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always-andromeda · 1 year

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– 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so uhhhhhh...I wrote this around the end of July during last year and I just...never found the time to edit and post it...until now! because lmao, getting wine drunk last weekend sparked my memory once more. hello again Pierre nation, I have remembered the magic and the softness that this man makes me feel.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (MDNI), cunnilingus, our boy is wine drunk as hell (and also very soft), brief usage of pet names (sweet boy, darling, dear), nothing else I can think of!!

It’s all hands and giggles as Pierre drags you into some room. You can still smell the rich, mulled wine on his breath with every heavy inhalation he takes between kisses.

Dolokhov had said that he purchased the cask from some merchant in France. The year was excellent and though Pierre almost turned him down, he couldn’t help but give in when Dolokhov said, “Just for old time’s sake.”

Pierre rarely drinks now. Not since Helene or any of his rambunctious younger years. No longer merely the Count’s bastard son, Pierre is the Count. He has a reputation. And he’s well aware of what even a few sips of god forsaken vodka will do to him. But Dolokhov is a friend. And even on the best days, Pierre has a hard time saying no to anyone.

The conversation flowed naturally and before he knew it, one glass turned to two, two turned to three, three to four, and suddenly he was off his rocker. Absolutely wrecked, well oiled, three sheets to the wind, and utterly inebriated.

Dolokhov, being able to hold himself better just kept pouring until Pierre simply grabbed the bottle by it's neck and swung it back so far that he nearly tipped over in his seat. And as he swallows the last few swigs of the wine, you curse that frilly collar of his that hides his Adam's apple. You're sure it's bobbing jaggedly, daring you to suck marks into his skin that'll turn just as deep red as his drink.

As soon as Dolokhov retires to his own room, you find that you actually like this new version of your husband. Some men are angry, mean, and forceful drunks.

But not Pierre. Not even though he practically towers over you and rivals your own strength. Because when he does leverage that strength, it's in the best way possible. You like the way his hands greedily roam your figure and the way he puts more of his weight on you with each kiss. He compresses you against the closed door like if he pressed hard enough, you’d become one bundle of warm, intoxicated flesh.

He’s more daring this way. Perhaps the wine elevates his feelings or perhaps he’s had these urges inside all along, he just keeps them locked away.

Because a gentleman doesn’t do these things; doesn’t give in to such carnal desires. He can’t help it. Not when you look the way you do tonight. Not that you look any differently than you normally do. But the burgundy colors his view and sends his imagination into overdrive as he thinks about mussing up that coiled hair of yours and making you shed the layers upon layers of fine fabric keeping him from really feeling your plush skin.

“Oh, I love you…” he mumbles between kisses. His lips miss yours just slightly, instead landing on the corner of your mouth. You giggle as his nose knocks into your cheek. You gently take him by the chin and pull him away so you can catch your breath and get a good look at him. He’s got stars in his eyes already, pupils blown wide with want.

“I love you too, Pierre,” you smile, then reel him back in and give his buzzing brain a bit of a break as you lead the kiss. He melts into your touch like he always does; leans into your hands on his face and groans desperately. Through the befuddled fog of his mind, a lightbulb goes off. He separates from you once more, eyes lidded and a crooked, toothy smile plastered across his face.

“I want to give you something,” he says, brows already raising hopefully and hands rubbing your thighs lovingly.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stifle a smirk. He’s adorable like this, cheeks flushed and glasses slipping down his nose. Whatever he’s got planned can’t be so bad. In the home of a friend, your sweet Pierre wouldn’t dare do more than his heated little kisses.

So you turn your nose up, challenging him to do his worst. “Go ahead, my sweet boy. Give me what you’ve got.”

His smile seems to get impossibly wider as he kisses you searingly once more and trails down your chin over the curve of your chest. You’re confused until he drops to his knees with little grace.

From his spot on the floor, he buries his head into your skirt, his nose poking you a little too close to your core. You sigh at the sudden ache; humbled by the pure lust as he wraps his arms around your legs and hugs them to his chest.

“So beautiful. Radiant. Bewitching. Ravishing. Heavenly. Enchanting. So…so…divine, darling,” he grasps at the ends of all the prettiest words he can think of, and still they are not enough to describe the floaty, fluttering feeling in his belly. You could cry right then and there as he glances back up.

