Hiiii! I am finally back, I write fics for some of my most favorite characters, and I am finally active again after a very long time. Enjoy my fics and have a good time!
That I don't already have as characters (cuz I write for the character and the actor)
Nils Kuesel (fem, gn, male)
Jack Harlow (fem, gn)
Benjamin Wadsworth (fem, gn)
Girl Meets World
Farkle Minkus (fem, gn, male)
Lucas Friar (fem, gn)
Isaiah Babineaux (fem, gn)
Josh Matthews (fem, gn)
Boy Meets World
Shawn Hunter (fem, gn)
Eric Matthews (fem, gn, male)
The Notebook
Noah Calhoun (fem, gn)
The Breakfast Club
She's the Man
Duke Orsino (fem, gn)
Hazbin Hotel
Alastor (fem, gn, male)
Angel Dust (fem, gn, male)
Husk (fem, gn, male)
Adam (fem, gn, male)
Lucifer (fem, gn, male)
Sir Pentious (fem, gn, male)
2 Broke Girls
Max (fem, gn, male)
Johnny (fem, gn)
Bridgerton
Benedict (fem, gn, male)
Anthony (fem, gn)
Daphne (gn, male)
Eloise (fem, gn, male)
Francesca (fem, gn, male)
The Summer I Turned Pretty
Conrad Fisher (fem, gn)
Gentlemen
Raymond Smith (fem, gn)
Michael Pearson (fem, gn)
How to Request :
Make sure to state what you would like in the imagine/story and what genre (?) Like angst, fluff, smut (sometimes). Also what character or person you would want in the imagine. đ
*Disclaimer*
I write for all of these characters and their actors and if you have someone else you would want me to write for be sure to put that in your request these are just the characters I could think of off the top of my head
P.S. I also do some ship imagines like Nick x Charlie (heartstopper), etc. So if you want ship imagines be sure to send them in and I will try and get to them.
As someone who constantly sweats and hates the summer I js realised how much Iâd love being in bella swans place like Iâd be CLINGING to my freezing cold boyfriend 24/7, sigh my dream date. cute.
i have a request for wes hicks, so make a fic where itâs wes last day and like they have a date and all before he gets killed and then after the reader finds out heâs dead the next day, if that makes sense đ
sorry this one took so long!!
YOUâRE ALL I WANTED || WES HICKS X READERđ€âË.
summary: above
word count: 3k
warnings: fluff to angst (non happy ending), swearing, use of y/n + y/n/n in some places,
âNope.â You dont have to be able to see Wes to know that heâs smiling that boyish smile of his.
âBut Wes, I canât see.â
âHuh, itâs almost like thatâs the point,â he replies sarcastically, laughing when you swat at what you guess is his arm. âCome on, weâre almost there, I promise.â
âYou said that five minutes ago!â You all but whine, a pout on your lips. You were willing to humour whatever Wes was planning, but if you had to stumble through darkness any longer, the anticipation was probably going to kill you. Youâd gotten out of the car what felt like an eternity ago at a place you didnât recognise, and Wes had been leading you ever since then. And you had no idea where you were heading - or what you even were supposed to be doing.
You open your mouth to speak once more again, but before you can, Wes takes his hands from over your eyes with a flourish.
âSurprise?â He says hopefully, pointing towards something that you canât quite see yet. Itâs a beautiful day today, and you squint as your eyes adjust to the bright light. But once you see it, you canât hide the grin that appears on your face.
You tell Wes as much as you throw your arms around him and and press a kiss to his temple, and you donât miss the adorable way that his cheeks flush in response.
