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blindmagdalena · 7 months

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The Athenaeum Portrait

18+ 4.7k homelander x f!reader. established relationship, first time having sex, reader has a complicated relationship with sex, abuse of superpowers for cunnilingus, overstimulation, penetrative sex, lite sublander, praise kink, slight coercion, unhealthy dynamics, implied codependency, implied verbal abuse. just covering my bases here.

For every moment of love that is warm bliss on a summer afternoon, it is also an exercise in stumbling wildly in the dark. Never has this been more true in the case of Homelander, a man whose broken edges and unfinished seams have hardened into hazards that threaten to ensnare and maim anyone who steps too close.

You wouldn't have him any other way.

AO3 link. inspired by this anonymous prompt. thank you! 🖤

Homelander did not enter your life so much as he bull-rushed into it, a living whirlwind that uprooted you and hurled you into a familiar yet strange new world as unceremoniously as the tornado that took Dorothy to Oz.

Vought Tower sparkles just as vibrant as the Emerald City, and provides no less surreal of a backdrop to your new life. Homelander's penthouse is a bizarre caricature of personhood, loaded with hundreds of years of American history. It would ring false, just another aspect of his brand, if not for the fact he can—and often does—regale you with a laundry list of historical facts on any piece in the collection.

This is how you find out that Gilbert Stuart is one of his favorite painters. When you ask Homelander why that is, he shrugs. "He painted over a thousand portraits, and he's most famous for the one he didn't finish. Ironic, huh?"

The Athenaeum Portrait, it's called. An unfinished portrait of George Washington that was replicated and sold by Stuart over a hundred times before his death.

The original was never completed.

The more time you spend in proximity to him, the more you start to understand why the piece resonates with him. You see replicas of him sold throughout the world on a daily basis, his face synonymous with Vought’s branding. There is a completeness to the commercial image of Homelander, America’s wholesome hero, but behind closed doors, you see his frayed and unfinished edges.

You feel his desperation for someone who will complete him in the way he touches you. He takes hold of your hands and brings them to the places where he is sketched at best, a ready and yielding canvas for your fingers. He likes when you stroke his hair, and sometimes touching his face turns his eyes glassy. There is a woundedness to the way he seeks your love, like he’s never entirely sure whether to expect the carrot or the stick.

You’ve never raised the stick to him, but it’s clear that those who came before you certainly did. It’s difficult to imagine that a man as powerful as him has been hurt like this, but he is a painfully obvious man at times, wearing his emotions like the scars his impervious body will never show.

When you lie down to read on the couch, he’s drawn to you like a magnet. He has no problem making space for himself within your bubble, sprawling on top of you, snaking his arms around your middle, his head settled on your sternum. You smile to yourself and rest your book on the top of his head as you read.

He gives a small grunt of complaint, but you’re fairly certain he’s smiling, too.

For every night of domestic bliss, so too are there sudden perils. Unexplained nights of absence, wild mood swings, fits of paranoia. He fights as many battles in his own mind as he does on the city streets and on foreign soil, a living weapon used to the fullest extent by Vought and the American government.

It feels like you lose him temporarily, like he becomes someone else. He paces around you like a caged tiger with his teeth bared, daring you to give him a reason to bite. You never do, and he never does, but sometimes you worry just how close of a call it was.

Occasionally he comes to you spattered in muck and bloody viscera. On these nights, he can’t seem to comprehend your presence, your gentleness, your love. It’s as if these concepts ring false in the wake of everything he has been made to endure. It’s suspicious to him that you would love something so repulsive, so opposite of everything Vought has polished his image into being.

He screams at you for this, takes you by the shoulders and demands you explain what he cannot understand, but you can’t. You can’t explain something that you don’t always understand.

Your relationship with Homelander is a delicious, precarious thing. Like a perfectly ripe peach, its closeness to something bruised and rotten makes it all the sweeter.

When things are good, they’re very good. He’s sweet, a romantic who learned everything he knows about romance from jewelry ads and Valentine’s Day specials. He brings you roses on random days of the week and adores showering you in gifts, especially the kind you wear. He tends to gravitate towards soft, velvety fabrics for your clothes because he likes the feel of them. He buys you perfumes that smell like vanilla and pink pepper. He likes fresh, warm scents. Nothing too floral or artificial.

Most importantly, he likes you. There’s rarely a day that the two of you don’t make each other laugh. His sense of humor is strange, but in the same way that yours is. Sometimes it feels like you’re two aliens creating a brand new language that only the two of you will ever know. The more time you spend together, the less the people outside of your relationship seem to understand you.

Not that it matters much. You spend the majority of your time with him these days, consumed by the excitement of this thrilling new thing the two of you share. Homelander is profoundly tactile, always needing to feel or touch you in some way. He loves to kiss you, content to make out languidly with you until your lips start to chap.

You’ve learned to keep lip balm on hand at all times.

