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assortedseaglass · 4 months

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🌟Wintering | Yuletide🌟

Tom Bennett x fem!Reader

Summary: The war is over and Tom Bennett returns home, seeking comfort in a friend from his past.

Content Warnings: Drabble, Language, Smut (p in v, oral!f receiving).

Yuletide Masterlist

Wintering, verb. To hide, hibernate, seek comfort or rest, especially after turbulent times (in humans).

“Fuck,”

Your back was beginning to ache. You hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to where you were when you’d burst through the door. Just being at home, away from prying eyes, was enough. Now, the dado rail was bruising the base of your spine with every harsh thrust.

“Fuck,” he hissed again in your ear, immediately silencing himself by covering your mouth with his own. The warmth, the wetness, was delicious.

“Tom, please,” you whined into his mouth. Even through the dull pain in your back, your legs hooked around his waist ever tighter. At your plea he looked down at you, his hips still rolling lazily. When he saw the scrunch of your eyebrows, the sheen of sweat above them, and the way your lower lip pillowed as you bit down on it, Tom Bennett grinned.

He continued grinning as his hips began pistoning at an unholy pace into your wet heat. That wolfish smile was the last thing your saw as your eyes finally closed, too overwhelmed by pleasure to stay open, as you threw your head back against the wall. Bastard. He knew he was good.

You’d heard at the dancehall last night that the final battleship into port, the HMS Valiant, was due to arrive the following day at around 3 o’clock. You also knew, from working with Lois on the ambulances, that this was Tom’s ship. When Mrs Beatty and a few other ladies from your mother’s Women Institute suggested meeting the last of the lads to come home at the dock, the idea spread through your Manchester suburb like wildfire.

No sooner had your mother come home with the news were you being bustled onto the number 54 bus with a hamper laden with fresh clothes, bottles of beer, spam sandwiches and the little change that each family could spare. Old men, and women of all ages, piled into the buses and made their way to the docks. A few families still had bunting from the King’s jubilee and strung it from dockyard cranes.

The furore was extraordinary. The battleship was already looming large on the horizon when you all emptied from the bus, and young and old cheered themselves hoarse until the ship made its way into port. Sailors, forgetting regulations, leant over the ships’ railings and waved to family and friends. When the battleship finally docked, it let out a long blast of its horn and the crowed roared with glee. Mothers and sweethearts were already crying when the gangway was let down, and you saw that even some fathers were wiping their eyes.

You watched with relief as faces you recognised filed off the boat. Mr Martin’s only surviving son, thirty-eight and with three children who each ran into his arms. Frank Smith, the school bully’s rat-faced sidekick. The lad that worked at the corner shop, nineteen now, having received his papers the day he turned eighteen. Each was greeted by their family members and someone with a ‘welcome home’ hamper.

All, except one. Tom Bennett, one of the tallest lads on the boat, walked down the gangway in a few elegant strides and stopped on the dock with a sigh as he hitched his kitbag over his shoulder. He lifted his eyes to the sky, the October afternoon already darkening to a mournful blue.

As with the rest of the young men, the war had not been kind to him. Shadows haunted his slim face, prematurely aged from the horrors of a war none of them should have fought. At home, he was the stuff of legend. Survived the battle of River Plate, Dunkirk and went on the run in Europe, only to be sent back to war the moment he returned. More lives than the luckiest of cats, your mother said. The worst, of course, was the loss of his father and his home. The grief hit the Bennett children hard. Tom Bennett jumped onto the first battleship in dock, and Lois left baby Vera in England to go nursing in Africa. Now, Tom Bennett stood on the dock with no-one to welcome him home after six long years.

You hurried forward.

“Tom-” As though he knew you were there before you even spoke, he looked down from the sky to your flushed face.

Though he said your name quietly, a smile flashed across his boyish face. Your stomach somersaulted. He’d always been the handsomest rogue in Longsight, and still was with his blue eyes and sandy hair. At least there was one thing the war hadn’t taken away from him.

You held out the hamper. “Welcome home, Tom,” and with a sincere smile you stood on tiptoe to kiss his sallow cheek. A faint lipstick smudge lingered there and you smiled all the more.

“I’d be flattered,” Tom teased, gesturing to the hamper. “If every other Tom, Dick and Harry didn’t have one too.” He laughed as he took the hamper from you. His large palm covered your own and you shivered.

There was history there. Only a few pages, but history nonetheless. At once, you were transported back to the parish dance of 1935. Both seventeen, you as green as the grass, he already-world weary and wandering. He danced with no-one the entire night, though many a girl looked hopeful, yet took your hand for the last dance. When you thought about those innocent years before the war, in the darkest hours of the night or after a few too many sherries, you swore you could feel Tom’s hands burning against your waist, and at your neck as he kissed you. Your first.

Tom too, was remembering the first moment you touched him. A maths lesson with Miss Greene. He’d been caught flicking pencil sharpenings into girls’ hair and was sent to sit in the corner at the back of the class. You, as much a sweetheart then as you were now, were tasked with handing out textbooks. Unfortunately for you and luckily for Tom, they were on the shelf above where he sat. A cocky grin on his face, Tom didn’t move. He loved winding the girls up, and you were something different. At sixteen, you were curvier than the rest, and watching you flush pink was his favourite hobby. And so, he didn’t move. With pride, he chortled as you blushed and reached for the textbooks above him. His smug smile faltered however when, in order to reach the books, your legs came to rest on each side of his spread ones. With one of your thighs either side of his, he swallowed. He could feel the heat coming from the apex between them, smell your perfume and feel the way the soft flesh pressed against his. When you finally retrieved the books, it was your turn to smirk at the red flush peppering his cheekbones.

“Where are you staying, Tom, now your back?” You asked, voice low. Your mother was not far away.

“Bench in the pub, presumably. Most of the lads are heading that way for a party. Then I’ll find meself lodgings above some dodgy back-alley business.” He huffed a humourless laugh. You looked him directly in the eye.

“Stay out ours tonight.”

Tom leant close to you, wetting his lips. “What would mother say?”

“Don’t know, she’ll be down pub with the rest of them. Loves a sherry and a sailor.”

Half an hour later, you were pressed against the wall of your mother’s hallway, Tom Bennett lapping hungrily at your slick centre. Beneath your skirt and petticoat, the lewd sounds of his tongue against your wet sex filled the quiet evening.

Now, buried to the hilt within you, his swollen head bullying your core, Tom forgot the last seven months he’d spent living on the Valiant. Forgot the suffering of the last six years entirely. For between the softness of your thighs, the scent of your neck as he tucked his face against it tenderly, he’d found, if for a moment, the thing he’d been fighting for. Warmth, kindness, rest. A place to winter.

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #world on fire #hilde's twelve days of christmas

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 7 months

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A Game Of Cat And Mouse

Leona Kingscholar and Che’nya x Fem!Jerry Mouse!Reader

Note: Reader is Yuu/The magicless Ramshackle Prefect from another world

I have a ton of WIPs that I really want to complete but to help motivate myself to finish them I decided to write this

So Jerry’s personality seems to fluctuate depending on his iteration so I’m just going to tone down his more sadistic tendencies and make him more like the early shorts where he’s more mischievous and acts when provoked instead of going out of his way to ruin Tom’s life for no reason.

Honestly as a Tom girlie I felt so sorry for Thomas. There were times where that poor cat did not deserve what he went through - even when I was little I would root for him. Though this might just be an oldest child thing since my little sister and mum (who’s the youngest in her family) prefer Jerry.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Honestly, his first impression of you wasn’t the best. Yeah, you’re a girl and he chugs gallons of respecting women juice for every meal but come on - you’re this tiny little mousegirl from another world who can’t even do magic (not to mention that he’s heard rumours that you don’t even speak that much). You’ll get eaten alive!

Then he met you and all of that went down the drain

The meeting went as it usually does: you stepped on his tail, he angrily confronts you (whilst subtly warning you of the dangers of NRC) but then you just give him this flat, unamused look.

“Hey pussycat,” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms as you jut your chin up so you level him with a glare, “maybe don’t go leaving your tail lying around everywhere if you don’t want people to step on it.”

Okay, so maybe you weren’t the meek little mouse that he thought you were. Even the predators in his dorm don’t have the guts to talk back to him. Honestly, respect.

Then word gets out that you defeated an overblot and his opinion of you gets more and more favourable.

Long story short, you start dating after his overblot.

And it does cause a few turned heads.

And who can blame them? A lion going out with a mouse. That’s definitely something.

And to the untrained eye, it does sound concerning. But to those who know you (read: have been around you for more than five minutes)? Well, they’re praying for Leona’s sanity because you are nothing more than an agent of chaos.

There was this one time before you and Leona got together where a bunch of Savanaclaw predators were trying to push you, Ace, Deuce and Grim around and without even blinking you just pummelled all of them right then and there. At one point during the curb stomp battle you just pulled a mallet out of nowhere and just started thrashing everyone until they were black and blue.

Congratulations the entire Savanaclaw dorm is terrified of you

All that training with Big Cousin Muscles really does wonders

NRC have two new rules: 1) don’t even think about going after the nagicless prefect because you will lose and even if you try to use magic she will dodge and it will be your funeral and 2) DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES hurt Ace, Deuce or Grim because that will probably be the last thing you ever do (memories of Jerry completely annihilating Tom after he hurt Nibbles are resurfacing)

One thing he admires about you is your cunning and intelligence and how you’re always a step ahead of everyone no matter what their plans are. Even when you do find yourself in trouble

Even Rook Hunt has trouble trying to catch you. Don’t worry though, he’s far too fond of ‘petite mademoiselle souris’ to be irked by that.

He does get jealous of how close you are with Ruggie though. Since the hyena is also a greedy little thieving bugger like you, you have found a kindred spirit in him. The two of you bond over raiding the NRC kitchen and making off with as much as you can. And also taking the mickey out of Leona.

You also get along great with Cheka. He’s noticed that you have a soft spot for children and other animals. The pro is that he gets his nephew off of his back by pawing him off to you (who he knows will make sure that no harm will come to him) the con is that you get along too well and your chaotic natures mixing will probably send him to an early grave - if your mischievous and provoking nature doesn’t already.

One thing he loves to do is tease you over your mouse-like qualities. Yeah, anyone with eyes can tell that you’re nowhere near as innocent as you look but those mouse ears, wide eyes, squeaks and cute little tail are objectively and indisputably adorable. He takes great pleasure in telling you how cute ‘his little mouse’ is, especially when you give such sweet reactions when you're flustered.

Though he does get taken aback by how bold you are. You definitely did that thing Jerry does where he holds mistletoe above his head and made kissing noises at Tom.

Your high pitched laugh makes his heart melt and he definitely uses his rich boy money to buy you all of the expensive cheese you can eat.

CHE’NYA

He loves you so much. Finally, someone he can be chaotic with - you’re a match made in hell.