âItâs nothing,â he says nonchalantly, even though this whole thing mustâve took a hell of a lot of planning and most definitely not nothing. âHonestly. And you deserve it - all of it.â
He says that casually too, like it doesnât fill your chest with warmth and make your heart skip a dozen beats. Itâs like Wes doesnât realise that heâs too good; too good at this whole date planning thing, too good at being your boyfriend - too damn good in general. Youâve only been together for a couple of months, but honestly? Itâs the happiest youâve been in a long time. Itâs like youâre in a constant state of bliss with Wes, your whirlwind romance lighting up your days in way that puts the sun to shame. Texting with him alone is enough to make you practically giddy, so being here with him now is your own little idea of heaven.
âSo,â you ask in between a bite of a cookie once youâve sat down,âwhat made you think of all of this? I mean, itâs seriously like something out of a movie!â
âJust wanted to do something nice for you.â Wes replies with a smile and a shrug. âI didnât know what, but then I remembered this place. I havenât been here in years, but it hasnât changed a bit.â Wes pauses, and you notice his expression falter for a moment. âI used to come here when my parents argued - when I needed to clear my head, you know? I donât know, itâs probably stupid, butâŠâ
Wes trails off awkwardly, dropping his gaze. You know that his parents arenât together - havenât been for years - but Wes barely talks about his sorry excuse for a father. In fact, you think this is the most heâs ever spoken on the issue to you.
âHey,â you say gently, pressing a hand to Wesâ cheek and carefully turning his head so that heâs looking at you once more. âItâs not stupid. Not in the slightest. I get it. It really is a beautiful place.â
Wes nods and his eyes gain their light once more, and he places his hand over yours. Wes had never really been big on public affection, but it seemed as if the two of you were the only people around. It doesnât matter anyway - it certainly feels like you are. You could stay here forever like this, the sun on your skin, legs messily interlocked. Itâs all youâve ever wanted.
âThank you for this, for today.â You say quietly. Youâre still trying to make sure that you remember it all - the food strewn across the blanket, all of the different types of flowers and all their different hues, the smell of strawberries and your boyfriendsâ coconut shampoo - itâs something you never want to forget. In fact, when the two of you pull way from each other, you take out your phone and snap a picture of the setup just in case, before taking one of you and Wes too - the two of you smiling, the photo slightly blurry but still somehow perfect.
Even though youâve been out for most of the day, you still canât help but be disappointed when the sun sets and the two of you have no choice but to leave - especially when Wesâ mom tells him itâs way past his curfew and sends him one not - so vaguely threatening text about the dangers of staying out past dark.
Still, it feels as if youâve barely stopped smiling today - but you havenât had much reason to. Even as Wes drives you home, his free hand loosely interlaced with yours, you still canât shake the butterfly feeling in your stomach. Maybe it was just the âhoneymoonâ stage of your relationship, but it felt like it was so much more than that. Maybe this was just how dating Wes was going to be - constantly feeling like you were on cloud nine. Youâre more than okay with that.
âYou know, you donât have to to walk me to my door,â you tease as Wes exits the car when you reach your destination what feels like far too quickly.
âI want to,â Wes responds simply. âBesides, you never know what could be hiding in the bushes.â
âItâs a thirty second walk,â you laugh, letting him trail besides you nonetheless. âBut thank you, my knight in shining armour.â
Wes simply chuckles. âThanks for coming today. I had a really great time with you.â
You frown in disbelief. âAre you kidding? Thank me for coming? Wes, you set up this whole thing? I need to be thanking you. I loved it - I love you. It was more than perfect.â
Wesâ eyes widen ever so slightly, and you belatedly realise that you donât think youâd ever said those words out loud before - I love you. Not because you didnât mean them, but because you were worried that youâd look too eager, too desperate. It wasnât something you said early on in a relationship, it just wasnât.
Oh, to hell with it. You meant what you said, societal rules be damned. You love Wes, love spending time with him, love the way he makes you feel. Love his beautiful blue eyes and his infectious smile and just how damn thoughtful he is. You love Wes Hicks, plain and simple.
And by the way he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his lips to yours, youâre left to assume that he feels the same way. Well, you donât even have to assume, not when he tells you as much when he pulls back, tells you that he didnât want to scare you off by saying it before and isnât that just ironic?