Always a gentleman, with his hands fisted around the hem of your flowing skirt, he says huskily, “May I?”

You nod eagerly, accepting his unspoken proposal with no hesitation.

Pierre smiles lazily once more before disappearing beneath the fabric. You stare up at the ceiling and count your blessings, hoping that no one needs to use this room as you feel him poke around between your legs. You try not to think about how mortifying it would be to be caught by a servant with the great Count Bezukhov forming a squirming lump under your skirt. You don’t hear him moan as he pulls your bloomers down.

In this darkness, he can’t see your heat, but he can practically sense how badly you need him to alleviate the ache. Despite his altered state, he maneuvers your flushed cunt with soft and slow movements. He familiarizes himself with your folds and crevices in the dark like the tips of his fingers are candles, the fire already beginning to dim.

Until he feels the hood that obscures the pearl he's seeking. Gently–oh so gently–he pulls it back and rubs a finger over the bead. And he's more proud than he'd like to admit when you jolt. You're sensitive; just like he likes.

And that's the pocket of oxygen he needs to burst into flames. His tongue goes in for the kill. You let out a soft squeal as he laps away at you like a parched man.

Your hands want to fly to his hair, but his soft locks are hidden by your skirt. So instead you try to grasp his head over the fabric and sharply jut your hips forward into his mouth. His nose knocks into your clit each time and it’s almost like those impacts alone could knock the breath out of you. He doesn’t need to work at you long before your legs begin to shudder.

Pierre wraps his arms around you once again to keep you steady as the steep climax rustles your entire being. He pulls your bloomers back up and places a polite kiss right over your cunt before re-emerging. His face is as red as a tomato and a few drops of sweat roll down his upper lip.

And of course he gazes up at you again through his now fogged up glasses and says dreamily, “Thank you, dear.”

#paul dano #danonation #danocel #bbc war and peace #war and peace #pierre bezukhov #pierre bezukhov x reader #pierre bezukhov x you #pierre bezukhov x y/n #pierre bezukhov smut #pierre bezukhov fluff #˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚

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babybluebex · 2 years

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𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐯 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | "first time i heard your voice, moonlight burst into the room” pierre is your best friend and, when he asks you to teach him to dance, it’s hard to control your confessions. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | pierre bezukhov (bbc war and peace, 2016) x fem!reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut— oral (f!receiving), breeding kink, creampie, lovey-dovey mushy type sex 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | i put out a poll whether my readers wanted pierre or percy smut first, and pierre won! also yes this is friends to lovers, and yes the title is taken from the great comet musical IM SORRY

“Dancing?” you repeated with a laugh. “You want me to teach you to dance?”

Pierre nodded quickly, adjusting the glasses that perched on his nose. “Just so that I can know how,” he said quickly. “I-I, we both should, as a matter of fact— you are soon to be married and I never learned how, and it might be in our best interests to learn some profitable skills—”

“You always did blather on, didn’t you?” you giggled.

“And yet you’ve never told me to stop,” Pierre said with a shy nod.

“Of course not, my dearest friend,” you told him. You had known Pierre since you were children— your father was a worker on one of his father’s estates, and you being just younger than Pierre meant you found a close companion in Pierre Bezukhov at such a young age— and there was always a small part of you that wished that, one day, you would be Pierre’s.

He was a fine man, educated and as quick as a whip, handsome too, and he didn’t let any of his opinions go to waste. You could hardly contain the love you felt for him, but it had been crushed when he went and married that Helene. You had assumed he had the same affections for you and that Helene was a fleeting fancy, but, even as you sat at their wedding, you couldn’t help but see only your friend, becoming nothing but that, all hopes of more banished. In the meantime, your father had been trying to distract you with army men, but none could hold a candle to your dearest Pierre. You held your hand out to Pierre, and you said, “Come, darling. Let’s dance.”

“You must understand,” Pierre began, gently taking your hand and helping you stand from your chaise. “I’m really not a good dancer. I step on feet and turn the wrong way, this undertaking is—”

“A chore?” you completed for him. “You always describe yourself as a chore, or a bore, or unwitty; when will you learn to compliment yourself as much as you do other people?”

“When I find something worth complimenting, I’ll do it,” Pierre told you, and you pulled him to the middle of the room. You were thankful that you were alone, although you couldn’t help but think of the very scandal of it all, you dancing with the married and bastard Count. It was just the sort of thing that Prince Vassily would eat up and spread among society.