His interest in you starts when he tries to sneak up on you whilst invisible but you pull one over him and just turn around, look directly into his unseeable eyes and sprAY WATER RIGHT ONTO HIS FACE-WHAT THE HELL?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT SPRAY BOTTLE FROM????

At first he was pleasantly surprised before his face broke into a Cheshire Cat grin. He felt cupid’s arrow hit him square in the chest and he just looked at you with heart eyes.

By asking Trey and Cater and hiding in the rose maze, he gathered enough information to decide that you are his future wife

Turns out that your troublemaking antics have you paired with Ace and Floyd for the position of ‘bane of Riddle Rosehearts’ existence’. Mainly because everytime you break a rule you always, without fail, evade punishment by avoiding getting caught - even when you are clearly the culprit

Trey has bribed you with so many cheese based baked goods to stop you from sneaking into Heartslabyul and causing mayhem (you felt sorry for him so you promised him that you’ll only steal from the main kitchen near the cafeteria. That’s not what he meant but he’ll take it)

One day he catches you kidnapping the dorm’s pet dormouse before an unbirthday party so that you ‘can help your fellow mice by freeing them from their subjugation’. He shrugs and nods in understanding before asking you if he should let out the flamingos and hedgehogs from their pens as a distraction.

And so a beautiful relationship was born as the two of you ran off with a tray of choux pastries and a bunch of angry card soldiers chasing you.

The two of you have a competition over who can sneak into and stay in Heartslabyul the longest without getting caught and you’re currently the winner.

He loves that you’re not scared of anyone and you’re not afraid to stand up to people that are almost quadruple your size. In fact, he’s there cheering you on whenever you fight back or plot your revenge (he does know that he has a whole other school to attend, right?). One time you showed him one of your revenge plans and he even helped you set the traps and everything. Oh the two of you working together has NRC running for the hills.

Like Leona, he does like to tease you but what do you expect? He’s a cat, you’re a mouse - that’s nature. Though he does love the fact that you’re always one step ahead of him whenever he does try to outsmart you. He loves a good puzzle and you certainly keep him on his toes.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #che'nya x reader #fem reader

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milliondollarwomen · 3 months

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Well Hello (part 2)

tom blyth x fem reader

word count 1.7k

mature 18+

https://www.tumblr.com/daemonslover/739845802239934464/well-hello-tom-blyth-x-fem-reader-word-count-19k?source=share

Part 1 ^^^

hey guys!! so glad you enjoyed part 1 here's part 2!!

recap:

"Sorry for the interruption, class. This is Tom Blyth; he's been working for me for two years and will be assisting this semester." You cautiously raise your head, hoping it's not who you think it is. And there's the man you met in the bar, smirking at you

Your professor's surprise introduction of Tom makes you uneasy. The mention of Tom working for the professor for two years makes you realize how naive you were to not consider him working at a university. He was in his twenties and was intrigued when you mentioned that you were a graduate student; everything was coming together. He kept staring at you the entire class, so you couldn't concentrate on the material. The familiarity of that smile evoked memories of the bar encounter and that night, increasing the uneasiness. All you could think was, "What if this gets out?" "what if he black mails me?"

"Remember discussion one will be due next class" Finally, the professor dismisses you all to go. You leap out of your seat and try to find the nearest exit. You don't even want to look around to avoid accidently seeing him. As you exit the classroom, you check both hallways to see if it's clear. Feeling relieved as you see only students, you begin to go out. While going around the building looking for a way out, you take time to enjoy the architecture and paintings on the walls. The marble walls and magnificent pillars throughout the rooms are adorned with portraits of former professors and school presidents.

“Well hello”

The very voice you didn't want to hear made your entire body feel like it was ready to crumble into a million pieces. The panic that erupted in your body was so intense that you thought you'd pass out. You cautiously turn around, hoping it wasn't him and your mind was playing tricks on you. Nonetheless, it was him. As horrible as it sounded, he looked very attractive. His hair was perfectly messy with just the right amount of curl, his suit was fitted to perfection, and his blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

Tom's interruption snaps you out of your contemplation, and his smirking remark sends a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue?" he says, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "Please leave me alone, I could get in trouble," you manage to say, feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable. You sound desperate, expressing the fear Tom's presence has caused you to feel. Tom leans in slightly, making the encounter more personal. "you should of thought about that before you let me fuck you" he whispers, his voice carrying a sinister undertone.

The decision to walk away and dismiss Tom in your head seemed like a reasonable strategy to avoid escalating the situation. However, as you take a few steps to distance yourself, you feel a firm grip on your arm. Tom's grasp is unexpected and forceful, causing a ripple of concern among students who witness the scene. "You will not walk away from me," he asserts, his words sending a chill down your spine. The whispers and concerned looks from your peers amplify the anxiety within you. The last thing you want is to draw attention and jeopardize the hard work you've put into reaching this point with getting into grad school.

In an attempt to defuse the situation, you hesitantly suggest, "If I meet you somewhere will you stop, you are causing people to stare." You're taken aback by Tom's response when he smiles, as though he's satisfied with your cooperation."Meet me at the Italian restaurant tonight at 6 p.m.; it's six blocks from here," Tom vanishes into the distance, but your classmates' looks and murmurs remain. The impending meeting weighs heavily on you, and you can't get rid of the terrible sensation that this meeting with Tom will have repercussions that go far beyond the classroom. With a strong will to safeguard both your reputation and your own welfare, you struggle with the unknown that is going to be at the Italian restaurant later that night.

Because of the awkward situation in class and your meeting with Tom coming up, you decide to take a break and see the beautiful city that surrounds NYU. Your first stop will be Central Park, which is close and quick to get to. When you walk into the park, which is a big green oasis in the middle of the city, you can relax and enjoy the peace and quiet it offers. Getting away from the busy city and into the quiet park is a nice change of pace. You can feel the ups and downs of life all around you as you sit on a bench or walk along the winding paths. The sounds of children laughing, street musicians playing, and couples talking quietly together make a symphony that is nice to listen to. This temporary escape gives you a sense of stability and connection to the life of the city. The different stories, emotions, and experiences of the people you see remind you of how strong and bright you are beyond the problems you're facing right now. The break is helpful because it gives you time to get stronger and see things more clearly before facing the unknowns of the evening.

Later in the day

You eventually get home after exploring New York City. It's finally time for you to get ready and face Tom. You look at the clock and see that you have around 2 hours to get dressed. Although you know it's wrong, you're looking forward to seeing what happens tonight. Morally, this is terrible and could wreck your life, yet the sneakiness appeals to you.

For something easy but eye-catching, you choose a black dress with a low-cut back that has a subtle charm. The fabric drapes beautifully, drawing attention to your shape while keeping a sense of class. You chose the dress on purpose; it's sexy without showing too much. You are once again standing in front of the mirror as you get ready to see Tom. A quick touch-up of your makeup and hairstyle.

"Get your shit together, this isn't a date," you explain to yourself. This isn't about love; it's about telling him off. Hidden beneath the surface, two strong emotions are battling: the need to hold on to your anger and a deeper, more complex desire.

One last look in the mirror turns into a quiet pep talk. You can't get the words out of your head; put your feelings aside and look at the situation clearly. You know in your heart that the water below is rough and that you are pulled between being furious and having an unpleasant desire that you can't avoid.

As soon as you walk into the Italian restaurant, the mood changes. The soft glow of the warm lighting and the chatter of the people eating make the room feel cozy, but as you look around, you can feel the stress in the air. When you see Tom in a booth in the corner, you feel a rush of nervous energy. As you get closer to the table, your mixed feelings get stronger. When you see Tom, your heartbeat speeds up. "So glad you showed up, love; you look incredible."

As Tom pulls out your seat, you can feel the stress in the air. Thanking him for his kindness, but there is a lot of tension between you two that you don't say. There is silence at the table, and the things that aren't said form an invisible wall.

Before you can start talking, the waiter comes in and gives you a break for a while. After the orders are made. Tom breaks the silence "I'm sorry for my outburst earlier, dove." He tries to hold your hand, but you automatically pull away.

With a snarky tone, you say, "The only reason I'm here is to talk with you about how we will move forward this semester because this will never be a thing." The words give off an air of distance, which is a way to protect yourself from how vulnerable the situation is. You're struggling with mixed feelings deep down—a desire for his touch that has been going around in your head since that fateful night—but you're determined to hide them.

This outraged Tom. He knew it was all an act; he knew what was going through your mind right now was to appear uninterested because you were frightened of losing your place at NYU. This is a reasonable cause, but he would not tolerate her attitude and hatred toward him. Tom quickly rose up from his seat and grabbed your arm, leading you to the bathroom.

He forced you into the restroom and shut the door. Thankfully, there was just one stall.

You knew where this was going, and surprisingly, you weren't upset about it. Yes, you came here to warn him that this is wrong, but you knew that giving him an attitude would make him want to fuck you even harder than before. "Tom, we can't do this again," you plead, knowing that it will make him want you even more. Tom approaches you, puts his hands on your waist, and kisses your neck. This causes the warmth between your legs to rise into your stomach. He pushes two fingers into your throbbing pussy, causing you to gasp. "Tell me you aren't enjoying this love.'' You chose to wait to react so that it didn't seem like you were giving in so soon.

You finally give in and gasp out his name, "Tom, oh fuck, please," which fills his eyes with lust as he watches you squirm beneath him while he plays with your pussy, despite the fact that you just minutes ago pretended to despise him. "Look at you begging for me in a restaurant bathroom like a little slut, tell me you want me" he continues to rub circles around your clit, rubbing the right spot every time. "Please, Tom, I need you inside of me." Seeing the redness around your chest and your sloppy movements as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, he knows you're approaching your climax.

He abruptly stops just before your climax, jolting you out of your sexual trance and confusing you. Tom leans down and says, "Fix your attitude, then I'll let you finish." "See you in class dove." he says, and walks out of the stall, leaving you sexually frustrated, with dripping underwear, and fucked up hair.

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writefightandflightclub · 2 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Four (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Ooh I really hope you enjoy this one! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. I so love to hear your feedback and chat more about this story! ILY :-*

Word count: 5.3k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

The rest of the evening passes in much the same way as the rest. You rejoin the group out front, Benny injecting some much needed fresh energy into the pack. He regales you all with tales of his most recent fights, delivers excruciating detail about his latest training regimen, and proudly shows off pictures of his new puppy.

“Why am I looking at a picture of you, Miller,” Frankie jests as he holds up the screen to reveal an adorable golden retriever.

If anyone notices that Santiago seems quieter than he had earlier in the night, they don’t say it. If they realise that you are engaging in very purposeful, overblown interest in Benny’s chat, it doesn’t get called out. There are a few exchanges between the two of you and Santiago that simulate old patterns. Lend weight to the pretence that things could even return to normal between you and him, given a little more time.

Still, every time your eyes glance off of one another there is this intolerable heat, and you find you still can’t meet it head on. At times, your gaze is dropped hastily into the sand. At times, your eyes needle Frankie pointedly so that he might come to your aid, even if he does simply shrug and clasp the neck of his bottle a little more tightly.