The whole thing almost makes you forget that Wes has to leave, and you canât contain your sigh when he reminds you that heâs already late back. âIâll text you when Iâm back,â he assure you, âpromise. I love you, okay?â Now you were both ready to say it aloud, you had a feeling youâd be hearing those three words a lot from now on
âLove you too. Night, Wes.â
Wes simply grins as he walks away and gets into his car, sparing you one last glance before he waves and drives away. You stare at his empty spot on the road for a minute, before you realise that staring into the empty sidewalk in the dark probably makes you look like a complete creep and make your way inside your house and up to your bedroom.
You receive your promised text almost twenty minutes later, just after youâve climbed into bed. It reads:
wes: at home now
wes: are you still awake?
y/n: yeah
y/n: glad youâre home safe âĄ
wes: thanks baby
wes: Iâll call you in the morning, okay?
y/n: okay
y/n: night wes
wes: goodnight y/n/n
wes: sweet dreams <3
Sighing in contentment, you put your phone down onto your bedside table and flick off your lamp. Itâs like the events of today have suddenly caught up with you all at once, and you feel your eyes start to flutter closed, consciousness slowly slipping away. You briefly wonder if youâll dream tonight - although you doubt anything your sleeping mind could conjure would top your date today.
ïżŒ It feels as if youâve only just closed your eyes - although the light shining through your curtain tells you otherwise - when youâre awoken by the sound of buzzing. Itâs strange, you think to yourself, you didnât set an alarm - although you cast your mind back and remember that Wes did say that he would call you in the morning.
Blinking blearily, you pick up your phone to see that itâs not ringing at all. No, instead youâre greeted with a plethora of message notifications from all sorts of social media platforms. Thatâs even stranger; your phone never blew up like this, especially not this early on a Sunday morning. It freaks you out a little bit, but youâre more curious than anything.
Especially when you see some of the names of the senders. Liv. Amber. Chad. Tara. Mindy.
Your boyfriendâs friend group. Thatâs not to say youâre not friendly with them, but they were still definitely more Wesâ friends than they were yours. And they rarely messaged you - especially not all at once.
And from what you can tell - all your of them are basically saying the same thing.
liv: oh my god
liv: i heard the news and I canât even imagine how youâre feeling right now Iâm so sorry
chad: hope your doing okay after everything
chad: i get if you need space but if you need anything, you can call me.
tara: i know thereâs nothing I can say to you to make this better but god Iâm sorry, if you need anything, weâre all here for you, always.
Your eyebrows knit together in a confused frown. Iâm so sorry? Sorry for what? Everybody was sending you well wishes, but you had no fucking clue why. Had Wes broken up with you without even knowing? No, he couldnât have. Not after yesterday. Why go through all of that effort to dump you the next day? It didnât make sense. None of this makes any sense.
You decide that the only way to clear any of this up is to call Wes yourself. Sure, it was still early, but he was a light sleeper and the ringing of his phone would be more than enough to wake him. You unlock your phone and click on his name in your contacts and wait expectantly for him to answer.
Except he never does.
âHey, this is Wes. Iâm probably doing something, so, uh, leave a message.â
Groaning in frustration, you try again. And again. When Wes doesnât pick up the forth time, you send him a message instead.
y/n: call me right now
y/n: itâs urgent
y/n: you need to explain everything to me now
Unlike usual, typing bubbles donât appear within a minute. Not even after five. Sure, this is probably all just a misunderstanding that Wes will clear up for you when heâs awake, but if heâs done what the ugly voice in the back of your head is telling you that heâs done, then he owes you answers immediately.
Growing frustrated, you start to type a reply to Tara, asking her what the hell is even going on, but your phone chooses that exact moment to die and power off. It makes you want to scream.