“I know a few things worth complimenting,” you told him. “Here, put your hand on my waist, like this…” You gently took Pierre’s big hands in yours and settled his left hand on your hip, but you kept his right hand in your grasp. “And then our hands touch like this, and my hand…” You paused again to settle it on Pierre’s shoulder, and your fingers tickled the small curls at the base of his neck. “There. This is the position in which you dance, now you must— Pierre, dear, you’re not looking at me.”

He refocused on his gaze from over your shoulder back to your face, and a pink flush filled his cheeks. “I apologize,” he said. “I was only looking at…” He trailed off and gestured behind you, and you quickly turned to look at what Pierre saw. A mirror hung on the wall, ornate and fitting of the house, and you saw yourself and the young Count Bezukhov standing arm in arm. Your mind returned to that childhood thought, marrying Pierre and being together forever, and you smiled at the reflection.

“My, what a handsome couple,” you said teasingly. “Tell me, Bezukhov, who was that dashing girl you were waltzing with?”

Pierre smiled and rolled his eyes, and you took a careful step backwards, hoping that he would copy your movement. Thankfully, he did, and stepped forward hesitantly. You nodded, urging him on to lead, and he stepped with you to the side. His hand was tight in yours, looking at his feet, and you lightly touched his cheek. “Look at me,” you told him. “Your feet know how to walk by themselves.”

“Ah, but do they know how to waltz?” Pierre asked, his eyebrows raising in that way they always did when he was spouting sarcasm.

“You’re doing it now,” you told him. “Rather well, actually.” It was true; Pierre, in the small amount of time that you had gotten him to get out of his own head and focus on you, had taken to leading, waltzing slowly, like a dream. “Now, I asked you a question.”

“You did?” Pierre asked, his eyes going big behind his spectacles.

“Yes!” you giggled. “You must be able to waltz and speak at the same time; multitasking, you see? I asked you about the girl you were just waltzing with. Is that the beautiful Countess?”

The mention of his wife visibly upset your friend. You knew that Pierre and Helene’s marriage was a loveless one and, if rumours were to be believed, Helene had quite a reputation that put Pierre at an unfortunate disadvantage. But it was a question that would come up at balls and dinners, the Countess’s wellbeing, and, as much as it hurt you to remember that Pierre would never be your partner or husband, you needed to make him through it. “No, she wasn’t,” Pierre began. “She is my closest friend since childhood.”

“What makes her such a good friend?” you asked curiously, and you hoped that Pierre couldn’t feel your heartbeat jump in your chest as his hand moved and flattened against your back, drawing you closer by just an inch. You had danced with Pierre before, both as children and adults, but you had never felt this feeling before. You felt too warm in your dress and you worried a sweat might break on your forehead, and it became a labor to breathe right. What was happening to you?

“She shares many ideas that I do,” Pierre said. The way he was looking at you with his soulful green eyes, always honest and true, was not helping your sudden ailment, and, as Pierre spoke, you felt yourself getting lost in his gaze. “She’s been there for me in tears and anger, as have I her, and she’s as smart as any man in this room. She’s beautiful, and she’s funny, just a little mean sometimes—” you rolled your eyes, and Pierre smiled at his own joke, “I didn’t grow up with sisters, you see, and she’s the closest thing I have to one. I suppose you could say that the beautiful woman I was dancing with was my sister.”

Your heart dropped and your stomach turned, and you stilled as Pierre tried to continue to guide you through the dance. A sister. He thought of you like you were his sister. That was a fate worse than death! Pierre would never marry a girl he thought of as his sister. “What’s wrong?” Pierre asked, letting you fall from his arms. “Did I step on you?”

“No, you didn’t,” you said quickly. There was nowhere for you to hide, and you cursed at yourself as your eyes grew hot with tears. “Sister! Pierre, really?”

“What?” Pierre asked. “Why is that wrong? That’s how I see you.”

Suddenly, everything snapped into place like the worst puzzle. You were upset, not because he saw you as a sister, but because he didn’t love you. He loved Helene, a woman that you both knew was not deserving of it. He had never loved you, never felt any sort of affection for you. You were upset and jealous and angry, and you let your tears fall down your cheeks. “For so long…” you mumbled. “Since I was a baby… I should have been the one to marry you! Not Helene, she doesn’t love you! Pierre, you are the best man in the world and you deserve better than some heartless woman like Helene! And you’ve somehow never seen my affections for you! To be fair, my affections were unknown to even myself until now, but you should have seen it!”