You know Santiago. And in a sense, contradictory as it may be, the hardest thing is how easy it would be to fall into your old patterns. Eventually, you begin to wonder if this tension and this awkwardness -this disconnect – is simply manufactured, in a way. Your heart’s tactic to keep him at arm’s length. A defence mechanism, because you ran away from a whole continent and yet you still fear ending up right back where you started if you can’t extricate yourself from him.

At some stage, you tire of the beer-addled chat, and especially of Tom. Even more so of the effort of trying to make everything feel normal, whilst at the same time fearing what might happen if you could actually achieve that. What it would mean. You announce to the group that you’re going to take a long soak in the tub, and you head upstairs to the main bathroom, languishing in the sweet-scented bubbles, and attempting to wash the burdens of the day from your body, along with the gathered sweat and sand and smoke. Of course, you seem entirely unable to scrub this urge humming beneath your skin.

When you eventually emerge there is a hush over the house, a cocooning darkness in the hallways – and you realise that at least some of the group must have retired to bed already. You’re tired, sure; but you’re still a little buzzed and not sure that you could sleep yet. You certainly don’t like the thought of staring at the ceiling, thinking about who might be lying awake too on the other side of your wall.

“Hey. Cat. Everyone gone to bed?” you ask Frankie softly as you see him round the stairs to the landing in his socked feet, his footsteps purposefully softened.

“Yeah, chiquita.”

“Already? Such old men,” you snicker gently. “What the hell happened?”

Frankie’s subdued throaty chuckle cuts pleasantly through the dark. “It was a long drive,” he defends playfully; then, his tone shifts, an injection of caution evident. It puts you on edge. “Pope’s still out there though, if that helps.” Frankie must feel you bristle, as he raises his palms in the air in surrender. Or, more than likely, absolving himself of any responsibility. “Do with that what you want.”

“Mmm-kay,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, and, from the sidelong glance Frankie throws at you, you know he isn’t buying it for a second.

“You two okay? Something happen in the kitchen?”

A flare ignites under your skin. You remember a different kitchen entirely. Not the one downstairs. Instead, you recall the hot, close air of the Colombian night. The flash of cool metal against your flushed skin as Santiago pressed you back and-

“-It was fine,” you lie tersely, and before Frankie can wheedle anything further out of you, you quickly hook your arm around his neck for a distracting, albeit halfhearted, goodnight hug. “’Night, Cat. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” With a grunt, he offers a quick, friendly kiss to your cheek, his scruff tickling up against you.

“Yeah. G’night,” he returns, looking as tired as he probably feels. And, as you part ways in the hallway, Frankie watches with resigned interest at the fact you don’t similarly retreat to your room. That instead, you shuffle onward towards the mouth of the stairs. “Don’t let the Pope’s bite.”

And then, with Frankie’s nonsensical and yet somehow apt warning ringing in your ears you head downstairs, meandering through the quiet house until you reach the exterior.

You are arrested in the doorway at the thought of experiencing Santiago alone all over again, but at the same time, that is exactly the thought which propels your feet over the threshold and out into the balmy night air.

You find him there, stretched out on his back in front of the dying embers of the fire, knees folded and pointed up to the sky. An orange glow is cast over the contours of his chest where his button-down shirt now falls completely open, the wire of his headphones snaking down and around his torso. He looks peaceful like this at first. Relaxed and loose, his chest rising and falling soporifically with his breath. His eyes are closed and he has his headphones in his ears, his fingers gently drumming and tapping where they rest against the softness of his bare stomach. Your eyes follow his happy trail, until the thatch of hair disappears beneath his shorts, now tugged tight over his thick thighs.

You note the appealing cushioning around his middle forming rolls as he shifts marginally - to better prop his head up on a second cushion. He looks beautiful. Tranquil, at first glance.

That is, until you see him tug in a huge breath, his ribs flaring with it. Until you watch him pinch the bridge of his nose before letting out a slow, sad exhale.

You know in that moment that you should without a doubt turn around. That you should go right to bed, even if that does result in staring at the ceiling for hours with the image of his gorgeous body seared into your mind. But, you can’t do that.

Instead, you already know exactly what you’re going to do. You’ve known since before you came downstairs.

Truth be told, you’ve known since before you came to the beach house at all. You’ve known since your new fella asked you to be exclusive and you said “no”. You know, because you don’t know what’s good for you.

“Santiago,” you say to announce yourself. “Mind if I join you?”

He pops a bud from his ear and opens his eyes. Somehow, he doesn’t even look surprised to see you standing there.

He blinks at you wordlessly for a moment. He could say no, of course, but you know that he won’t.

Because he doesn’t know what’s good for him either.

He doesn’t respond to you at all in words. Instead, he rises, shifting to the corner of his tartan blanket, arranging himself cross-legged with a groan. He pats the opposite side invitingly, gesturing for you to join him.

You hesitate. The setting, down on the sand on that measly square of wool, seems already far more intimate than the looming camp chairs had.

“Warmer down here,” Santiago encourages, as though reading your mind through how well he can read your body, evident tension snaking through your limbs. “Come and get comfy.”

Okay.

You hunker down, both legs folded to one side and your weight propped on the opposite arm. You take in the setting for a moment. The beach, shrouded in a blanket of dark. The sound of the waves shushing, and the gentle crackle of the fire.

It would be calming, if the silence between the two of you wasn’t so taut. Still, you know Santiago will shortly reach to fill the silence. He always does. You don’t even have to wait all that long.

“Good to see that Benny’s still… as Benny as ever.”

“Yeah. Good to see some things never change.” You look at his lips.

“His latest training regimen sounds pretty brutal, huh?“

“Uh huh.” Your eyes trail wantonly down his torso, and it’s not lost on you that he sucks his stomach in a little when your gaze drops to the soft rolls of him there. You’ve never seen a whiff of insecurity on the man before now. He’s confident as a rule - or so you thought. It’s appealing though, the softness of him. Sexy. You want to tell him that, but you don’t. Instead, you simply allow the soft smile to radiate over your face unfettered, your eyes warm and fond.

“What are you listening to?” you nod down to his phone, headphones still strung from it and one bud remaining in his ear. Wordlessly, he passes you the spare bud and you slot it in, allowing the droning sounds to wash over you. Voices talking, and smatterings of financial and investment jargon. You quickly get the gist of it, and just as quickly relinquish the bud back to him.

Your nose wrinkles. It’s not what you were expecting, honestly. “Financial podcasts?”

He tilts his head to the side. Looks suddenly as old and mature and serious as you’ve ever seen him. “Gotta think about the future sometime, right?” He says it lightly, but even so, you are somewhat hurt by it. Hurt that he’s never managed to envisage any kind of future with you.

“Right.” You nod, as neutrally as possible.

He looks at your mouth.

You note the brief fleet of pink tongue along the swell of his pillowy lower lip.

You both let the silence hang there for a moment, full of possibility, and again, you know he will fill it. After all, you made it clear, right? You told him: don’t. Even if you want precisely what you asked him to deny you. “Did you see that documentary about the octopus on-”

“-I can’t get off anymore without thinking about you, Santi.”

You interrupt him, and his jaw hangs slack for a moment, his eyes bugging out of his head as he fully registers your statement. Apparently, you don’t want to talk about Benny. Or podcasts. Or fucking octopi. You don’t want to fill the silence with meaningless chat.

With Santiago, it had always meant something. You don’t want to stop that now.

You let the words fall into his lap, and you aren’t even sure what reaction you were expecting. Therefore, you don’t even feel any particular type of way as you watch the multitude of emotions and stunted responses play out one by one across Santiago’s features. “Jesus, honey,” he eventually croaks.

Then, his second-hand embarrassment finally jars you too. In a delayed flush of self-pity, you bury your face in your hands. “Fuck. How pathetic is that?”

Santiago’s agape mouth finally closes then, a hard swallow bobbing down his corded neck. Your own self-deprecating laugh finally causes his face to split into a bemused and tentative grin. It is short-lived, however, his thick brows quickly drawing down. “You know. You’re giving me fucking whiplash over here, cariño.”

“Shit. I know. I’m sorry. I just…” You tug your knees up to your chest for whatever comfort it can offer. “Honestly? I don’t want to talk about Benny, or whatever else. I love the guy but I… I missed you. I missed you and I just want us back. I want us to be okay, you know?” Santiago’s face twists in a mirror of your own, as if he doesn’t even know how possible that is anymore. “And, I don’t know how else to do that anymore – to make us okay - without… without that. I don’t know how to stop wanting you.” As you keep talking, your voice seems to break into a thousand pieces, as if sand in your throat is grinding it down, eroding the body and timbre of it away. “I try. I try, Santi, and it… I never…”

Your name rises from his throat, and the sound is tired in his mouth. He knows what you’re asking him; and he doesn’t even seem surprised. “It’s a bad fucking idea.”

“I know.” He’s not even wrong. “I know it is, but I… I don’t care anymore.” Emotion weighs down your tone. Makes it heavy. “It’s like a wound in me - the way we left it - and I just need…” Your eyes flicker and flit everywhere as you reach for the word, dancing around the scene, around his face, like the licking, greedy flames.

You can’t find the word, the concept, the sentiment, but, as you search, Santiago’s voice filters through to you, certain and resigned. As though he understands perfectly what you crave after the wound that he left that night. “You need healing.”

Your head whips towards him and you nod slowly, with conviction, searching his face for any sign that he might give it to you. For any sign that he might be able to repair you. He had hurt you, yes. But his fire was so hot that you think he is the only thing capable of cauterising the wound he left in his wake. The only one who can ignite you enough to heal you, as selfish and misguided as your desire may be.

However, Santiago’s demeanour remains calm and cool even in the face of your desperation. You see only a vestige of desire dancing in his eyes now, as though all you had might truly be in the past. “You wanted out, remember?” he says thinly. With regret. He smiles even thinner than that. “No need to repeat your old mistakes, huh?”

“I wanted out of that life, man. You were never a mistake.”

“Heh. Don’t be so sure. If you know what’s good for you-“

Unconsciously, and with ill-timing, you shift on the mat in discomfort, rolling your spine to try and release some of the niggling, tight muscles – another old injury which continues to plague you long after the fact.

“Still got that damn tweak?” Santiago asks, seemingly grateful for the diversion.

You nod. “Mmm.”

“Want my fingers?”

You look into his eyes, mellow in the dancing light. How could you say no to that? “Please.”

“Come here then,” he encourages, shifting position to the edge of the porch step, his thighs spread wide apart and leaving space for you to settle on the sand before him. “Let me help you,” he insists, tipping up his chin, and his eyes softer and brighter again.

You hesitate, but you can’t find it in you to decline the invitation. Can’t possibly find the strength to say no to his hands on you. To some relief, even in this form. “Turn around. Back to me, hermosa.” His voice is soft, so soft. Rough and undone around the edges like this frayed edge of land you perch on.