You feel sick. You feel stressed and irritated and like you desperately need to punch something. You find your charger and connect your phone to the wire, bouncing your leg as you anxiously wait for it to turn on. You need answers.
Within the space of a minute, it feels like centuries have passed. And itâs not doing anything to help your nerves. In an effort to calm them, you reach for your remote and turn your TV on, flicking through the channels until one catches your eye.
BREAKING: TWO FOUND DEAD IN WOODSBORO - SUSPECTED COPYCAT ATTACK.
Your initial thought to that headline is again, really? You still remembered seeing almost the exact headline when those two highschoolers tried the same thing almost ten years ago. Your second thought is much more macabre. What if itâs somebody you know? It had to be: Woodsboro wasnât a huge place, everybody practically knew everybody anyway. It was bound to be- no.
No.
It couldnât be.
Itâs all starting to make sense now, but you desperately wish it wouldnât. Wesâs friends messaging you with their condolences. Your phone blowing up. Wes not picking up his goddamn phone.
No.
You turn up the channel, wishing the fucking reporters would just get to the damn point already and tell you what you needed to know. You listen to them ramble on about how horrifying and utterly tragic the whole thing is but youâre only half listening - will only be half listening - until they utter that name. His name. You need your phone to turn on. You need to call Wes, hear his voice so you can laugh and tell him how paranoid you were and how much he scared you. How much you need him. You need to breathe.
But you canât. Youâre feeling like youâre suffocating and itâs stupid because you donât know anything, not yet, except you do. You can feel the dread deep in your bones, the horror in the out of your stomach. Itâs Wes.
Like some twisted coincidence, it almost at that exact moment when two pictures pop up on the screen. You donât hear the accompanying words, not over your sob. Because itâs him. His yearbook picture, the one that hung in his living room, the one you helped him get ready for and assured him he looked absolutely beautiful in. His motherâs is the second, the same picture that was on her badge. The badge she was so proud of.
No. It isnât true. This is all some twisted nightmare and you need to speak to Wes and heâll tell you everythingâs okay because he always does and your phone is finally on thank God and you call Wes again and why wonât he pick up he needs to pick up and you canât breathe-
The tears streaming down your face make it hard to see anything. You donât want to look anyway. Not at Wesâ smiling face because heâs not smiling, not anymore. Heâd never smile again, youâd never hear his voice again, because he was dead. Wes, your Wes, who was the kindest person you had ever met and had never done anything to anyone, was dead at the hands of some psychopath fulfilling his sick fantasies. Itâs not fair. None of this is fair.
You canât wrap your head around it. Wes is - was - so alive. You saw it, in every crease by his eye when he smiled and the way his whole body shook when he laughed and the way he kissed you like it was the most important thing in the world. He was the most important thing in your world.
A world that was plunged in darkness now, because how were you supposed to live out the rest of your life after Wes? You knew how happy your felt with him, how much you adored him and felt adored, and how were you supposed to carry on knowing youâd never feel that again. You canât. All you can do is cry, your body shaking with the efforts of your sobs. It isnât fair. It isnât fair. It isnât fair.
Your phone starts buzzing once more, and although know itâs not him, canât be him, you canât help but check anyway.
Your naĂŻve hope is stupidly misplaced. Of course it isnât Wes. Just an influx of messages from family and classmates whose names you only half recognise telling you how sorry they are. You donât fucking care. Sorries donât bring your boyfriends back to life. They wonât let you be able to hold him again, tell him how much he means to you. How much you love him.
You canât deal with them. Not now. You go to turn off your phone, and it freezes for a second on your lock screen before fully shutting down once more. The lock screen you changed on the car ride home yesterday, the one where youâre looking to the camera and Wes is looking half to the side but itâs okay because heâs still smiling nonetheless.
summary: after a weird day at the office, the rules you set- good sex, zero feelings, no complications- feel impossible to follow. you never wanted anything serious, but clarkâs intensity, the weight in his gaze and refusal to comply are slowly crumbling the walls you fought to build.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: friends with benefits trope, sprinkles of smut so 18+, overthinking, yearning, clark being whipped, jimmy being jimmy. enjoy!! xx
The world seemed to spin slower today.