Inevitably though, his hunger for intimacy outgrows quaint touches and kisses. You’re cuddled up together on his couch, only half paying attention to the movie playing. Homelander is nuzzling at your neck, pressing warm, wet kisses to it while his gloved hand slips beneath your shirt, fondling your breast through your bra. There’s something endearingly innocent about it, like a fumbling teenager piloting the body of a man in his forties.

Sex is nice enough. You have nothing against the act, but you’ve never felt as though you get as much out of it as the partners you’ve had in the past. Homelander’s touch feels good to you because it’s his, and because you know he wants to make you feel good in his enjoyment of you. You reciprocate by pushing your fingers into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp, eliciting a sweet, rumbling moan from him against your neck.

“Want you,” he mumbles fervently against your skin, his need so palpable it gives you goosebumps. “Can I have you?”

You knew this was coming. It’s not that you don’t want to fuck him, it’s that he’s not the only one whose portrait feels incomplete. You’re a fully grown adult, and never in your life have you managed to pleasure yourself to completion. In your youth, you’d just faked it for partners once you’d had your fill. With Homelander, you’re not even sure that would work. You’re not sure you would want it to.

He’s got a thing about lies, even little white ones.

You swallow and softly say, “Yes.” Ultimately, you do want him to have you. You just hope that what he gets doesn’t disappoint him.

He smiles into the crook of your neck, withdrawing his hand from beneath your shirt. He kisses you as he gathers you effortlessly up into his arms, carrying you to his bedroom. His strength is another aspect of why sex has made you nervous: the internet is full of horror stories of accidental sexual mutilation occurring between humans and supes.

However, Homelander seems hyper aware of your fragility versus his power. He’s never harmed you. It seems to come naturally to him after years and years of navigating a world not made to withstand him. In the same way you’re capable of handling an egg without shattering it, he has learned how to hold you.

He lays you down on the bed, and then begins the ritual of shedding his signature suit, starting with his belt. You recline, content to watch him, but your gaze seems to make him uncharacteristically self conscious. You’ve never seen him without his suit before, another little quirk that you’ve largely just accepted to this point.

“Aren’t you gonna…” He gestures vaguely to you, expecting you to undress as well.

“Just enjoying the show,” you say coyly, attempting to lighten up a bit of the tension in his expression.

It doesn’t work. The furrow of his brows deepens slightly. “Ah, well. Y’know, the suit, they uh, pad it up some, so don’t–it’s different,” he says, fumbling over his words.

Your expression softens. “I know. It’s okay. I’m excited to see you,” you say, sitting up. In solidarity, you pull your shirt off first, and then wiggle out of your pants, kicking them off the bed. Homelander smiles at this, and works his pants off the rest of the way, kicking off his boots as well, leaving behind just a pair of dark red briefs. You sit up on your knees to help him with the fastenings of his suit top, which he seems to be the most apprehensive about.

To distract him from it, you kiss him. He melts eagerly into the press of your lips, slipping his tongue between yours with that same hunger to taste, to feel, to have. He’s bolder now that you’re no longer playing the part of spectator, shrugging his top from his shoulders and letting it fall with a surprisingly heavy thud to the floor. His ungloved hands skim up your sides, warm and positively thrumming with excitement.

You explore him as well, mapping out the slopes of his body that have previously been hidden from you. He’s leaner, more manageable than the ridiculous bulk of the suit. Part of you had always assumed there was a level of exaggeration in the chiseled, over the top musculature of the suit, but his build is still more slender than you expected. Regardless, it does nothing to detract from his raw strength as he catches you by the backs of your thighs and flips you onto your back, startling out a giddy bark of laughter from you.

He grins down at you, descending to catch you in another slow, consuming kiss, making space for himself between your legs. His lips trail from yours to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. He turns his head to messily suck two fingers into his mouth, and then slips his hand down the front of your underwear. He finds your clit with surprising precision–someone definitely taught him that–and begins to rub slow figure-eights over it, as gentle as he is deft. It does feel good, so you close your eyes and try to simply enjoy it for what it is, for the touch and warmth and intimacy of it all.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t come. This is still nice. You can feel his desire for you in the heat of his body, in the hot huffs of his breath wafting across your skin between kisses. He eventually slips a single finger inside you, patiently working you open. You drag your nails up his back and into his hair, breathing deeply, willing your mind to pause and let you experience this pleasantry in the same way you would a hot bath or a nice massage.

However, no matter how you try, the looming matter of expectation weighs heavily on your mind. You’ve never been comfortable with the attention being solely on your pleasure: it feels like dangling a treat in front of someone on a treadmill. They’re running for something they’ll never reach.

“Hey,” Homelander calls quietly, yanking you from your mental downward spiral. You see him above you, no longer tucked against you, working your skin with his lips and teeth. His brows are slightly furrowed. “You’re quiet. Am I doing something wrong?”

“No,” you exhale, the question immediately putting a wash of guilt through you. “No, not at all, feels good. I’m just really in my head right now,” you admit, cupping either side of his face. “You’re doing great, I’m ready. I want you inside me,” you tell him in a breathless flurry, pulling him down into a kiss.