You settle before him, and, just as he had promised, his fingers and his hands begin to inch over your body, on top of your clothes, seeking to unravel the knots. To bring you some relief. He used to do this for you all the time – always took care of you like this, and it’s bittersweet to recall a different, more innocent way his hands used to touch you. He would do this for you after training. After a mission. In the field. At the mouth of your tent when camped out in some desert or field or jungle. In the back of a Humvee on the way to the F.O.B.. At Benny’s fight nights when you’d had to sit in those shitty plastic chairs for too long. Whenever and wherever you needed it.

His hands always knew how to fix you, long before you learned all the ways they could take you apart like a weapon in his palm. “Santiago,” you keen, as the pad of his thumb works into all your sweet spots. You don’t know what his name is in your mouth. A plea; a promise; a prayer; a poem. Perhaps all of these at once.

“I know,” he soothes. “I know, cariño.”

You close your eyes against the sudden tears you find threatening at the corners of your eyes. Knowing his touch again is everything you wanted, and, despite yourself, you are eminently glad it is happening like this. That he is giving, instead of devouring you, for if he did the latter, you don’t know that there would be anything left for him to take.

His touch like this though, deft and tender, reveals that perhaps, there’s another way. That maybe, instead of burning you, Santiago could merely warm you. Maybe his flames only hurt because you had dared to get too close. Maybe you could simply learn to stay at arm’s length, where he had always attempted to keep you anyway.

Still, that’s all very well, but… his touch - as it skims down your body - is enough to subsume you. It is a tide swallowing hot shores. It is a relief. A balm. Healing.

“You’re so tight,” he complains gruffly, and you wonder if he is simply being careless, or whether his words were chosen ever so deliberately to remind you. To remind you of him praising you for that very same thing, under other circumstances.

Regardless, Santiago shifts then, shuffling his hips closer towards you. His thighs -either side of your torso - boxing you in a little more tightly. Then, he braces one hand carefully against your shoulder, the other digging and kneading into your knotted muscles at the spot he always knew how to help you with.

You moan for him, willingly, as he takes all your tension and melts it like butter.

“Santiago,” you keen, and there it is again. A promise; a prayer; a poem.

A plea.

You hear him swallow thickly. Hear him exhale a sound like sea trapped in a seashell, his face dipped closer towards the shell of your ear in this new position. His breath continues to quicken as he manipulates your body, pliable under his sure hands, his warmth practically coiled around you like the fire around its fuel.

“Do you want my fingers?” he repeats, voice now flecked with grit, even as he remains slow and languid, not whipped into any frenzy. “Tell me.”

A stone plummets through your belly, sinking heat through your core at the mere suggestion he might touch you there too.

“Mmmph,” you plead – a strangled affirmative wrung from your chest, and Santiago’s hand reaches around, calm and slow and tantalising. He winds his arms between your legs and his index finger trials along the seam of your shorts, up towards your clit like he’s following a carefully laid fuse line. Like he knows precisely how to detonate you, and all he needs is a spark. “You want my fingers here?” he purrs, and you moan his name, throwing your head back into the crook of his shoulder. “Want me to help you like this too?”

You submit an unintelligible string of sounds to the air, which you hope he recognises as an affirmative.

“Sssshhh,” he soothes, as his fingers deftly flick open the button of your shorts and you squirm in search of his friction. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you, cariño.”

You sigh out a broken, guttural noise now, rolling your mound against his palm as his girthy fingers travel eagerly below the waistband of your clothing. Barrelling towards your want without dwelling on the implications even for a moment. On what this might mean. On what this may fix or further fracture.

It is too much to think about that, and it is enough to know that you need some relief.

Specifically, the kind of relief you have not been able to give yourself. The kind of relief you have not been able to find from elsewhere. The kind only Santiago knows how to give you. The only kind Santiago knows how to give you.

“Fuck. You’re soaked,” he praises, all rusty-voice and practiced fingers, and with the ease that the thick pads of him glide through your folds you know it is true. “Holy shit, come here.”

You would oblige if you were not so loose-limbed already; and so, in the next moment, Santiago is dragging you up towards him, settling your ass in the space before him on the porch step, so you sit a little higher. He is shucking your shorts and panties down and hooking your thighs over his parted, sturdy legs to spread you wide open. To give him better access to you so he can give you what you need.

Your hands clamp down on his thighs like claws, your back flush against his chest and your head still languishing in the apex of his neck, feeling the steady rhythm in his shoulder as his arm reaches between your legs. With his other arm he simply gathers you up and holds you close to him, until the warmth of his skin seeps right through to yours.

“Fuck! Santi,” you keen, voice ragged with need already as his fingers tease and circle where you need him. “More. Please, I need more.”

He does not disappoint. He plunges a girthy finger into your heat, and the lack of resistance is telling, your cunt opened up and eager for him as the heel of his hand rocks a steady rhythm against your clit. He goes slower than you would like, but it turns out to be the exact pace you need -two fingers now- dragging molten heat through your core with each curl and pump and scissor he applies to your giving walls.

“Ohhhh. Fuck!”

“I know, baby. This is what you need, isn’t it? I know.”

He does. He does know. He knows every damn inch of you and how to make you sing.

“That’s it. I’ve got you. Don’t come, Princesa. Not yet.”

That’s easier said than done. Especially as his rough voice - all honey and grit - filters into the shell of your ear. As the fleck of his stubble rasps against your neck as he sucks an angry mark into your skin. Your core flutters in straight-out defiance of his orders then, and he feels you clamp down on him, tightening around his fingers. “Ah ah,” he scolds. “Hold on to it for me. Gonna get you there. Don’t worry. I got you.”

Christ, you slosh around him as he makes you molten, and you feel his thighs begin to shake beneath yours. You feel his insistent hardness pressing at your back. “Fuck, princesa. I missed this pussy. Holy shit.”

“Santi. I- I can’t hold on.”

His thumb massages circles into your swollen, needy clit.

“No, baby. Hold on for me. I know you can, huh? Don’t even think. Let me give you what you need.”

“Mmmphhh,” you moan out like a woman possessed as Santiago builds you up.

He chuckles darkly into your neck, and smothers his spare palm over your mouth. “Shhhh. Quiet, hermosa. No-one else can take care of you like this, huh? I got you now.”

The way he’s touching you, fingers speared inside your wet heat, is everything you’ve needed for so long. God, you’ve so needed him to help you like this. And now, he’s finally giving you relief. It’s welcome, and it’s good; but you still have enough about you, even in this state of becoming putty in his lap, to realise that he’s not giving you everything. You turn your head, tipping your lips wantonly up to him, but he won’t kiss you. His arousal presses insistently at your lower back but he isn’t making any move to get himself off. It seems obvious, even in this state of coming undone, that even as you lose yourself he won’t allow himself to get lost in you; not entirely.

He’s navigated some extreme terrain in his time, but perhaps his feelings for you really are a jungle far too dense for him to navigate.

Still, you certainly do not feel any lack, even if you get the sense he is holding back. It would be hard to feel any lack at all with his thick, warm fingers buried in you up to the knuckle, stroking and curling with precision against your swollen arousal, coaxing hoarse moans from your lips which he buries in the meat of his cupped palm. The pad of his thumb rubs haphazardly -almost roughly- in circles over your clit, puffy with need. Your thatch of hair is soaked, and your plumped folds are slick with your pearly, moonlit juices.

“Holy fuck,” you rasp as Santiago’s fingers draw a broad circle deep inside your walls, stretching you open and sending a delicious spiral of bliss through your core. He curls his fingers against your g spot, rocks his palm roughly against the mound of you, and God, it’s so good. You’re on the edge, but you still find you can’t quite let go.

You don’t need him to give you everything, but you do need him to give you just a little more of what you’ve been craving. Just a little more healing.

“Santiago,” you plead, tears of emotion and bliss and disbelief and sadness balling in your eyes. Relief at the fact you get to feel his touch again, and despair at how long you may next endure the lack of it.

However, as though he senses what your body is telling him, that you are getting far too in your head by now to let go, you realise Santiago knows exactly what you need to get out of it. He always does. Always knows how to help you. “Mmpph,” you moan as he wraps his hand more tightly around your mouth and nose, playing with your air supply - just enough to provide a gentle thrill. To offer this simulation of a loss of control just long enough that you feel a secondary surge of adrenalin and arousal building within you. You gasp as he releases his palm and you suck his fingers easily into your mouth, wanting to feel full of him wherever you can. He obliges by shoving them deeper, over your tongue.

“That’s it,” he praises, soothes, encourages, feeling it coming before you do, reading the signs in your body. Almost immediately, pleasure blooms out from your middle, completely engulfing you.

You screw your eyes shut tight and you can barely even focus on his fingers pulsing in and out of your wet, suckering heat, or on this string in the middle of you being drawn so tight it’s about to snap. Instead you focus on him. On the warmth and sturdy form of him at your back. On the way he knows just how to touch you – where, and when, and how. The way he soothes you and relieves you. The familiar scratch of his stubble against your cheek. The soft, sweat-tacky rolls of his bare stomach cushioning your back, skin-on-skin where your t-shirt has ridden up your back. His meaty thighs. The familiar press of that hard promise up against you. But most of all his warm, sandy voice, slipping into the shell of your ear like the sounds and shushing of the sea.

Hermosa. Cariño. Princesa.

His words melting out of you like liquid pearls and making you shine.

He praises you, and the sounds of him slip inside you just like his fingers, a smooth glide like the surge of the tide devouring an aching shore. His touch relieves the ache, the burn, the fire, the hurt, as you find your release. You gush over his hand, your mouth open with a hoarse, hollow moan, silently echoing the roar of the sea as your whole body becomes liquid on top of his.

He holds you, and he works you through it, tears squeezed from your eyes with each wave of bursting, engulfing pleasure which radiates through your core – not blistering like the heat of your fire, but gentle and soothing.

Your breath is ragged now. You have the feel of a tide between your legs.

You are sated, and yet you want more of him. You may feel healed in some ways, but your whole body still sings for him like a wound.

He stays inside of you. Feels you for a moment, with a shuddered, satisfied moan you feel vibrate against your back before he draws his fingers out, painfully slow. You shudder too, your core still fluttering for him, and you would reach for him if you weren’t still boneless. Would seek to satisfy him too.

“Fuck. I missed your fingers,” you purr.

“Uh huh,” Santiago says, a little too morosely for your liking, and he unslots himself far too quickly from around your form. Far too quickly he comes to standing, leaving you feeling cold and alone on the porch stairs, shorts shunted down past your knees, exposing you to the night air.

“Don’t you want… something for you?” you ask in confusion, in hope, eyeing the bulge tenting at his crotch and the way his hand is hung curled at his side, his fingers still shined from you. You enjoy all of that, but you certainly don’t enjoy the heaviness bedding down on his brow, and you reach to pull up your shorts as quickly as you can, the moment of relief fast-retreating, like the deceptive tide.

“No,” he says firmly. “That was just for you.”