“What are you talking about?” Pierre asked, bewildered as to where your sudden outburst stemmed from, and you sobbed.

“I love you!” you cried. “I’ve loved you since I was a baby, since before I knew what love was! I-I’ve always wished that I was your wife, that someday we’d get married and have children and be together, I always hoped for it, but… Nevermind all that. You haven’t seen it, so there’s no use explaining it.”

You began to leave the room, guilt and embarrassment running hot in your face, but Pierre caught you around your middle before you could properly leave. “Hey, hey, hey,” he whispered quickly in your ear, soothing you in the way only he could. “Listen to me. I don’t love Helene. I never did. I tried to, my God, did I try, but she’s… She’s not my wife.”

“Oh, stop,” you sniffled pathetically. “Your wedding was beautiful; I was there.”

“No, look at me now,” Pierre said, and his hand came up to capture your cheek gently and turn you to look at him, behind you, hugging your waist tightly. “Helene is not my wife. We’ve never… God— Excuse me, but you’ve heard worse from me— I’ve never laid with her. Our marriage is not complete. She’s had lovers time and time again since our wedding, but she does not give me the time of day… Or night, I suppose. But her reluctance and lack of love made me realize that I don’t love her.”

Pierre’s thumb gently stroked your cheek, wiping up your tears and bleeding makeup, and he gently touched his nose to yours. “Y-You don’t?” you whimpered, and Pierre shook his head.

“How could I admire a woman who doesn’t care for me?” Pierre asked. “Following her like a lost little puppy, no man should be resorted to that. I was looking into ways to annul the marriage, especially considering she won’t consummate it.”

“And?”

“And it’s allowed,” Pierre told you. “I haven’t told her yet, but she has no choice. And I know no better woman to try again with than you.”

“Really?” you gasped tearfully, grabbing at his jacket. “I-If this is one of your mean jokes—”

Suddenly, Pierre’s hand on your face captured your chin, and he pulled you forward to press his lips to yours. Nothing had ever felt as right as kissing Pierre did, and your heart burst at the taste of him. You dragged him closer by his collar, turning in his arms to press your chest to his, and he was quick to wrap his arms around you and pull you impossibly closer.

He deepened the kiss, his hands holding you as if you would slip through his fingers, grasping at your skirt and bodice and wanting you closer. “I love you,” he whispered into your mouth, and you felt a sob pull at your throat. “I loved you then, and I love you now.”

“Why…” you started. You couldn’t help your tears now that you had let them fall, and Pierre gave a small smile as he helped dry them up. “How come you never told me?”

“You were always off doing something better,” Pierre said. “Reading philosophy or practicing your dancing or painting, flirting with all the princes that move through your house, I never thought that you would ever want to concern yourself with me. So, I pushed the feelings down and made myself forget them.

“Please always speak your mind around me,” you told him, and Pierre nodded quickly.

“Anything for you, my sweet girl,” Pierre whispered. “Shall we dance?”

You shook your head, sniffling and mopping up your tears as you laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t,” you told him. “I’m too distracted now, I’d never be able to get a single move right.”

“You were doing perfectly before,” Pierre said. “Better than me.”

“Anybody can waltz better than you,” you giggled, and Pierre bunched up his mouth as he jokingly hit your arm. Now that the tension and the hard feelings were gone, you felt no different in Pierre’s presence. It was just as you had hoped: no difference in how you laughed and joked, only now you could kiss and hold him without ridicule.

“How about a different sort of dance?” Pierre asked softly, taking your hands in his.

“I don’t know many others,” you told him. “The waltz is where my strengths lie.”

“No, no, my darling,” Pierre said gently. His hands slid up your arms to your waist, and he drew you close enough to whisper in your ear, words for only you to hear. Of course, if someone were to walk in the room, Pierre even whispering and holding you like that would clue the passerby into what he was whispering, but the exact words were meant to carve only into you. “I want to make sure this marriage is real. How would you like to consummate it now?”

“Now?” you echoed. “Pierre! You brute!”