He does relax at that, sinking in against you for a moment before lifting himself back up. He shucks his underwear down and then pulls yours off as well, lifting both of your legs over his shoulder as he slips the panties completely off of you. While he does that, you unclasp and toss your bra aside. He turns his head to kiss the side of your leg before he lowers them both back down around his waist, lowering himself back down atop you.

The thick head of his cock presses wetly to your cunt, sliding up and down, spreading his slick and yours. You can already feel his excitement in the tension of his body, his shoulders drawn tight beneath your hands. You knead them, rolling your palms against steel-woven muscle. “That’s it,” you encourage, working to relax the both of you. “Nice and slow, mmm… Fuck, you’re big,” you say, biting your lip as he spreads you around the girth of his cock.

“You’re tight,” he moans in response, already sounding frayed. He moves his hips in slow, slightly jerky motions–clearly holding back for your comfort–until he finally bottoms out, keening so sweetly in your ear you can’t help but stroke his hair, hushing him.

“Good, good, feel so good in me,” you coo, the words a familiar script. He shudders for the praise, kissing down your chest, mouthing hungrily at your breast, the same he’d been fondling earlier. His mouth is hot and wet, perfectly pleasant as he sucks at your nipple, moaning into your skin. You cradle his head in both hands, adjusting to the onslaught of sensation.

It’s been awhile since anyone fucked you. The feel of it is just as alien as you remember, but you’re distracted by the persistent swirl of his tongue alternating with the pull of his lips as he lavishes attention on one breast, and then the other. With his bare skin against yours, you’re more aware than ever of the superhuman frequency of his body, how he seems to literally vibrate with restraint and eagerness in equal measure. It’s like there is a line of semi trucks driving by you, the bed itself buzzing with it.

“You’re amazing,” you marvel quietly, tightening your legs on either side of him to feel that preternatural hum against even more of your skin, tingling your inner thighs. “You feel amazing.”

He grunts out a needy, strained noise at that, followed by a jagged thrust deep into you. To your surprise, you realize then that he’s coming apart, dull nails biting crescent marks into your skin, clutching you as tightly as he dare allow himself. You thought that maybe his powers would give him superhuman stamina as well, that he might fuck you raw before he came, but if the shaky cadence of his thrusts are any indication, he’s already holding himself back.

“I can feel how bad you wanna come,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair. “Mm? You can, you can come in me,” you say, feeling his whole body shiver from your words. You clench, tightening up around his cock so suddenly that it makes him gasp.

“Fffuck, fuck, oh god, y’can’t–fucking Christ, you–mmm, fuck!” He rasps, choking on his own breath as he comes, burying his face between your breasts at the same time he slams in deep, fading into tight, erotic little whimpers as he loses himself to the rhythmic clench of your cunt. You do it purposefully, milking him of his orgasm, enamored with how thoroughly you’ve reduced a demigod to these simpering noises. The flood of come is hot inside you, already dripping out where your bodies are connected.

All that, and he still never lost control. You doubt his fingerprints will even bruise, though you find a part of yourself wishing they would.

Homelander comes down gradually from his high, limp against you, breathing shallowly against your skin. He looks dazed, eyes only half open. It’s cute, which isn’t a word you necessarily would have ever thought to associate with The Homelander before you started dating him. When he looks up at you, you smile, already more satisfied than you’ve been with sex in your life.

“That was playing dirty,” he tells you, voice a touch fried.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you respond simply, watching as he nuzzles into your hand.

He rumbles out a low hum, kissing your palm. “Which means it’s my turn to make you feel good,” he says, moving to slide out of your hands. You stop him, taking hold of his arm.

“You don’t need to,” you assure him, tugging gently to lure him back up. “Really. That felt incredible.”

He frowns, looking every bit like a confused puppy. “But you didn’t come.”

“I know,” you say, that ball of tightness coiling back up in your gut. “It’s okay.”

He exhales an incredulous little scoff. “What kind of boyfriend d’you take me for? I’m gonna make you come,” he says, shrugging off your hand as he moves down your body, sliding out of you.

“Homelander,” you implore, reaching out for him. “Really, it’s okay, you don’t need to–”

“What, you don’t think I can?” He asks. You can see the challenge in his eyes, but you also recognize the potential of a stinging wound to his ego in those words.

You sigh, folding your arm over your eyes as you lay your head back. “It’s not that I don’t think you specifically can, I’m… Eugh.” You take a deep breath. “It’s not something that I do. I can’t. I’ve never been able to,” you say to the darkness of your arm, fingers rolling apprehensively. “And I don’t want you to take this as some kind of challenge, and then be upset when it doesn’t happen,” you say, speaking from very specific experience.

The space between you is silent for long enough that your curiosity beats out your apprehension, and you lower your arm. Homelander stares at you from between your legs, expression pinched, eyes flickering slightly, as if he’s solving the world’s most complicated puzzle in his brain. His eyes narrow softly, his bewilderment showing.

“Like… You haven’t come… Ever?”

“Ever,” you confirm. “It’s not that I haven’t tried, there’s just something broken.”