You bristle at the implication in his words, your momentary bliss falling quickly away.

He did you a favour.

You were the one undone by your desire – your want. Not him. You were the needy one who couldn’t be without him. Couldn’t even get off without him. And damn. Here he is, slow and controlled and, for the better part, seemingly unaffected.

You know that’s not wholly true – that he does still want you, but your eyes still swim when you wonder if his desire is subdued compared to what it used to be. If it has lessened.

Don’t you cause this frenzy in him anymore? This quickening, like he does with you? Is the flame burning in your chest -or your loins- not catching, any longer? Like the dying embers of this fire, is it almost out?

Could there truly be an end to this?

Soldiers. Friends. Lovers.

What next?

You had, at least, assumed something would be next.

And so, as you regard him, stoic and impassive, you can barely even look at him. “You’re right, Pope. This was probably a bad fucking idea.”

Of course it was.

You should know better than to think you can take a piece of him without wanting to devour the whole. After all, you could never see him in fragments – only all at once.

Had that always been your mistake, thinking that he could ever give himself over to you completely? He’s far too afraid of getting lost, even if he does hold the map to your heart in the palm of his hand. Strange then, because the palm of his hand is also where he has become so accustomed to yielding a weapon. Maybe for him, love and pain were always destined to feel the same.

You push past him, and you feel a pit open up in your middle.

“Goodnight, buddy,” you say, your tone surprisingly sour so soon after that. “Thanks a bunch for the fingerfuck.”

You guess the mindfuck came along for free.

You don’t want to hurt him. Don’t want to be bitter and to deepen this gulf between you all over again. But, apparently, you just can’t help yourself.

You don’t know what’s good for you.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #oscar isaac #ride or die series

105 notes · View notes

tokiosbabydoll · 16 days

Note

hiiii I love your writing I think it’s gorgeous, could I get a 2010 Tom x fem reader who’s like really coquette hc?

Thank you 💋

˗ˏˋ tom with a coquette reader ´ˎ˗

𐙚 ~ thank you so much for your request! And this is for the sweetest person ever and i hope you like it!!💋and please keep sending request!🍨

𐙚 ~ fluff!!

𐙚 ~ please don’t try and claim my work as yours or steal it! and i hope you enjoy reading, and please keep sending request!🫧

- first of all he would love your style he would think it’s adorable

- he would also love the bows you always put in your hair

- he loves how different your guy’s closets are like his is all dark and yours is all light colors:(

- he would definitely love to watch you do your hair and makeup

- speaking of he would buy you anything you would ever want

- a bunny you got it(it’s me i want one) new cloths, hair accessories anything you have it

- i think when he would introduce to the band they’d be a little shocked by how differ you guys were, but they’d love it

- also when you would have him ever and he would see you pink room he would look so out of place, this grungy guy on your pink bed with stuffed animals just looks foreign

- you would defiantly bake for him and he would love it so much

- you would make him go on picnics(i would do this)

- whenever you see animals you try and pet them(i do this with stray cats:( they are so cute)

- and lastly i feel like she is very cuddly and sweet!

Tag list;

@angelll135444

@madzandmore

#angst #bill kaulitz #fluff #tokio hotel #tom kaulitz #georg listing #smut #gustav schäfer #pink #imagine #tom kaulitz angst #tom kaulitz fluff #tom kaulitz smut #tokio hotel x you #tokio hotel x reader

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kjhbsies · 2 years

Text

KJHBSIES’S FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS

I’ll probably do more of this.

Part II.

Angst

When I Ruled the World (James Potter x Fem!Reader) by sgrantsgf

How Tom Riddle would react to finding things that reminded him of you after you guys broke up by louiszeastronaut

Angst + Fluff

Why Didn’t We Work Out? (James Potter x Reader) by astonishment

Happily (James Potter x Slytherin Reader) by ro-is-struggling

Cake (James Potter x Fem!Reader) and Real Feelings by jamespotterwhcre

About What I Said Last Night (Sirius Black x Reader) by rainandhotchocolate

Moral of the Story ( Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader) and Sparks by refiwrites

A Vintage Love (Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader) by ladymercury8

Love You Mommy (James Potter x Reader) by jamespottersmommy

Annoying (Steve Harrington x Readrer) by h4rring1on

“No, Please. Don’t Say That. You Love Her, Not me) by hello-everyfandom

Jealousy (James Potter x Reader) by whyennwhenyouareyn

Pov; you unintentionally confess your feelings for dbf!fwb!james by bellatrixscurls

“You Aren’t Gwen” Andrew!Peter x Fem!Reader by thebrookemunson

Missed Calls Tasm!Peter Parker x Reader and Part Two by caramelcal

Gamer!James Potter x Reader!Gf by ddejavvu

One Where You Try To Break Up With Him (Sirius Black x Fem!Reader) by proserpina-magnus

Fluff

Clingy James Potter by forourmoons

Doting (Fratboy!James Potter x Fem!Reader) by desireav

Golden Retriever James Potter x Black Cat Grumpy Reader by ddejavvu

James Potter x Shy!Reader by luveline

Gifting a Bra Strap to Boyfriend James Potter by ddejavvu

Naked (James Potter x Fem!Reader)

Marauders with Quiet S/O by ddejavvu

Your side (Sirius Black x Reader) by soupandsimple

Kiss Sick (Sirius Black x Reader) by luveline

Remus Being A Boob Guy by ddejavvu

Safe (James Potter x non-gryffindor!fem!reader) by multiqts

Frustration (Poly!Marauders) by quindolyn

General Relationship Headcannons (James Potter x Reader) by quindolyn

Sub!Eddie Using His Safeword by jamespottersmommy

Clingy Steve by indouloureux

Smut

Picture Perfect (James Potter x Fem! Reader) by wrathspoet

Loose the Ropes (James Potter x Fem!Reader) by moonbcrry

Stress Relief (James Potter x Fem!Reader) by wrathspoet

Babyboy James Potter by littlest-dark-age

Jerking off James in a Secluded Area by weaselbrownie

Sore Loser (Draco Malfoy x Ravenclaw!Reader) by silverdelirium

His Obsession (Draco Malfoy x Reader) by Chanxrene

Unexpected (Sirius Black x Fem!Reader) by jamespotterwhcre

Bitter (Steve Harrington x Reader) by strawberrysodaslut

Playboy ( James Potter x Fem!Reader) by jamespottersmommy

Adore (James potter x Reader) by 1-800-amortentia

Welcome to the Jungle (Tarzan!James Potter x Fem!Reader ft. Researchers Sirius & Remus) by gxtitobxby

Summer Affairs (Best friend’s dad!James Potter x Reader) by lovegoodfics

Feels Too Right (Sex Therapist!James x Innocent!Reader) by bellatrixscurls

Best Friend’s Dad (James Potter x Reader) by itsmentalillness

Fit In (James Potter x Reader) by bellatrixscurls

Not Letting Sirius Cum For A Week After He Broke A Rule by indigoh4ze

Preacher’s Son (James Potter x Reader) by pinkcherryblossom

Room Service (James Potter x Reader) by gxtitobxby

This Ask (Sirius Black x Reader) by gxtitobxby

Best Friend James in a Subspace by eddiesbug

Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader by sweetiecutie

Curfew (King Steve x Reader) by theontrueneohero

Sirius Black Smut Blurb by siriusblackloml

How It All Began (Marauders x Fem!Reader) by bellatrixscurls

Punishing Sub Remus and Sirius by bellatrixscurls

This Poly!Marauders Smut by bellatrixscurls

James in a Subspace in Public by bellatrixscurls

1K notes · View notes

demonichikikomori · 19 days

Note

Yan Rook sneaking in the shower to fuck the prefect cause he saw her taking off her clothes from the window?

Predator

REQUEST

Yan!Rook Hunt x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3.2k+ Tags: NonCon/Shower Sex/Blood

Art by enpitsu0208 on Deviantart!

Holy smokes babe. This is pretty based of you. Delicious Yan!Rook? On my Tumblr? Yeah, I sure hope so. I actually think even in canon, Rook would have yandere tendencies. I will never forget the first time I saw his dorm room. Ever. Also, I got two of these, and I'm guessing it was you who sent both!! So, I'm using this one since it was the first one I got. I hope you enjoy it!~!

SUMMARY:

You weren’t sure why, but ever since you started living in Ramshackle… You felt like you were being watched. Only at night. You asked Grim about it, he assumed you were being a scaredy-cat since the dorm was just super old. The ghosts would tell you that maybe it was just your imagination. And maybe it was. As you undressed for a quiet night alone, you stepped into the shower to wash your stress away.

“Grim.. I dunno… I just feel like something is wrong today.” You sighed and lifted the window, sticking your head out to peer into the pitch black forest. “It’s because we have our alchemy exam tomorrow. That’s what’s makin’ you all paranoid.” Grim attempted to comfort you with his little gray paws petting at your leg as you continued to stare out into the woods. It was late, the moon was peeking out over the trees as you stood in your bedroom. As your fingers tightened around the windowsill, your stomach began to sink. You felt like something- no. Someone was staring back at you.

This was something you’ve felt before. Ever since you had started staying in Ramshackle. And for the last four months the anxious feeling had only intensified. You had confided in the ghosts who offered to scout the property, but they hadn’t seen anything worth reporting. They told you it must be nerves from staying in the environment. You pulled away from the window and pushed it shut with a small sigh. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, the anxiety left your hands shaking. “I think you’re right Grim… I’m… I’m gonna take a shower.” You murmured as the monster pulled away from your leg with a fanged smirk. “That’s the spirit! Ain’t nothin’ to be worried about!” His tail swished as you drew the curtains shut and crouched to rub Grim’s head lovingly. You appreciated his attempt to comfort you, after all, Grim was the only friend you really had.

Grim curled up under the blankets with a yawn, heading to bed early while you got ready to shower. You made your way to the bathroom to wash away your worries with your towel and pajamas draped over your arm. That feeling was just stress knowing you had an exam tomorrow. No one was stalking you in the forest. That was silly. It had to be an animal. A rabbit species only existing in Twisted Wonderland. Yeah, that was it.

The sound of rushing water was comforting in comparison to the terrifying silence from before. You undressed slowly, occasionally glancing out of the bathroom window with a friend. The feeling of being watched returned. It sent a freezing chill down your spine as you removed your shirt, sheepishly turning your back to face the window. You didn’t have a curtain up since the window faced the lush trees and foliage. The only peeping toms out there were birds and bugs. And yet, you had a looming feeling that something was off.

Like Grim said, it could just be nerves making you paranoid. You hesitated before grabbing the hem of your bottoms and slipping them down your thighs. With a careful bend of your body, you tossed them aside with a sigh. The feeling of being watched was gone again. You looked around the bathroom, neatly folding your pajamas on the edge of the sink and leaving them as the steam from the water fogged the bathroom mirror. You just needed to wash away your worries. That’s all.