“I’m sorry, my girl,” Pierre whispered, his hands lifting from your hips, worried he had crossed a line. “Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” you assured him. “I only never thought I’d hear you speak like that to me.” Your mind was clouded with every aspect of Pierre, his look and sound and scent, but you couldn’t help but have a question. “Wh-What happens when the Countess finds out about this?” you asked. “She doesn’t seem the type to take well to you having a woman on the side.”

“She wouldn’t take that well, no,” Pierre said. “She told me I could, but, my God, I don’t know what’s a lie with that woman and what’s not. She’ll be incredibly jealous, but it’s her loss. If she wanted me to fuck her, she should have told me so.”

“I never knew you had such an awful mouth,” you laughed, shocked at his cursing, and Pierre smiled and kissed you again.

“Only for you,” he told you, his warm breath hitting your lips. “You make me this way when nobody else does or ever has. I feel like an animal, like I could own you wholly, have your body and soul, and that wouldn’t be enough.”

“That’s not enough for me,” you told him, and Pierre’s grip on you tightened once more. “I need to marry you. I need to fuck you.”

“God!” Pierre said with a smile. “My naughty girl, cursing so. What if your father heard you?”

“There’s lots of things my father shouldn’t hear,” you told him, and you tugged him by his hand towards the door. “This is one of them.”

“God, no, I can’t wait,” Pierre told you, taking his hand from yours and pulling you into the heat of his body. “Lay down; let me taste you.” Quickly, he directed you back to the chaise that you were on when he had first entered the room, pushing your discarded book aside to the floor, and he settled you on your back, your head steadied on the firm pillow. Before you could ask what he meant, Pierre was on top of you, pushing your skirts aside as he hungrily kissed your exposed neck. You had never seen him like this before, nearing frantic, and you quickly took a handful of his curls and tugged him to look at you.

“Calm down, my love,” you whispered. “I’m here, I’m not leaving. You have all night.”

“I know,” Pierre whispered breathlessly. “But I need you.”

“Then take me,” you told him. “Truthfully, I sort of like you like this. It’s a change from the calm and shy man I once knew.”

Pierre smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose, and he moved down your body, his hands and fingers gripping your flesh every inch of the way. He stopped finally when you reached your waist, and he shoved your skirts higher and higher until he had exposed you fully to him. It was an odd feeling, one you weren’t used to, and you tried to squeeze your thighs to hide yourself from his gaze. “Don’t do that,” Pierre whispered fiercely, and his strong hands touched your thighs gently, as if he was afraid he might hurt you or break you. “Let me look at you,” he whispered, and you watched as Pierre pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes were closed, as if he were savoring the moment, and, when they reopened, they were focused right up on your face. “I learned about this in France,” Pierre told you. “It shocked me at first, but I’ve always wanted to try it.”

You couldn’t even manage to ask what he intended to do before his mouth settled right on your cunt, and his tongue flicked out to lick at your folds. It all happened so quickly, and you grabbed at his hair as your hips bucked up into his face. You could see a wicked smile on your man’s face when you looked down at him, and he licked at you again, his tongue playing with you. A white-hot bolt of lightning flashed through your stomach, and you couldn’t help the moan that fell from your mouth. “Do you like that?” Pierre asked gently, his warm breath fanning across your cunt, and you nodded quickly.

“Oh, Pierre,” you moaned as he went in again, and your head fell back as he started quicker, licking and sucking at you ferociously. His hands grasped your thighs and held your legs open as they threatened to shut with the pleasure you were feeling, and his dull fingernails scratched at your bare skin. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt before, and you whimpered and whined for more. “Pierre, please—”

“Who knew you were so greedy?” Pierre whispered against your wet, throbbing skin, and he laughed. “Just wait, my love, you’ll have me soon. I’m nearly done here.” With that, he attached his lips to a sensitive nerve on you, and you squealed and your back arched up as he sucked hard at you. The lightning from before was nothing compared to the feeling now, and you covered your own mouth to keep from being too loud.

“Oh my God,” you mumbled from behind your hand. Pierre, it seemed, had successfully located the spot he had been searching for, and he flicked his tongue along the nerve, torturing you with the pleasure. “Oh my God, Pierre!”

“You asked me earlier about the woman I was dancing with,” Pierre said, and your frazzled brain could hardly remember the little game that you had instigated. “She’s my love, my heart and soul. She’s my fiancée.”