He processes that a moment longer. “But all of this still felt good, at least… Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course it did, I liked it. You really do feel amazing,” you assure him, lest he think you were lying with what you said earlier. “It just never finishes for me. That’s all.”

“Alright,” he says, the gears in his brain clearly turning. “So. Sure, no crossing the finish line, but I can still, y’know. Take you for a cruise? A little joyride?” He asks, making you laugh softly.

He really is cute. Sweeter than one might expect, too.

“A joyride?” You echo with a quirk of your brow, smiling.

He smiles, too. “Yeah. No destination, just a little drive.”

“I can do a little drive,” you say, feeling that knot of tension in your gut begin to untangle itself.

“Good,” he purrs, shouldering down between your legs. “Gimme that pillow,” he says, which you promptly do. He slides it under your ass, adjusting your hips until the angle is just right. He smooths his hands up and down the outsides of your thighs, glancing up at you. “Now, you just sit back and relax. Close your eyes, and imagine some smooth jazz.”

“I hate jazz,” you laugh.

He laughs as well, breath rolling over your wet pussy in hot waves. “Well, fuck, imagine something you do like.”

Relaxing back against the bed, you exhale a deep breath, closing your eyes. The first wet, hot slide of his tongue makes you jump a little. He responds by gripping your thighs and pinning you still, which does admittedly run a little thrill up your spine. You test his grip by pushing against it, and when that fails, pulling away, but neither grant you any leeway.

“Squirming already?” He asks between drags of his tongue.

“I like feeling your strength,” you say through a pleased little smile.

He gives an intrigued hum at that and spreads your legs wider, forcing them down against the bed. To even your surprise, that pushes a small, thin noise out of you. Encouraged, he presses his tongue inside, lapping up the mess he made inside you. It feels fine enough, but after a bit of his tongue pushing in and out of you, you give his hair a little tug. “Clit,” you say simply, a command he happily obliges, drawing back up to suck your clit between his lips.

Without the looming pressure to achieve some kind of euphoric release at the end, you find yourself more capable of simply enjoying this for what it is. Homelander is good at this, but it’s really his persistence that elevates the experience. At no point do you feel him begin to waver or slow, or shift and breathe in impatience. He’s relentlessly consistent, swirling his tongue and lapping at you like he’s starved for the taste.

You sigh, idly scratching his scalp as you toy with his hair. “Mmm, that feels good,” you say, more aware of the effect your praises have on him. He makes an appreciative noise, nuzzling into your cunt. One odd thing is that your clit is starting to ache in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You shift back a touch, but Homelander pulls you right back in.

“Greedy,” you accuse, which draws a low laugh from him, the rumble of it making you shiver a little. You must be growing oversensitized. You’ve lost track of how long he’s been at this.

He pulls back, and the cool air almost stings for the loss of his hot mouth, but that ache was beginning to grow uncomfortable anyways. You’re just about to thank him for his service when a whole new sensation steals the words right off your tongue. You don’t even know how to describe it: hot, pressure, but weightless. Your whole body jerks, but Homelander keeps you still, forces you to endure whatever the fuck it is he’s doing now.

“Wh-what the fuck is that?” Watching him, comprehension dawns; he’s blowing on your clit, lips pursed, forcing out a concentrated stream of warm, almost hot air that has your thighs quivering in his grasp. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, equal parts bewildered and overwhelmed. You try to close your knees, but once again, his hold is completely unrelenting, keeping them spread wide. Immediately that same ache is skyrocketing back up, spreading tightness low in your belly.

“Hold on,” you groan, gripping his hair tighter. You expect it to end before too long, for him to at least need to inhale, but beyond all logic and reason, he just keeps going. The heat of it is surreal, the weightless pressure of it constant. Your toes curl, heels digging into the bed while every muscle in your body starts to lock up.

Homelander’s gaze flickers up to meet yours, nothing pure wicked delight in his eyes. Just as suddenly, he descends upon you, tongue feeling hotter and wetter than ever as he dotes on your clit with it, focusing it with alarming precision. The abrupt change in sensation makes you thrash, stumbling over a stream of nonsense as you pull at his hair, that aching tightness now so prominent that you can hardly take in a breath.

“That’s enough, that’s–fuck, Homelander, it’s too much, it’s too much, s-stop, s–” your pleas erupt into a gasp because he’s focusing that stream of air right back on you again, the feel of it so surreal, so indescribable that your brain can hardly function around it. Your eyes roll back, you writhe, but he’s so much stronger than you’d ever really wrapped your mind around. He’s entirely unyielding in a way he’s never felt in your arms, against your body on the couch. He’s more inhuman than he’s ever been, and it’s driving you wild.

Tears gather in your eyes. This assault of sensation walks the knife’s edge of pain, but never quite falls over it. Your whole body is throbbing, and you feel like you’re going to fucking explode. He twists that knife by taking you again with his tongue, swirling and slick in contrast to the dry pressure of his breath.

“H-Homelander, Homelander, please, I’m–I’m–fuck!”