You nudged aside the flimsy curtain, frosted in white film to hide you from those who may enter. Such as Grim when he needed something from you and managed to open the door with magical assistance. The warm water pelted your skin like delicate pats hoping to massage your fears away. You reached for your shampoo first with your once racing thoughts melting away. Sudsing up your hair as you thought about your exam tomorrow. You really didn’t have anything to worry about. You were passing the class with flying colors, it was Grim who was struggling. But, you usually would help him with tests anyway since the two of you made one student. You smiled to yourself as you rinsed your hair clear of soap and reached for your conditioner. If anything, you could always ask Ace and Deuce for help before classes started. They weren’t exactly smarter than you, but you were friends. If they got some of the same answers you did then you knew you were solid for the exam.

“Maybe I am just being paranoid… It’s just the woods… It’s nothing.” You mumbled to yourself while scrubbing the conditioner into your hair and proceeding to wash it away after. Living in a new environment can be scary for many people. You weren’t immune to natural fears like monsters in the closet or ghosts wandering the halls. Your eyes widened and you felt your face start to burn.

Malleus usually would take late night walks around Ramshackle. Maybe that was him watching you? Your arms wrapped tightly around your wet body as a form of comfort. No way… Malleus wouldn’t spy on you like that. Usually he would make his presence known by standing by the gate, politely requesting that you join him for a walk. He wouldn’t ever hide in the forest like that. Would he? The sound of the door opening caused you to lift your head and snapped you away from your thoughts. “Grim? Ugh- I told you to knock before you enter. Or at least say something.” You groaned in annoyance and allowed your arms to fall to the side.

However, the steps towards the tub sounded much heavier than Grim’s. Like heavy boots. The lack of response sent an electric current of fear down your spine as you began to shrink towards the back of the tub. Your back now pressed against the white tile as you nervously covered your chest with your hands. “… Grim?” You called out weakly for the beast. But you knew it wasn’t him on the other side of the curtain.

A shadow loomed on the other side of the frosted white curtain. Your throat constricted, holding back a shriek as the person on the other side began to noisily undress. No. No, no, no. Your bottom lip trembled and you mustered up a scream, calling out for Grim or for the ghosts to come and rescue you. Your eyes were wide in terror as you stared at the man who had shoved aside your thin shower curtain. A knife was now pointed at you as the assailant wore a sweet smile. “Non, non! There is no need to shout.” It was Rook Hunt. “I apologize, mon Trickster. I wasn’t happy with admiring from afar anymore. Seeing you so frightened… It wounded my heart!” He shook his head, his usual blond bob was pulled back into a short ponytail. He was shirtless, his top discarded to the floor as he continued to undress using a single hand. The knife remained pointed at your own bare body.

“You… You were watching me?” You whimpered fearfully and he chuckled with a wide smile. “Oui!~!” Rook kicked off his heavy, tan boots and slipped off his socks by only using his feet. “I have been watching you since we met. Seeing you every night was my personal ritual before I could seek peaceful rest at night.” He explained kindly as his pants had started to slip down his muscular thighs. “Seeing your pretty expressions you haven’t shown anyone else... Watching you undress and shower, seeing the way you would pleasure yourself late at night…” He trailed off with a soft shade of red painting his cheeks. His tongue swiped over his upper lip as he moved closer to the tub. The look in his murky green eyes left you shaking with fear as you cowered in front of him. You looked past Rook and towards the door with tears pricking your eyes. Why wasn’t Grim coming? Where are the ghosts? Didn’t they hear you scream?

“Th… That’s very nice Rook… I’m flattered.” You croaked with a trembling smile, struggling to fight the urge to cry. Your eyes darted back to the long hunting blade only centimeters away from your jugular. Each swallow would cause the tip of the blade to tickle your skin. In the most unpleasant way possible. “B-But there’s no need to join me! I was actually just getting out!” You flashed an anxious smile, seeing the blond man start to pout. It was terrifying. “Why, there is no reason to be embarrassed.” He sighed with a shake of his head, sliding a finger into his boxer briefs and inching them down his hips. “You have not yet washed your body. I only wish to observe you up close. You usually use oatmeal soap, with honey extract for your skin. It’s a wonderful choice! Roi du Poison would approve.” This conversation was abnormal.

Rook Hunt has broken into the one place you could call home, and is now holding you at knife point. He was undressing, and planning to step into the shower with you. This isn’t right. “Th-Thank you Rook. But… I think I want to get out of the shower.” Your voice was meek as his dark colored briefs were kicked aside, and he pulled off his hat, leaving it on the edge of the sink. Neatly placed on top of your pajamas.

“You may, after I’ve showered as well.” He cooed and stepped into the ceramic tub. You were trembling now, the sound of your heart beat violently against your eardrums as he kept the knife pointed at you, and pulled the curtain shut. His green eyes scanned over your naked body as you used your hands to cover your most delicate places. It was humiliating to have Rook stare at you like this. The rushing water bounced against his once dry skin as he reached back, and grabbed your soap for you. “I would like to watch you bathe. Do not let me distract you.” He beamed as your shaky hands grabbed the bottle of soap.

If you had an opening, you could hit Rook with it and run. But with the knife so close to you, you couldn’t risk it. “Where’s Grim?” You asked fearfully as the blond chuckled at your question. “Monsieur Hirsute is sleeping heavily. He won’t be waking up for a while.” Rook assured you as you awkwardly fumbled with the cap to the soap. That would imply that Grim was dead. Or hopefully just drugged to remain asleep for a few hours. “The ghosts didn’t see you?” You asked as the hunter tilted his head. “They are gone for tonight.” You felt a stone sink in your stomach when you realized you were truly on your own for this. No one would be coming to save you.

You swallowed down a sob as you poured some of the tan colored soap into your palm. Your arms were shaking and you felt like time had started to slow to a stop. You felt sick. “Why don’t I assist you?” Rook offered and you vigorously shook your head in refusal. But it was clear the blond wasn’t going to take your no for an answer. He placed his knife in your metal shower caddy, and took the soap from you. He poured it in his palms with a smile before returning the bottle to its original place. “N-No. Don’t touch me.” You snapped weakly, before Rook roughly grabbed you by the wrist and held you against his wet body. Soapy hands rubbed gingerly over your body as you squirmed in his touch with your eyes now squeezed shut. The glide over your breasts and subtle pinch of your nipples. How he soaped up your arms down to your waist and hips. You clenched your jaw tightly, attempting to get away as a hand slipped between your thighs. “Ohh, my dear Trickster. You need to be cleaned. You mustn't struggle.” He cooed as if he was trying to subdue an animal afraid of the soap and water.

It was laughable.

“Let me go Rook please. I’m sorry- I really am. I don’t know what I did-” He shushed you from above as his soapy fingers began to stimulate your clit. Pulling back the sensitive hood as you shook in his hold. You wanted to scream for help. You wanted to suddenly possess intense strength to fight Rook off of you. “This place needs to be cleaned.” Rook's voice dropped to a whisper as he rubbed delicate circles with his calloused fingers against your clit. The stimulation made your pussy flutter, betraying your feelings of disdain towards Rook. If you let him do this, he would be satisfied and leave. Right? You tried to force yourself to relax. Leaning against his muscular body as he stroked and touched your pussy.

Your face burned in embarrassment as he chuckled again. “This is how you like being touched. Oui?” He asked and you gave a short nod. Rook had been watching you touch yourself, so naturally he knew how you liked it. “I haven’t seen you with anyone else in an intimate way other than yourself. Are you nervous mon Trickster?” The question pushed tears into pricking your eyes. When you finally opened your eyes again, you were relieved to see the horrible world around you had been blurred. But the relief was short lived as Rook slipped a finger into your tight gummy walls. Slowly pushing deep inside of you as your body tried to force him out. You tensed up and gave another short nod. Nervous could not describe the terror you felt. “Please let me go.” You wailed softly as tears rolled down your face. Hidden by the shower water bouncing off of Rook's pale skin and onto you.

He did not respond. Instead, he pumped his finger slowly, crooking it into a sensitive spot inside of you that made you yelp and your knees buckle. When you leaned against Rook for support, you looked down to see his erect cock. Flushed at the tip, long and thick. Twitching with excitement only centimeters away from your hip. It hung heavy between his muscular thighs as your stomach dropped in fear. A scream started to bubble up in your throat as you started squirming again. “Let go of me!” You raised your voice, smacking and punching at Rook’s chest in terror. But the man was unphased. He only frowned with a soft tut of disappointment that you were resisting so much.

The ground beneath you suddenly vanished when his finger was pulled from pleasuring your pussy. You thrashed until your back was pressed firmly against the wet shower tile and you were folded in half with Rook pinning you from the front. His strong arms locked you into the position, keeping you folded with his elbows under your knees. You wanted to scream. You wanted the ghosts to come back and save you. You wanted Grim to poke his head into the bathroom, even though you told him a million times not to without announcing himself. “Rook no… Please- I won’t tell anyone…” You sobbed against his shoulder. Your face was hot at the feeling of your hole flexing, begging for him to push inside. It was just a bodily reaction. You didn’t want this. You don’t want him to do this to you.

Rook hummed from above you, the wet, sticky tip of his cock nudged against your entrance as he adjusted himself against you. “Mon Trickster, je suis désolé. I did want to be intimate much longer but…” He trailed off, slowly rocking his hips against your soaking hole. “When you struggle, it turns me on.” The darkness in his voice made you whimper as he began to push inside of you. Stretching you with his thick cock as you punched and shoved at his slippery shoulders. You felt like you were being torn in half. The dull pain made your toes curl and you shook and squirmed. It only got Rook to slide deeper inside of you. “You can take all of me. I know you can.” The blond cooed with a small stutter of shallow thrusts, before his strong hips snapped against you. He was balls deep. Twitching and throbbing inside of you as the two of you remained still and connected in the most vulnerable way.

It made you sick. You sobbed against his shoulder, giving up and falling limp as Rook’s cock stirred inside of you. Deep inside of your womb, the illusion of being buried within your sensitive intestines where your body would mold itself to the shape of his thick shaft. You hated the feeling. Even if your nipples were hard and sensitive, brushing against his as he pressed his body firmly against yours and began to roughly pound into you. Stimulating your body in more ways than one. His fluffy blond pubes scratching your twitching clit with each wet smack, and the way he forced your body to fold in half for him to penetrate you deeper and deeper. You hated your body for accepting him and the things he did. You hated Rook for doing this to you. A strangled wail left your throat when his cock began to pound into your cervix. His mushroom shaped tip jamming against the bundle of nerves made your stomach ache with pain as you struggled against him. Unable to move as you begged him to stop. He only laughed at your cries of pain. Deeper. Harder. Rougher. His grip on your body was painful and the way his hips smacked into yours you thought you would get bruises. Your pussy clenched around his cock from the pain, making him groan in pleasure as he mumbled into your ear sweet nothings in a language you didn’t understand.