You weren't too sure what it was. Maybe it was the buzz of the bullpen- something that would usually be going a hundred miles an hour, dulled to a soft, gentle lull. Maybe it was the fact you hadn't eaten since the night before, and your stomach was slowly caving in on itself in an attempt to keep you upright.
Or maybe, just maybe- it was the fact that Clark hadn't spoken to you all morning. And that was very weird, because he was usually the first person you'd see walking in and the very last person you'd see going home, because he'd insist on walking you the whole way.
He was also the same person who had you flat on your back on his kitchen counter two nights ago- while his tongue traced shapes and patterns between your legs, bringing you to a high you'd never been before.
You'd already decided; he wasnât ignoring just you, no. He was staring at his computer screen like it had personally betrayed him, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set. You watched him for a moment, confusion and something warmer curling under your ribs.
Clark was never like this. He was consistent, gentle in the same way the sunrise was reliable; always ready with a smile, a question about your morning, an offer to get you coffee if your hands were full.
But today, he hadnât even met your eyes.
Your own eyes narrowed, popping up comically over your desk as your gaze settled on him on the complete other side of the bullpen.
Then, right on cue, another face popped up right in front of you.
"Hiya."
"Jimmy," you groaned, rolling your eyes and motioning for him to move. "Can you get out of the way? You're blocking the goods,"
"The goods?" he blinked, swivelling his head ever so slightly to face the other direction. He let out a scoff, "Ah. The thousand yard stare. He's weird today, huh? Looks like someone's just shot his puppy,"
"Okay, graphic," you frowned, but your gaze didn't let up. "Do you know if he's okay?"
Jimmy shrugged, "I asked him earlier, and he just said he was thinking. So I said, huh, dangerous stuff. But he didn't laugh, he didn't even smi- wait. You're right, he is acting weird,"
"Should we ask him?"
"Dude, be my guest. I already have,"
"Yeah, but you asked in a boy way," before Jimmy could contest, you were already up, smoothing your skirt and slipping your feet back into your heels. You winced a bit, the sudden arch of your foot feeling odd against the pins and needles. "Let me go see what's up."
"Hm. Good luck."
You thanked him with a mumble, glancing quickly at yourself in the compact mirror on your desk, before making your steady way to Clark's.
He didnât look up when you reached him. Not immediately. His eyes stayed on his screen, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just slightly- like he had been staring so long heâd forgotten they were even there.
You stood by his desk for a second, watching him, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the stiff set of his hands.
âClark?â you said sweetly.
He startled- really startled- as if he hadnât sensed you coming at all. As if the consistent clacking of your heels against the floor hadn't attracted half the bullpen's male population.
His head shot up so quickly you heard the rustle of his shirt collar, and for a moment all he did was blink at you, wide-eyed. Then, quietly, âHi.â
One word. But something in it sounded strange; very unlike Clark Kent.
âAre you okay?â you asked, leaning lightly against the side of his desk. You tried to keep your tone casual, but concern crept in anyway. Clark was your friend- one of your closest friends- and seeing him this out of sorts tugged at something deep in your chest.
Men like Clark weren't supposed to feel pain, or be sad. They were far too good, far too pure, to reap the horrors of everyday life. It was a sweetness that he carried through with him everywhere; during work, after work, under the covers. He always made sure you were comfortable, safe, always finishing first and always with a glass of fresh water no matter how tired he was after.
The fact that he looked so out of it made you want to pull him unbearably close and never let him go. A terrifying realisation on your part, but you figured- who cares? He'd never know, and you certainly weren't going to tell him.
"Y-Yeah," he said immediately, far too quickly. "I'm fine- I'm just tired. Didn't really sleep well."
