual, like he was playing with you, admiring the way your muscles quivered even after everything. You were still flushed, breath coming in short gasps, your whole body sensitive and open, soaked in the sticky proof of just how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

“Come here,” he murmured, tapping his thigh with his palm.

You crawled into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, fingers clumsy as they pushed your trousers down lower, enough to free you completely. You were trembling, not from the cold anymore. You wrapped your fingers around his cock without even thinking, he hissed through his teeth, head tipping back to thud against the glass behind him.

“Yeah. Just like that.”

You guided the tip through your slick folds, lined him up, and eased down. Slow. Careful. You both groaned at once, the stretch sharp, hot, perfect. His hands gripped your hips, jaw clenched, and he buried his face in your neck as you took him inch by inch.

“So warm. Jesus. You’re takin’ it so slow, are you tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped, voice shredded.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You bottomed out with a gasp, the position forcing him so deep you swore you could feel him in your ribs. He moaned low in your throat, open-mouthed and breathless, as your walls clenched around him, fluttering from the overstimulation.

You rocked gently, body still soft from the high he’d already given you, your thighs spread wide to accommodate the angle, your hands braced on his chest. He let you set the pace at first, just watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you rode him. Each roll of your hips dragged his cock through your slick walls, the sound of it obscene in the cramped car, loud and sticky and real.

His hands snapped up to your waist, fingers digging in, and he fucked up into you, hard.

You cried out, spine arching, as he set a rhythm that was brutal and needy. The car rocked with each thrust, springs squealing, windows fogged completely now. Sweat beaded on your skin again despite the cold, your breath hitching every time his cock slammed deep and angled right into the spot that made your vision blur.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned, jaw tight as he held you down and pounded up into you. “Ridin’ me like that. Fuckin’ perfect. Can’t get enough of you, fuck, never could.”

You whined, hands scrabbling for purchase on his coat, forehead pressed to his.

“C’mon, love,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Gimme one more. Just one more. Can feel you twitchin’. Let go for me. I want it.”

Your body was already begging to come again, pleasure curling tight and electric in your belly. His cock filled you so perfectly, each stroke dragging against your walls with friction that made your legs quake. His thumb slid down to your clit, rubbing fast circles, and that was it.

You shattered, again, body spasming in his lap, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you. He cursed when you clenched around him, hips jerking, and suddenly his thrusts went messy, frantic.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna-”

You were still coming when he came too, hot and thick and endless, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural growl that vibrated in your chest. He thrust through it, riding it out with his arms around you, panting hard into your neck. You felt every twitch of him inside you, every pulse.

The car was still rocking slightly.

The windows were fully steamed, the air thick and reeking of sex. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His arms stayed around your back, his lips brushing lazily at your throat.

Then-

Knock knock knock.

You froze.

So did Paul. The air in the car went taut, humid with breath and sex and tension. Your body was still trembling in his lap, raw and twitching from the orgasm that hadn’t quite let you go yet. His cock was still inside you, softening but sticky, and your limbs weren’t moving. Couldn’t. Your head slumped forward into the crook of his neck, too boneless, too spent to register anything except the sharp spike of panic lighting up your skin.

Another knock. Harder this time. A muffled voice came through the fogged glass.

“Paul? Y’in there?”

...

“Jesus Christ,” Paul hissed under his breath, eyes going wide with horror. “It’s Ringo.”

You didn’t even react. Couldn’t lift your head. Your cheek was stuck to the sweaty warmth of his collarbone, legs still bracketing his hips, slick dripping slowly from where you were joined, obscene and heavy in the air between you. Paul swore again, harsher, under his breath, then suddenly moved fast, his hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you gently, shifting your spent body to the bench beside him. You whimpered at the slide, the fullness leaving you, his come spilling from you onto the seat with a wet little shhlp that made him wince.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, more to himself than you, really, his voice barely audible over the frantic scuffling in the back. He reached behind the seat with one arm, shoving aside a pile of jackets, vinyl sleeves, a crumpled scarf, and came up with an old wool blanket, navy blue and pilled from years of being kicked around under his gear.

He threw it over both of you, yanking it high to cover your lower half, and himself. Tucked it under your legs, pulled it up to your hips, then leaned across and yanked the hem of your coat down too, so nothing was visible. No bare skin, no flushed inner thighs, no mess between them. His hands were shaking.

Another knock.

“Paul,” Ringo called again, a little louder now. “Y’dead in there, or just sulking?”

Paul rolled the window down two inches. Just enough to speak. A blast of cold air hit the inside of the car like a slap. Your breath fogged instantly. You flinched under the blanket, still barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Ringo,” Paul said, too casual. Too late. His voice cracked on the second syllable. “What’re you doin’?”

“Could ask you the same,” Ringo’s voice came back, amused. “Didn’t think you were still here. Was about to nick your fags.”

Paul cleared his throat. “Yeah, no, I was, uh, just restin’.”

“Restin’.” The shape of his smirk was audible. “Alone?”

And then, nothing. Or maybe not nothing, but certainly nothing that mattered. The rest of their conversation, which seemed important, faded into background, like rain on a roof you weren’t under. The car felt warmer, smaller, more private than ever. Your ears buzzed with blood and the aftermath of too much feeling, your thighs sticky under the blanket, heartbeat a slow throb between them.

Paul’s hand slid slightly higher again, tracing the warm curve where your legs met. He was still talking to Ringo, but it might as well have been underwater. Distant. Unimportant.

The blanket had slipped a little. His palm stayed, heat soaking into your thigh, fingers idly stroking like he didn’t want to stop touching you, like he didn’t know how. You stayed slumped against him, breath low, every part of you soft, pliant.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. His voice faded entirely.

You weren’t listening anymore.

After a bit,

“Y’still with me, love?”

You made a noise. Barely audible.

He grinned. Crooked. Rueful. “Better hold me tighter, then. ‘Cause I’ve got about ten minutes before someone else comes knockin’.”

You blinked, tongue too heavy to speak. He sighed, pulled the blanket up higher around your shoulders, then kissed your hair.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels

#paul mccartney #paul mccartney imagines #paul mccartney fanfic #paul mccartney oneshot #paul mccartney x reader #the beatles #the beatles x reader #the beatles oneshot #the beatles fanfic #beatles x reader #beatles #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #x reader

133 notes · View notes