The world turns white, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You hear yourself make a strained noise you’ve never heard before, but it might as well not even be you. You’re somewhere outside of your own body, floating in a torrent of indescribable sensory input that is so alien to you, you don’t even feel real anymore. Homelander isn’t holding you still anymore, but you can still feel him slowly lapping at your throbbing clit, watching you through foggy eyes as he licks you through your first orgasm, no doubt tasting and smelling the endorphins that flood your body.

Every single taut muscle in your body snaps like the strings of a marionette, leaving you to collapse limply on the bed, panting through it as your soul gradually descends back down into your body. Blissfully, Homelander ceases his torment and joins you, laying sideways with his head propped up in his palm while his other hand rests on your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Oh my God,” you whisper eventually.

“Please, you can still call me Homelander,” he says, sounding just as smug as one would expect him to be after such an accomplishment. If you had any power whatsoever left in your lifeless arm, you’d smack him. However, he quickly makes up for it by drawing you gently into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“I can’t believe you did that,” you say, more malleable than ever as he adjusts you both beneath the blankets. “I thought I was going to die.” It’s only a slight hyperbole.

Homelander laughs softly, beaming at you with pink cheeks and a sly, delighted little smile. “See? Nothing’s broken,” he murmurs at your ear, catching you off guard. That had been such an offhand remark, you didn’t expect to hear it come back around.

“What if I hadn’t? What if all that, and nothing happened?” You ask, adjusting slightly while he entangles his limbs with yours, bodies slotting together like jigsaw pieces. You’re both jagged in all the right ways, fitting nicely together.

He gives a small shrug, stroking his knuckles up and down your spine. “Still would’a been a hell of a ride. Not everything has to be finished to be good.”

Slowly, you smile. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Loving Homelander isn’t always easy or good. There are times when he makes it hard, and there are times when you make it hard, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in this lifetime, nothing worth doing is ever easy. Love may start as an incidental thing, a passion that ignites as readily as tinder, but the upkeep of it is more like pottery. It’s messy, and even once you get the shape of it right, you don’t always know how it will react to the heat necessary to give it solid form. It can be broken, it can be fixed, it can even be remade, but never is one the same as the last.

Still, even when it hurts, when it’s frustrating, when it doesn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, the euphoria of creating something so beautiful keeps you coming back to it. When the same love that burns you can also warm you against the cold, coat your throat like honey, and fill your night sky with stars to guide your way in darkness, it becomes impossible to let go of.

To love something is to heal it. Everything that is loved is beautiful, even things that are unsightly, unfinished, unappealing. Even things that are broken.

Finally, you think you understand why Stuart never finished his original painting.

He loved it precisely as it was.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #my writing #smut #this fic. idk what happened here this is NOT what i expected to write lol #fun fact: the reason that the athenaeum portrait was never finished was because martha washington wanted it for herself when it was done #and stuart loved it so much he didn't want to part with it #this has been homelander's history corner

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fayes-fics · 1 year

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The final portrait session is heated and emotional

Warnings: mild dom/sub tones in places, masturbation, dirty talk, vaginal sex, woman on top. All sorts of emotions and a proposal for the future.

Word Count: 3.7 k

Authors Note: Well, these two idiots just can't resist each other, and yes, I'm as surprised by the emotions, particularly the ending, as you are <3 And thanks to @colettebronte who waded thru a messy draft of this.

The following morning you practically skip down the street to Benedict’s home, barely able to contain your excitement to reunite with this man who gave you the world yesterday—steadfastly refusing to dwell on the fact that this might be the last time you spend together privately. You just want to live in the moment for the next hour or so. Whatever lies beyond that, you will face when the time comes.

When you arrive, he is at the door, letting you in with a gracious nod - a perfectly acceptable greeting for any prying eyes. But the minute the door shuts, he crowds you against it, hoisting you up, kissing you as your spine presses into the wooden panels.

“I fear an hour will definitely not be enough again, my sweet,” he breathes into your kiss.

“Mmm, I tend to concur. Perhaps we should send word back to my family?” you suggest, raising an eyebrow. “They did not appreciate it yesterday. So perhaps forewarning would be prudent?”

He lets you back to your feet and calls out for his valet. However, as the man appears, he does not release his hold on you.

“Ah, Mr Smith. Please send a messenger to the y/l/n household with a note saying that I am running very late for my portrait session yet again and Miss y/l/n will need to stay longer. Please include humblest apologies, but state she is safe and waiting with my sister.”

Mr Smith raises an eyebrow as you attempt to muffle your giggle into Benedict’s shoulder and look the other way.

“Certainly, sir”, the valet replies dryly, “and will that be all?”

“Some wine, perhaps? You can leave it outside the door of my studio. It may be best that our painting not be disturbed,” his barely contained smirk makes it obvious that is not what will be transpiring shortly.

“As you wish,” is the seasoned reply as he leaves the hallway.

“That poor man,” you chuckle.

“Oh please,” Benedict dismisses, “Smith used to work for my brother Anthony; he has seen it all.”

Then he grabs both of your hands in his, walking backwards and smiling, leading you to the studio.

“Today, my sweet, I want to paint your other portrait,” he rumbles as he closes the door behind you.