You didnât respond right away. Instead, you let your eyes drift over him with that quiet, attentive concern heâd grown so addicted to; the same look you gave him on late nights when he stayed at the office past midnight with you, the same look you wore when youâd fallen asleep on his shoulder during a stakeout.
The same one he pretended not to notice whenever he walked you home, all the way, even though you lived on opposite ends of the city and the train he needed to get back rarely ran past 9pm most nights.
'Well, thank you. But that was a very boyfriend thing for you to do, Clark Kent.'
'What? No! I just wanted to make sure you get home safe!'
'Hm. Sure. As long as we're on the same page. We are on the same page, right?'
'...'
'Right?'
'...Here, let me get the door for you.'
He wasnât used to lying to you. Not even the small lies.
You rested a hand gently on the corner of his desk, leaning in just enough to make him swallow hard.
âYou?â you asked softly. âTired?"
"Mhm." humming was all he could do; it was either that or the most unconvincing voice crack known to man.
"Youâre the most over-prepared, well-rested person I know."
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but couldnât quite commit. âIâm allowed to be tired sometimes,â he murmured.
âSure,â you said, your tone warm, teasing, âbut you usually at least try to hide it. Or you tell me. Or you let me bully you into drinking one of those disgusting canned energy drinks Jimmy keeps under his desk."
That did get a faint smile out of him- small, tight, but real.
âIâm justâŠâ He exhaled, long and unsteady. âOut of sorts today.â
âOut of sorts,â you repeated, tapping a finger lightly on the desk. âOkay. And does this âout of sortsâ condition tend to involve you not saying good morning to me? Because that part was new.â
He looked down again, fiddling with the edge of a sticky note like it held the answers to the universe.
Truthfully, he wanted to die. Curl up into a ball and disappear somewhere far, far away, because the way you were watching him made his slacks tighten and his heart race in every way it shouldn't.
And because Clark wouldnât look at you, you softened even more-voice lowering to something gentler, something that felt like peeling back a layer between you.
âHey,â you said. âYou know you can talk to me, right? About anything. Especially if somethingâs bothering you.â
His fingers stilled.
For a split second, you swore you saw it- the vulnerable flicker in his eyes, the one that peeked out whenever he got nervous that you'd perceived him in any way other than how he was presenting. It was funny; how someone who cared for everybody else felt so much shock when it was given right back to him.
And that was what finally nudged you to tilt your head and say, with quiet confidence:
âLooks more like youâre avoiding me.â
His breath caught. His gaze darted away, fixing on some meaningless point on his desk. âIâm not,â he said, which wouldâve been more convincing if he didnât say it like someone confessing a sin.
âClark,â you faltered, âyou havenât said two words to me all morning.â
The wariness in your voice seemed to hit him harder than any accusation would have.
His shoulders tightened, just barely, and he inhaled through his nose like he needed the extra second to gather himself. You watched his throat work as he swallowed- slow, tense, betraying more than he meant to, Adam's apple a physical confession.
You didnât push him, not in the way most people would. You simply shifted your weight a little closer, rested your hip against the corner of his desk the way you did on late nights when you and he shared stale vending machine pretzels and whispered about life between deadlines.
It had always made him relax. You hoped it would again.
But today, Clark stayed rigid.
âIâŠâ he began, his voice catching just slightly before he cleared his throat. His eyes flicked up toward you, only to dart away again in the same heartbeat.
âItâs not you. I mean- itâs not that I donât want to talk to you. I do, I alwaysâŠâ He exhaled sharply and pressed a palm over his brow, glasses nudging up an inch. âIâm not explaining this well.â
âThatâs okay,â you murmured. âWeâve had enough coffee together for me to translate Clark-ese.â
His lips curved into the smallest, most fleeting ghost of a smile, but his eyes were still weighed down by something heavy.