He pulled away from your ear and forced his lips against yours. The disgusting feeling of his tongue rubbing against yours made you cringe as you snapped your teeth together. The taste of iron flooded your mouth as Rook pulled away, pounding harshly into your body with a teeth filled smile. His once pearly whites were coated in a sheet of blood that dripped down his lips and chin and onto your body. His cheeks were even redder from pleasure. He liked it. He liked that you bit him out of defiance. He said nothing as his hips slowed and he adjusted you on his cock. You sobbed again as he forced his hips against you, reaching even deeper somehow as your body shook from pain. You wished he would cum already, or at least you would faint first. He continued to babble with excitement, his tongue continued to bleed as he stared down at you with a crazed expression. The violent twitch and throb of his cock made you feel ill as you knew what was going to happen next. “Je t’aime… Ohhhh I love you mon Trickster…” He whined as his thrusts became sloppy, and finally stuttered to a stop deep inside of your twitching walls. Your nails dug into his flesh as he left you pushed against the wet tile with his muscular body. You winced with each throb of his cock deep inside of you. You could feel Rook’s thick load of sperm began to seep out of your abused hole with hot, messy, pearlescent strings. It disgusted you. A weak sob trickled from your throat and you shook your head sadly against him. “Beauté, mon Trickster!~!” Rook huffed happily against your ear. His grip was like iron as you continued to fall limp against him. “The night is still young. I still haven’t had my fill of you.” The sound of his voice made your stomach churn as tears rolled down your face. You decided it would be best to succumb to your fate as Rook Hunt’s prized prey.

Tagged Accounts: @candlewitch-cryptic @yandere-kou @the-monday-witch @bontensbabygirl

#demonic. requests #devils. eat. doves #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook x reader #rook hunt #twst rook #rook x reader #rook hunt x mc #rook hunt x yuu #rook hunt x reader #dead dove fic #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #tw noncon #tw blood and injury #tw yandere #rook hunt smut #rook hunt x reader smut

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fayes-fics · 10 months

Text

It Had To Be You: Chapter 6 - Just Somebody That I Used to Know

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x Kate Sharma, Modern AU

Summary: Exes cause some unexpected moments for both you and Benedict...

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: not much... swearing, propositioning for sex.

Word Count: 4.0k (longest chapter so far!)

Authors Note: Unbetaed. A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, Benedict runs into his ex-wife unexpectedly, and it throws him for a loop. Plus, Tom's sudden change in status causes a crisis of confidence for reader.

3 months later (15 months ago)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you elbow him in the ribs, maybe uncharitably, but he’s being mildly irritating. ”Let’s just stick to practical stuff,” you argue, seizing his laptop and bringing it in front of you to take over.

“Come on, who doesn’t need an 18th-century replica cannon?” Benedict argues jovially, hooking his chin onto your shoulder and fluttering his eyelids in an attempt to get his way.

“I would argue your brother and my best friend,” you state pointedly, looking at him askance with a raised eyebrow, even as you secretly enjoy his silliness.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” he hums, sitting back up straight, “they’d probably just find a way to actually weaponise it during one of their fights.”

It’s three months later, and, just as she predicted on the first night they met, Kate and Anthony are engaged. Returning from a trip to Lake Cuomo two weeks ago, she had an enormous rock on her left hand and a grin like a Cheshire Cat, not just because of the jewellery. She claimed she orgasmed for thirty minutes straight even before she got the ring. You’re still in a low-key disagreement with her about whether that’s even possible.

Today is an uncharacteristically sweltering June day, so you and Benedict are taking refuge in the cool air-conditioning at Battersea Power Station, down the road from the gallery he’s exhibiting in. You sit on a sofa with iced coffees trying to cobble together a gift registry—a task Kate and Anthony have lumbered you both with as matron of honour and best man.

“Who has their wedding registry at Harrods and Fortnum and Mason anyway?” you grouse.

“Family tradition,” he states airily. Sometimes you forget just how rich the Bridgertons are.

“You’re far too fucking posh,” you roll your eyes. “What’s wrong with John Lewis, like normal people?”

“Tell you what,” one of Benedict’s arms encircles your waist and lightly tickles, causing you to squirm, a distraction tactic to wrestle back control of his laptop with his other hand, “if we get married, the registry can be at John Lewis, and you can explain to my tearful mother why you want to break Bridgerton tradition.”

You know it’s an offhand, meaningless comment said in jest, but the words ‘we get married’ seem to echo around your head, even as he cackles triumphantly to himself and clicks ‘add to registry’ on the ridiculous cannon. As revenge, you swipe his brownie and take a big bite which he attempts to snatch back. You are giggling and tussling, crumbs flying, when a sophisticated French voice cuts into your childish playfulness.

“Benoit!? Je pensais que c'était toi!”

Your giggles die out as you untangle from Benedict to observe a beautiful petite brunette woman with elfin features. She clings to another striking woman who can barely conceal her look of disdain.

You feel Benedict freeze up, his body suddenly tense. Defensive.

“Tessa,” he nods after what feels like an age of awkward silence.

Oh god. It’s her. This is his ex-wife. For some reason, here in London.

“It’s good to see you,” she switches to lightly accented English, her arm gripping the other ladies tighter.

“Likewise,” he says curtly, holding himself stiffly in a way that suggests anything but.

Tessa turns her doe-eyes to you, pointedly awaiting an introduction. It takes him a moment to realise it, and your chest suddenly aches in sympathy for the little-boy-lost expression you can see through the cracked veneer of civility.

“Oh right… Thérèse Durand, Tessa, meet y/n y/l/n,” he gestures flatly. “Y/n, this is Tessa… and Clarissa,” he sneers the other woman’s name, and instantly you know who she is—the one Tessa left him for.

You politely nod and make an awkward small wave gesture, unsure what else to do. Benedict appears to be in some form of shell shock; gently, you squeeze his arm until he blinks as if coming back online.

“Well… I can see you are busy,” Tessa nods at the laptop, “I will not delay you plus,” switching back to French for the last word, exchanging loaded looks with Clarissa.

With another awkward nod, they turn their heels and walk away.

‘She looked weird, didn’t she?’ he stutters as they retreat.

“I don’t know her, Ben,” you remind softly, “I just met her.” Mainly you are concerned by how utterly disconcerted he is by merely bumping into her.

“Trust me, she looked weird,” he affirms, still watching the space they occupied even as they turn a corner and disappear.

You just rub his arm in what you hope is a soothing pattern, unsure what to say.

“Ughhh. A continent of 745 million people… I was just bound to run into my ex-wife at some point, right?” his sarcastic humour flaring as he puts his head in his hands.

“You even tried to put a body of water between you,” you concur, attempting levity. “Seems bloody unlikely to happen… but then I’d say so is a replica cannon for a wedding present, but you insist on it,” you joke softly, bumping his shoulder lightly.

When he tilts his head up and cracks a tiny smile, you breathe a silent sigh of relief.

—

“Although marrying you may suggest otherwise, I have not had a complete taste bypass,” Kate barbs at Anthony as they stand around a coffee table the next day.

They are moving in together pre-wedding, and they definitely have strong opinions about each other’s possessions. You and Benedict have arrived to assist them in unpacking their fancy Kensington mews, but your primary role may well be as referee.

Kate turns to you. “Y/n, please, do you like this thing?”

You purse your lips, not wanting to offend.

“Be honest,” Anthony adds, hands on his hips, looking at your expectantly.

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

“What's wrong with it?” Anthony asks.

“Honey,” Kate loops her arms around his neck, “it’s so awful, I can’t even begin to tell you what’s wrong with it.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but you can tell he secretly enjoys how she nuzzles his neck, and he pulls her into his arms. “Brother, what do you think?”

Benedict is staring out of the window; he doesn't even turn around, just mumbles. “It’s fine.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, concerned about his moroseness but say nothing.

“Look, I think it will be fine in your home office,” Kate offers conciliatory. “It will go perfectly with that ugly drinks hutch thing,” she suggests, wanting to sound helpful.

“Wait, wait….,” Anthony withdraws from their embrace. “You don't like my home bar??” he throws his hands up in a what-the-hell gesture.

Kate goes to answer but is interrupted by Benedict turning around to speak. “You know, we started like this—little disagreements about things. We thought it was so cute. Well, want my advice? Put your initials on your shit now, so you know whose is whose before it all gets jumbled together.”

“Ben …” you murmur a warning, seeing his irritation flaring. He ignores you.

“Cos someday, believe me, you will go twenty rounds on who gets this coffee table. This stupid, ugly, the-80s-called-and-they-want-their-glass-monstrosity-back will cost you five times as much as you paid for it in legal fees from the firm of I-don’t-even-want-this-but-I-want-you-to-have-it-even-less and Sons.”

“I thought you liked it?” Ant counters, frowning deeply.

“I WAS BEING POLITE!!” Benedict exclaims loudly before storming out.

Kate and Anthony gape at the doorway, shocked at the completely uncharacteristic outburst.

“He… he just bumped into Tessa,” you offer quietly as if to explain, then with a nod, go to seek him out.

“I want you to know something,” you hear Kate say as you leave, pulling Anthony into her arms and placing a kiss on his cheek. “I will always hate that fucking ugly eyesore you claim is furniture.”

You find Ben outside lingering on the pavement, kicking a loose stone into the gutter. Looking to all intents and purposes like he needs a cigarette to calm down.

The minute he sees you, he holds up a hand, an admission of fault. “I know, I know.”

“Ben…. you’re going to have to find a way not to express every feeling you have the moment you have them,” you point out, aiming for delicacy.

This morning he berated a kid in Costa for getting his tea order wrong, which is unlike him. You know that the only reason can be bumping into Tessa and all the residual anger and hurt about it bubbling to the surface.

“I just bumped into my ex fucking wife. So yeah, excuse me if I try to warn my brother what a shitshow their life could become,” he grumbles, confirming your suspicions.

“There are times and places for these things… and when they are just moving in together might not have been the time to bring up divorce,” you try to point out gently.

“Oh really? Well, next time you’re giving a lecture on being a fucking droid, R2, let me know, and I’ll be sure to sign up,” he snarks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!?” you demand, hands on hips indignantly, your own anger flaring at his cutting remark.

“It means nothing bothers you. I never see you get upset about Tom. I never see you get upset about anything at all; in fact,” he derides. “Don’t you care your longest relationship ended? Don't you experience any sense of loss?!”

“I feel things; I just choose to deal with my break up privately, like a grown-up,” you volley back, aiming to wound as much as he did.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes witheringly. “Sleeping with a bunch of idiots doesn't mean you have dealt with your breakup; it just means you’re avoiding it.”

“Better than not fucking anyone, you coward,” you shoot back, hurt he would bring up your recent, mildly slutty behaviour.

For a few moments, it's just a nettled staring match; you are not willing to give an inch.

“Besides, even if we know relationships are more than likely going to fuck up, you don't wish it on your friends or family, right? You want to believe that it will work for them. I mean, I don’t fully get those two as a couple, but fuck they are so happy, Ben,” you gesture at their windows. “I want to believe it will work for them. I really do. And even that it will work for us again one day. That we will find our people.”