You smirk, and your hands go to the bow at your side. You undo it as he stares at you covetously, whipping open your dress and dropping it to the floor. Completely nude beneath it.

“I am ready, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease and squeal in delight as he advances on you and picks you up effortlessly.

“Call me Benedict,” he smiles into a kiss.

“But I like calling you Mr Bridgerton sometimes. It seems so commanding somehow,” you sigh, feeling so at home in his arms.

“Would you like me to be commanding? Telling you what to do?” His ask is dusky.

“Maybe,” you volley back playfully, “try it.” Even though it was only yesterday that this man took your innocence, you trust him implicitly to lead you into new experiences and adventures.

He places you back on your feet and grabs your chin.

“Go lay on that chaise. Right now.” His tone suddenly clipped and utterly authoritative.

You scurry to obey, your skin prickling hot. As you do so, he sits in a nearby leather armchair, a sketchpad already there. You meet his gaze and then lay as you did the night you first stripped for him, with your left arm behind your head.

“Good girl.”

His dulcet voice is dark and sonorous, and the praise makes you inhale sharply, instantly aroused to a painful degree. God, you will do anything for him if he calls you that.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he murmurs, eyes glittering.

“Yes,” you stutter.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and your mouth falls open in surprise. “Go ahead,” he adds and begins sketching.

You let your right hand fall to your stomach, and with a nod from him, you allow your fingers to sink lower, slipping between your legs.

“That’s it,” he encourages, “give yourself pleasure. I want to sketch your face in the throes of ecstasy.”

“Benedict,” you gasp as you feel your body stirring, “instruct me.” You know what to do, but you want to hear him talking to you as you touch yourself, knowing it will make you burn so much hotter.

“Little circles with your finger,” he lectures, “right on that little button. Play with it until you feel it grow under your fingers. It should swell a little more. Although it doesn’t take much with you, does it? You were so aroused yesterday, your nub swollen and pulsing with need before I even so much as had it under my tongue. Does it feel swollen now?”

You are panting at the words he uses, speaking so matter-of-fact about something so private. It’s captivating. And indeed, he is right. Even as he talks, your clit engorges and feels harder under your touch.

“Yessss,” you respond, fingers slipping over it easily.

“Mmm, good. Don’t stop. Curl your fingers up and under it…” he pauses to ensure you are doing as he says. “Good girl. Feel around for a motion that is good for you. Usually, one side is more sensitive than the other, although no one quite knows why,” he chuckles, his eyes pinging between his sketchpad and your hand.

You hit a very sensitive spot, your leg kicks out, and your body convulses, eyes fluttering shut as you push up off the chaise, your head bumping the cushioned sloped end.

“Oh yes, that’s it, isn’t it?” he practically purrs, “now you’ve got it.”

You cry his name again, arching your back, writhing, longing for his large hands on your body.

“I need you,” you call out breathily.

“I’m right here.”

“I need you to touch me, Benedict,” you implore, your eyes blinking open to look over at him.

“That’s it! That’s the look,” he says triumphantly, “don’t you dare look away from me,” he orders.

And you do as bidden, staring him down, biting your lip, writhing on your own fingers as your body notches higher and higher. So very desperate for his touch.

“You can do this, my good girl,” he encourages. “This is what you will do every night when you are married. I want you to touch yourself and think of me, telling you what to do.”

You groan loudly and move faster, honeying over your own hand. “May I think of you fucking me?” you ask.

He growls. “Yes, do that. Think of me inside you, above you, making you feel like you need to scream. Do you need to scream right now, my good girl?” His voice is ragged, and his knuckles are white, gripping his sketchpad as he watches you.

You nod vigorously, biting your lip so hard, pleading silently with your eyes for him to give you that push you need. Skating the edge of a precipice, every inch of your body tense like it’s waiting to snap, blood boiling in your veins.

“Do it. Let go. Scream for me,” he commands gruffly, and you do.

Throwing your head back and vocalising loudly, uncaring who may hear as your body spasms, your pussy quivering, wishing he was inside you, bliss flooding your senses as you tense and release, your mind wiping out in sheer pleasure.

You slump back, breathing hard, eyes screwed shut, a dew over your body from the exertion.

“Oh my sweet, that was a masterpiece,” he says softly as you recover, back to his usual self.

“I… I can’t believe I did that,” you confess, still winded but sated.

“It makes the most arresting picture,” he assures. “One I will treasure forever.” He looks down again, concentrating on completing a few lines on his sketch.

You look over at him as he works and want to crawl to him and make him feel as good as you do. Before you know it, you are climbing to your feet, your legs a little unsteady as you first stand, and you go to him.

He seems to startle when you are right before him naked, the apex of your thighs in his eye line. His eyes trail up your body to your face, and with an insolent raise of an eyebrow, you pluck the sketchpad and charcoal from him and drop it aside. Climbing into his lap wordlessly but with a confident smile. He looks spellbound by your sudden boldness and groans when you reach down and rub a hand harshly over the bulge in his trousers.

“What are you…?” He begins, but you hush him with a bruising kiss.