The name sent a shiver down your spine, and Pierre closed his eyes blissfully as he continued to eat your cunt. “Fiancée,” you repeated. “I like how that sounds.”

“She’s a wonderful dancer,” Pierre continued. “She’s brilliantly smart and the most beautiful woman in the world. And you wouldn’t believe how delicious her cunt tastes.”

You breathed out a laugh. “You wouldn’t actually say that, would you?” you asked, your face burning hot at the salacious compliment.

“It depends who asked,” Pierre said. He sucked hard at your little bundle of nerves again, and you saw stars pop in your vision. There was a tight knot in your belly that grew more and more secure with each lick and suck Pierre gave you, and you pulled at his hair. “If it’s a mate from university, I might be persuaded into telling them what a fantastic fuck you are.”

“You wouldn’t!” you giggled, and Pierre pulled away from between your legs.

“I might,” he repeated. His hands went to his belt as he watched you underneath him, writhing for any friction you could get on your clit, and you smiled.

“You’ll keep the best of it to yourself, though,” you said. You reached out for Pierre, and he moved back up your body to allow your hand to cup his cheek. “You won’t tell them how desperately I begged for you to fuck me, or how badly I wanted you to fill me, nor will you mention just how terribly you wanted all the same.”

Pierre smiled. “No, my love,” he said. “That’s just for us.”

His belt came undone, then his trousers, and you couldn’t even bear to look at him. The thought of seeing his cock intimidated you, and you closed your eyes to keep from seeing him. Thankfully, Pierre didn’t dawdle, and he whispered, “Are you ready?”

You nodded, opening your eyes and focusing on Pierre’s face, lingering just inches from yours. You leaned up and connected your lips, and Pierre smoothly pushed his cock into you. The burn and pain of it made you wince and whimper, and Pierre gently stroked your face. “I know, I know,” he whispered soothingly. “I know it hurts, my love. But that’ll subside. Do you like it?”

Even through the pain, you could feel the inklings of pleasure beginning to form, that tight knot inside you already growing impossibly tighter. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop.”

Pierre nodded, and he kissed you gently, holding your cheek in his hand as he swiftly filled you with his cock in one movement. Almost immediately, that same white-hot flash from before burst in your eyes, and your walls throbbed hard around Pierre’s cock. Now, it was Pierre’s turn to groan, breaking the kiss to hang his head in the crook of your neck. “So tight,” Pierre mumbled in your ear, and your skin thrummed to life. “God, you are a virgin, aren’t you?”

You nodded quickly and kissed the shell of his ear, and Pierre chuckled. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew it, you were much too sweet to ever have let an awful man inside you.”

“Only you,” you told him, and Pierre kissed your soft neck, his hands holding your hips in a bruising grip.

“Oh, am I the awful man?” Pierre laughed, and he scrunched his nose as he laughed.

“No,” you told him. “Not by far. But when you ask my father to let you marry me, he might pretend you are.”

“Your father likes me,” Pierre said, giving a soft grunt as he shifted his hips back to slide out of you, and he smoothly pushed himself back in. His eyebrows furrowed, and he added, “Your father does like me, doesn’t he?”

“He likes you as my friend,” you told him, and watched as Pierre’s hand came up from your hip to slip into the neckline of your dress and grab at your breasts. “Maybe not so much as the Count.”

“What, does he think me spoiled?” Pierre asked, and you nodded quickly. “Hardly. But I imagine I’ll get to spoil you just rotten, won’t I? Dresses, jewelry—”

“I don’t need any of that,” you assured him. He hit that spot inside you again with another thrust, and you gasped in shock at the feeling. Every single time, it was a different sensation, but you loved the surprise of it. The dull thrill of getting caught stayed in the bottom of your stomach, though, and, every time Pierre moaned, that dull thrill exploded. “J-Just you.”

“I’m getting you a ring,” Pierre said. “You cannot stop me from doing that.”

“I wouldn’t try to stop that,” you told him, and Pierre dipped his head down to kiss your exposed chest. His hand had snaked under the hem of your corset, and he tugged it down just a bit to expose your breasts to him. “Oh, God, imagine it, when you’re pregnant…”

The very notion of giving Pierre a child made your slick walls throb again, and you grabbed at the back of Pierre’s jacket. The knot was growing ever tighter and, if you weren’t careful, you were afraid it was going to pop and unfurl at any moment. “Do you like the idea?” Pierre asked, and you worried your bottom lip between your teeth as you nodded. “Getting all big… What will you say when people ask who the man you’re dancing with is?”