You see all the wind fall out of his sails, deflating before your eyes.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he sighs, “I'm so sorry,” he pulls you into a hug. ”I never want to fight with you,” he avows, his breath warm on your temple.

“I'm sorry too,” you admit into his jaw. “I didn't mean the coward thing,” you mumble, feeling guilty but enjoying the warmth of his embrace.

“No, but you’re right,” he concedes. “I need to get back out there properly. God, Tessa just really threw me for a fucking loop yesterday, and I didn't sleep at all. I’m taking it out on all the wrong people today.”

His honest confession feels like the Ben you know and, yes, love. You band your arms around him tighter and stay quiet for a few beats, knowing all is forgiven.

Just as you break apart, Anthony bursts through the front door hauling the coffee table with considerable effort.

“Don't say a fucking word,” he grouses.

—

“Could you come over?” you snuffle as the call connects.

It’s a month after Kate and Anthony moved in together, and you know they are out celebrating tonight, so you don't want to bother her.

“What’s wrong?” Benedict’s cadence changes as he realises you sound off. It appears he’s moving to a quieter spot, the loud background noise of wherever he is fading slightly.

“He’s getting married!” You wail, gesturing wildly so the wine almost slops out of the bottle you are swigging from.

“Who is?” You can hear his frown, even down the phone.

“Tom!” You exclaim over a hiccup as if irritated he can’t read your mind.

“I’ll be right there,” the reassuring promise in his sincere tone makes you clasp your chest. Good old handsome, sweet, reliable Ben. What a great friend.

Half an hour later, you answer the door with a tissue in hand, uncaring that you likely look a state—your hair half up in a messy bun and swamped by an oversized hoodie, concealing your pyjama shorts and vest.

You collapse into Benedict’s arms when he shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Thank you. For coming. Why are you so smartly dressed?” you hiccup into his fancy shirt.

“I was uhh on a date,” he admits reticently as you break apart.

“You left a date!?”

“Yep. I just said my best friend is having a crisis, and I had to go. It’s the truth,” he shrugs.

“Aw, I’m your best friend,” you pout with quivering eyes, which makes him laugh.

“You look like that silly emoji. And, of course, you are,” he says as if it's the most obvious thing. “I mean, I didn't tell her that my best friend is a woman—probably not a first date revelation,” he points out, slinging an arm around your shoulders and manoeuvring you towards your sofa.

“Oh god, first date?! Shit, I'm sorry. Go, go back to her!” You attempt to shoo him away, but he pulls you tighter under his arm and rolls his eyes as he surveys the mess that is currently your living room—so very out of character.

“You really did spiral, didn't you?” he chuckles, picking his way through the scattering of empty crisp packets and Cadbury wrappers to place you back on the sofa.

“She is supposed to be his rebound fling; she's not supposed to be ‘The One’,” you bawl, pointing at your laptop screen, still open to Tom’s wedding invitation.

Benedict takes the laptop and sighs, exiting the email window and smiling to himself as he sees your wallpaper - it's you and him in the novelty photobooth from last year's New Year party, heads together and grinning inanely. He closes the lid and twists to look at you, realising you have indeed not dealt with the heartbreak of your split with Tom at all over the last few months. You were just in denial about it all up until now. Knowing he has to tread carefully, he touches your shoulder.

“You broke it off because you wanted different things, remember?” he soothes. “Do you suddenly want kids?”

“No,” you pull a disgusted face.

“Then this is for the best,” he posits, brushing the hair from your cheek caught in your tear tracts.

“I’m difficult,” you lament, wallowing in a touch of maudlin self-pity now you have an audience.

“Challenging,” he amends with a crooked smile.

“I’m too closed-off and particular,” you throw out.

“You know what you want and refuse to compromise,” he argues, rubbing a thumb over your cheek in a comforting motion.

You look up from your self-indulgent tears and see his handsome face defending your worst qualities as positives, and you have never wanted another human more in your life. Perhaps the bottle of wine isn't helping, but right now, all you want - emotionally, physically, sexually - is the man before you.

“Fuck me, Benedict,” you murmur.

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, you've got yourself in a pickle,” he opines, bemused. And you wonder if he's being deliberately obtuse.

“No…” you clarify, placing your hand over the one curled around your face. “Fuck me. Please,” you stare into his eyes intently, making your request clear.

A thousand reactions ripple across his face, mostly surprise and confusion, but you also see how his pupils dilate, making your heart race.

“I don't think that’s a good idea,” he stumbles as his gaze flits to your mouth.

“That's not a no,” you point out, boldly swinging into his lap, straddling him, as you see him wrestling with so many thoughts.

“We are best friends,” he whispers, sounding almost afraid.

“And as my best friend, I am asking you to take me to bed and fuck me,” you state plainly, sliding your thighs wider until your core rocks over the seam of his jeans, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck.

“You've had too much to drink.” He sounds like he's trying to clutch at straws, but you don't miss how his hand is gripping your hip now, fingers warm through the cotton of your pyjama shorts.

“Enough to be emboldened, not enough to be unaware of what I'm doing,” you supply, attempting to alleviate any fear he may have of taking advantage. “You would simply be helping a friend in need, please.”

With your cards now all on the table, you see he is frozen, the conflict writ large on his face and part of your heart cracks. Oh god, maybe he doesn't want this, and he has no idea how to let an upset, vulnerable friend down gently.

“Fuck…” you mutter and drop your forehead onto his shoulder. “I never stopped to consider you may not want to fuck me anymore. I’m such an idiot. That was 11 years ago….”

The hand on your hip flexes.

“That's not the problem,” he growls, and your head shoots up to see the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Then what is?” you whisper, your limbic system alive with the idea he finds you attractive.

“You have just found out your ex is getting married, you drank a bottle of wine, and now you are propositioning me. I’m worried a large part of you will hate me tomorrow if I say yes,” he confesses, sounding almost vulnerable. “I’d prefer to keep you as a friend than fuck you and have you resent me for it.”

“But you want to?” you whisper, craving the affirmation to your fragile ego.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” he barely murmurs it. “But please get off me.”

You see the sincerity in his eyes and back down, feeling so many things in your tipsy heart—guilt you backed him into a corner, sad he turned you down, happy he respects you enough to do so.

Believing it is the grown-up thing to release him from this messed-up evening, you climb out of his lap and head towards your front door. The shame and embarrassment are starting to creep in; your need to hide and deny what you did ramping up.

“You are a better friend than me,” you acknowledge as he trails behind you. “And I apologise. Thank you. I guess I just needed confirmation that I'm desirable to someone.” you mumble, looking at the floor.

“Didn't you just have a date last week?” he points out as you both hover in the hallway.

“Yeah, but that's different….”

“How?”

“It's not someone who truly knows me,” you sigh, finally looking up at him again. His eyes are soft with understanding. He's so beautiful you almost want to cry.

“I need you to know something…” his voice even, but there's something awkward in the way he stares at the wall over your shoulder as he speaks, “....you are a beautiful, sexy woman. Anyone would be lucky to have you. I just….” He trails off, struggling for the right words.

“I understand,” you nod conciliatory. “I’m going to be mortified when I sober up,” you admit sheepishly, and you see his shoulders slump.

“I can’t leave you, not like this. I’d be a bad friend.” He takes a deep breath and steps aside into your kitchen. “Come on,” he coaxes when you just stand there staring at him. “Let’s get you a cup of tea and sobered up.”

You then watch as he potters around your kitchen making you toast and tea at 9 pm on a rainy Thursday evening. It’s such a wonderful, giving thing to do that you can only stand there and watch, mildly dumbstruck. It’s only when the inviting aroma hits your nose that you realise you haven’t even eaten anything except crisps and chocolate since yesterday.

He leads you to the sofa and then hands you a steaming hot mug of tea just how you like it and a plate with two perfectly toasted slices of bread slathered in butter. You tackle them greedily, murmuring your thank yous as he takes a seat in your armchair, a respectable distance, and queues up something brainless for you to enjoy.

You don’t talk as the next two hours unfold, him giving you space but also his presence so you don’t spiral into thoughts of how your rash moment may have ruined your friendship. Wordlessly telling you he is here as a friend and everything will be okay, despite the awkwardness. Bringing you another round of tea and toast, making himself some this time too. Even handing you paracetamol from your bathroom cabinet to pre-empt the muzzy head you can feel approaching. It's like he can intuit your needs before you can, making your heart clench even harder.

“I’m mostly sober now,” you confess quietly as an episode of the show you’re watching ends. “And I’ll be okay, honestly. Thank you for dropping your plans and coming to check on me. And I’m truly sorry for what I did. Propositioning you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Let's consider it even,” he smiles mildly. “For the car ride from St Andrews?” he prompts when you look confused.

“Okay,” you giggle, heaving a huge sigh of relief, knowing somehow all is forgiven.

“Now, if you are truly okay, I shall get out of your hair,” he offers, slapping his legs before rocking to his feet.

“I'm okay,” you confirm quietly, a little pang in your chest that is not wanting to be alone but not saying it. Instead, you also stand up and drift again towards your front door to show him out. You want to ask him to stay but know it's a selfish request.

“Thank you, bestie,” you overenunciate and throw your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a bear hug.

“You are welcome, bestie,” he chuckles into your hair.

His body is warm and feels wonderful pressed against yours, and you linger, just indulging in the feeling of being held, squeezing your arms a little tighter, burying your face into his neck and huffing his delicious aftershave. You know you are pushing the boundary of what is acceptable for a hug between friends, but he's not fighting you off.

You pull back a little to look into his eyes. “Thank you, Ben, for everything,” more sincere now, sotto voce.

“You’ll be okay,” he assures, smoothing down your hair with tender strokes. “Dorset was just a blip on your radar. There is someone much better out there for you. Don't let him be the reason you doubt yourself. He is not worth your tears.”

It's a beautiful, supportive speech, and on instinct, you push up to give him a quick peck on the lips as a thank you. Just like at New Year's, his lips are warm and plush beneath yours as you press into them. Except this time, he freezes, and instantly, you realise your mistake.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur as you fall back to your flat feet, realising that was a foolish move after what transpired earlier.

Something feels charged, and you sense a change in him, in his breathing.

“Again.” It's almost a snarl, and you worry you have annoyed him.

“Yes, Im sorry again,” you confirm meekly.

“No,” his eyes pop open, blazing, and his voice has taken on a different tone, almost foreign. “Again.” You merely frown until he pitches forward, his breath harsh on your lips. “Kiss me again.”

“But….” you begin to protest, even as you do as he asks, heart in your throat. Your lips meet, and he kisses you back this time—ferociously.

And a firework explodes in your chest.

It's as if you have never been kissed before, your skin tingling all over with instant exhilaration. As your lips slide together in an almost desperate dance, his hands grab your face, tilting your head to the left. Then he is opening his mouth….

Oh fucking hell.

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 @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989

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