While you tease him with your tongue lathing his, you wrench open the buttons of his trousers, not stopping until you can roughly pull down the front. And then your fingers are questing to his cock as it springs free. His moan is so loud as you fist him, as you learned yesterday, and move your hand up and down over his shaft, slowly teasing at first and then becoming more insistent.

He breaks the kiss and stares up at you wildly.

“Innocent no more, my sweet,” he pants, impressed.

You feel powerful and alluring, your smile victorious as you experiment with new angles and pressure with your hand, using his wonderfully expressive face as your guide. He moans as you find a slight twisting rhythm. You breathe his name, goading him to push up into your grip.

You have an all-consuming need to shuffle forward from where you sit perched on his thighs and take him into your body. You have no idea if the act can be done in this position, but you can see yourself perhaps bouncing in his lap. So you do so. Shuffling forward and his face is a picture as he realises what you are doing, lining up his cock and sinking so his tip is captured by your body.

He sounds wrecked, babbling words like my sweet and my darling girl while his hands grasp the arms of the chair, almost as if he is afraid to touch you as if it would break the spell.

The invasion is just as overwhelming as yesterday, but with no sense of apprehension or fear of discomfort—just sheer pleasure. You move to grasp his shoulders as you slowly reach your hilt, him feeling so deep inside you.

“Look at you climbing in my lap and crawling onto my cock like this. My god, you are a wonder,” he sounds utterly enthralled, awed even. “You insatiable little sweet wonder, I took your innocence only yesterday and here you are now, sitting speared open on me. What is next, my sweet? Will you ride me? Take what you want from me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, loving how he is so complimentary about your actions, not shaming you for following your instincts, urging you to take pleasure from him. “Show me how Benedict?” you ask.

Large hands crest your hipbones. “Rise up, my sweet,” he lilts against your temple. You do so, feeling him withdraw from your body; just as his tip is nearly out of your body, he speaks again. “Now sink back down,” and you follow his teaching.

Both of you groan at the feel as he surges back into you so very deep. Glancing over a spot that makes you gyrate your hips as you are fully seated on him, addicted to the spike of pleasure it causes.

“Perfect,” he praises through slightly clenched teeth, obviously holding back from taking control and pushing up into you. “Now, keep doing just that.”

So you do. Begin a rhythm of rising using your thighs as leverage and sinking back down. You grab his face and draw him into a sloppy, almost artless breathy kiss as you adjust to the motions and the feeling in your body. Still a little mindblown from your orgasm, you feel so decadent and powerful as you grip his shoulders and ride him in his oversized chair, sunlight dancing warmly on your skin from the window behind you.

His hands sweep up over your back and encourage you to lean away a little, and when you do, curving backwards over his legs, he buries his face into your chest, his lips finding your nipple and biting down gently. It makes your whole body pulse, and you cry out his name. He growls encouragements, telling you not to stop; that you are a goddess, a wonder; teeming words of praise that make you move faster, ride him harder as he pushes his hips up to meet you now, breathing rapidly, muscles aching from the exertion, body slick with sweat and arousal.

As you move together, so much of the world makes sense; why people say intimate relations are a bedrock of marriage. You feel a bittersweet wave at the injustice that this man, who feels so right when inside you, is not the one you will get to spend your future with. It seems so unfair. You bite your lip and press your cheek to his, burying your hands into his hair as you both climb higher, the poignancy lending an air of desperation to your movements, chasing the most sublime feeling you have ever had.

He pulls back slightly and touches your face reverentially as if needing a moment of connection where your gaze locks. You are certain your eyes are glassy, but his seem the same, a sheen over them that dances in the sunlight, the intense rays catching the warm chestnut tint in his hair and reflecting the lightness of his teeth as he smiles up at you. You are smiling back, and your hand slips from his hair to cup his jaw. This doesn’t feel like something only physical, a means to an end; it feels like a connection, a meeting of kindred spirits.

“You are a work of art,” he murmurs, his tone worshipful.

It feels dangerously close to something so fundamental. To what you can only describe as love… love like you have read about in books. All that elegant prose and poetry making so much more profound sense now you feel it, see it mirrored in his face. Even though you have only spent a few hours in his company, you can see your future with this man as clearly as day. Watching him paint, standing proudly by his side as his work fills galleries, bearing his children, a loving family in a little cottage out in the peace and quiet of the country. Tending a garden of flowers and foods, reading books, educating your children. And every night, laying by his side, talking, laughing together, making love and growing old together. Always together. Tears prickle hot in the corner of your eyes at the thought that this vision, so clear, so utterly beguiling, will not be your future.

“Come for me, my sweet, my beautiful muse,” he appeals, sotto voce, as if intuiting you need a physical release to soothe your turbulent mind.