“H-He’s my husband,” you stammered out as Pierre quickened his pace. “The Count Bezukhov.”

“Really?” Pierre asked. He slid an arm under your back and held you close, and your shaking hands went to his chest to try to expose him similarly as you. The best you could manage in your frazzled state was to throw his cravat to the floor and open his collar, and the sight of his distended muscle on his neck was mouthwatering. You kissed at his soft neck, tasting him and taking in the feel of his rapid heartbeat on your lips, and he moaned at your lips and tongue dancing along his veins.

“Yes,” you whispered. You rocked your hips up to his to meet him thrusting in, and stars of genuine pain popped in your vision. But, as painful as it was, it only threatened that knot in your belly further. “Oh, yes, he’s kind and passionate, he’s so smart, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen… Ugh, he fucks me like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Does he?” Pierre asked, furrowing his eyes and tilting his head in faux-curiosity, and you giggled and nodded. “Say, what does this brute do to you?”

“He puts his mouth on my cunt,” you told him and Pierre’s big eyes grew soft at you saying that word. “He eats me up like I’m breakfast. He says he learned it in Paris when he was at university. And he makes me— Oh, God, Pierre, I feel so—”

“So close,” Pierre whispered, stealing the words from your mouth. Yes, you were so close to something, to the knot coming undone, and you worried about what happened when Pierre finally drew you to that. You knew that men were able to orgasm, but you had never heard of a woman doing it. Yes, you had brutes for friends that often laughed about it when recounting Paris and Moscow and the prostitutes they met there, but you had never seen it for yourself, so you didn’t know the truth of it. But, suddenly, it all became clear: yes, you were so close to your orgasm. It almost hurt, you were so close. “Me too, my love,” Pierre added softly. “Your tight cunt is going to make me cum.”

You bit your lip and tightened your walls around him, and his moan was high in his throat. You laughed at it, as did Pierre, and you took handfuls of his curls again. “Cum inside me,” you whispered. Your bodies moved together, having found a beautiful rhythm, and you groaned softly when he gave you another fuck that hurt, it was so deep. The smaller, pleasure-born stars were constant in the corners of your vision, and you tugged Pierre down to kiss you. “Oh, Pierre, give me your son, please.”

“I will, darling,” Pierre whispered. He kissed you again, his hands greedy as he felt up your legs, down your chest, feeling every bit of flesh that was available to him. “Just a few more moments…”

One particularly good fuck rocked your body back on the chaise, making the old thing creak underneath you, and you whimpered. “If my father hears—”

“Fuck him,” Pierre said quickly. “If he hears, he hears. I’m going to marry you, Goddamn it, I can do whatever I want. After all… I’m the Count.”

The reminder of who you were making love with was enough for you to moan and cum, and you dragged your fingernails down the back of Pierre’s jacket as the knot finally unraveled, gushing all over his cock. The lightning was back, making your hips rock and stutter, and Pierre laughed softly. “My most beautiful girl,” he whispered, lightly stroking your face as your body became sensitive. Every touch was like a fire now, and Pierre whispered, “Good girl, my gorgeous girl… Yes, just like that. How does that feel?”

Your eyes finally opened again, and you pulled Pierre into a kiss. You didn’t need to answer him; he already knew the answer.

“I’m…” Pierre began against your mouth. His hips snapped into you, then dragged out, then snapped again, and he gave another one of those beautiful high moans, and you felt him spilling himself inside you. Your whole body went warm at the feeling of his seed dripping inside you, and you couldn’t help but laugh. You were his. All your life, you had wanted to be Pierre’s, and now you were. You were his girl, his future wife, the impending Countess. The name sounded nice on your tongue, and you couldn’t help but whisper it: “Bezukhova…”

“Yes,” Pierre whispered. “Yes, my darling girl. That’s you.”

#pierre bezukhov #pierre bezukhov x reader #paul dano #paul dano x reader #pierre bezukhov smut #pierre bezukhov fluff #paul dano smut #paul dano fluff #bbc war and peace #this show is a terrible adaptation of the book but it's a period drama with pining #and y'all know i love that

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