You wrap yourself around him tightly, his heated forehead pressed into your throat as you do just as he asked. Press your pelvis hard into him, tilting your hips so you catch your clit on his body as you rise and fall, pushing yourself towards completion. Every fibre of your being alive with light and exhilaration. His name trembles across your lips as you start to fracture around him, feeling so filled as you convulse deep inside. He is moaning, his hands seemingly everywhere, mapping your body with his touch, passion in his movements, as if he cannot hold enough of you at once. You float far away as your senses blot out, riding a wave so strong, so utterly singular, it feels like you have died a little and come back resurrected, rearranged, altered in some elemental way by this interlude you have shared.

As you go pliant in his arms, you feel him forcibly withdraw, and a warmth splashes on your inner thigh as he reaches his peak too. And yet you do not want to move; you want to stay with him, surrounded by him. He also senses it, wrapping his arms tighter around your body, pulling you closer into him, your tacky skin melding together as you recover, resting upon his shoulder. A silence that feels at once evocative and comforting, only punctured by your joined ragged breathing. His lips drop delicate kisses along your shoulder as you curl tighter, not wanting this moment to be over.

The faint chime of the hour on the mantel clock pulls you from your trance.

“Oh gosh! What of my official portrait?” you suddenly sit up in his lap, startled. “This is supposed to be our last session! Benedict, we are already overtime!”

“Calm down, my sweet,” he pulls you back into his arms and nuzzles your cheek. “I finished it last night if you must know, from memory.”

“You did what?” you gasp, moving to observe his face.

“I did not need you here, my muse, to complete your portrait. You are clear as day in my mind. As if you are always with me.” he smiles softly.

“Benedict… I….” Words fail as you fall forward and claim his lips briefly. “Show me?” your ask is timid.

“You wish to see?”

“Of course I do! If you will allow me.”

With a grin, he helps you out of his lap and hands you your chemise, which you throw on as he climbs back into his trousers, then walks to the other side of the room. It’s only now you notice his easel is draped in fabric, concealing what is on it. He turns the structure to face you and then slowly pulls off the cloth.

You are speechless.

Utterly speechless.

It is the most exquisitely rendered version of you that you have ever seen and better than you could possibly have imagined. Your skin glows, and your expression looks alive and filled with wonder. This painting, and there is no other expression you can think of, feels like a love letter—to you. And you don't want anyone else to own it but him.

“Oh, Benedict….,” tears prickle the corner of your eyes yet again, emotion bubbling over with every second that ticks away. “It's… it's wonderful.”

“I just paint what I see,” he shrugs, a modest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “With you, all I see is beauty, goodness and light.” Poetic words just fall out of him as easily as breathing.

You can't help it; you run to him, throwing yourself into his arms. He laughs happily and hauls you up, your chemise riding up around your hips as you twine your limbs around him like a vine, chanting thank yous into his neck and squeezing him with all your might.

“Benedict I… I love you,” you confess into his ear, unable to stop your mouth from running away with itself or to hide your true feelings.

“Oh my sweet, my love,” he pulls you away to look into your eyes, his face a picture of surprise and devotion. “I love you too.”

You are soaring at his declaration and trembling as he places you gently onto your feet and sinks to his knees before you, clutching your waist.

“It has only taken five hours to know you are the only person in this world for me,” he admits, and you start to cry before he continues. “Please, do not marry that other man. I know he is your intended. But he is not worthy of you. I’m not sure anyone is, including me. But, please, just do not.….”

“I could not… not now,” you vow, grabbing his face, blurred through your tears, his hands moving to encircle your forearms tenderly as your thumbs swipe his cheeks.

“...would you do me one last favour instead?” he asks, his voice tremulant.

“Anything, I would do anything for you, Benedict,” you whisper fervently, honestly.

The moment seems both teeming with desperation and sentiment but also something light, like hope, even though these are to be your last private minutes together. He takes your hands from cupping his jaw and holds both of them in his, looking up at you with adoration in his glassy eyes.

“Would you please do me the honour of being my wife?”

His proposal is simple, heartfelt, improvised, a total surprise, but everything you could hope for. It makes your heart leap; leap out of your chest, into your throat, and then beyond, flying to him.

“Yes, oh god, yes, yes, yes!!!!” you squeal and haul him back up to his feet so you can be in his arms again—melting into his lips.

You stand for what seems like ages, wrapped together, coiled around each other—a little cocoon of soft teary smiles and endless kisses. Your heart singing with the idea that all those visions of a future with this man could perhaps come true.

“I…. I have a ring,” he admits as your mouths part.

“You do?” You grin in surprise.

“I saw it in the window of a little jeweller the day we met, and it made me think of you. So I went back yesterday after we, well….” You smile at his sudden modesty. “I heard you yesterday. After I closed the front door, I heard what you said. And I had to buy it. Even if you had said no, it would have been my parting gift to you, a reminder of what we shared, even if only for a few days. But I always held out hope it could be a betrothal ring.”

You are teary again as he reaches for the shelf of the easel and, right there, is a tiny navy blue box. He flicks it open to reveal the most exquisite small sapphire stone surrounded by a halo of tiny pearls.

“Oh, it is beautiful,” you gasp and hold out your hand shakily as he delicately pushes it onto your ring finger.

It's a perfect fit for you—just as he is.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory

Portrait-only taglist: @mysticwitchcraftco

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