You decided to prod further. âWhatâs going on?â
There was a long silence- one that wasnât uncomfortable, not for the two of you, but undeniably tense. He dragged a hand down the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the collar of his shirt like he was overheating despite sitting under an air vent.
He took one more steadying breath, then finally looked at you properly. Really looked, the corners of his eyes crinkling, accompanied by a fake smile.
"Look, just- don't worry about it. Okay? I'll be fine, I'm... it's just thoughts, I'm having a lot of thoughts recently."
A slight frown furrowed your brow. Jimmy was right. Thinking this much, for a man like Clark Kent, was danger in itself.
"And I'll tell you, I promise. I'm just trying to sort it all out in my head right now."
"You're not even gonna give me a hint?" you tried to stay playful.
He didn't break. Instead, his words shot out like a bullet; no venom, all impact.
"I don't think you'd be very happy with it. Breaks... a couple rules, you know?"
It was your turn to swallow.
Uh oh.
"Oh."
"...Yeah."
Some part of you, way back when you'd had your very first stakeout with Clark- stuck in a dingy motel room with only one single bed and a perfect spot on the calendar of ovulation- knew this would be a bad idea.
Of course it was. He was your co-worker, the Planet's sweetheart, the type of guy to stumble over his own two feet saying hello to you. You never cared to ask about his love life because you saw it at face-value and ran with the logistics; the man was 'falling in love's most successful target.
But you? You didn't care. Not back then.
The sex was good. Too good. You'd chalked it down to the excitement of a barely soundproofed room and a super-stressful yet uneventful day. But you couldn't ignore the ache between your thighs the day after, the way your heart fluttered like the pulse down below whenever he'd shoot a sheepish smile your way.
So you both came to an agreement.
Sex, whenever one of you needed it, wherever you needed it. In Archives, in the supply closet, at his penthouse. You never brought him home, thinking it too intimate, too close. Grey areas weren't to be tolerated, they were to be addressed and shot on sight or approved without hesitation.
"No holding hands. No kissing with emotions. Never at my apartment. N-No bringing me lunch when it makes no sense and definitely," you'd breathed, sliding down his length with a shudder in your breath, fingernails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. "No falling in love."
Clark had whimpered then, actually whimpered, a delicious little sound that had heat blooming down below.
He could barely keep himself sane, watching as you took the entirety of him, focused eyes boring into your own. You asked him again, slowing your pace.
"That okay?" you mumbled, lips pressed against the flesh of his neck as he trembled beneath you. "Just... casual."
"Y-Yes, yeah-" he moaned, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted. His forehead leaned against your collarbone as he tried not to break, "Gosh, yes, whatever you want- G-god, you can have it."
That was four months ago.
It had only gotten better since then. At first, Clark complied, eager to please.
He never itched to hold your hand, keeping his own firmly planted at his side. Kisses were reserved for initiating something more obscene, obviously in every place other than your home. Lunches were kept to a minimal, though he'd jump at the chance to get you something if you so much as mentioned it anyway.
Unfortunately, it didn't last very long. Because it wasn't just Clark that started forgetting the terms you so clearly laid out; you'd started to blur the lines, too.
You reached for him whenever you could tell he was stressed, fingers soothing the ridges of his knuckles. You kissed him on the cheek when you came in for a hug, on the temple when he was feeling down, on his chest on your way south.
A few times, you had to bite your tongue to refrain from inviting him over.
You thought he hadn't noticed. You thought you were safe.
Unbeknownst to you, Clark had already broken the very last rule.
You stared at him now, the bullpen suddenly feeling far too small for you both. You knew what that meant, what it entailed. The last few times you'd seen each other had felt different than before, like something had changed and neither of you wanted to admit how and what.
"I'm sorry." was all Clark said, before giving you a small, crooked smile. He grabbed his mug from the coaster, ducking his head down and stalking off to the kitchenette to get his fifth coffee fix of the day.
You blinked at his disappearing figure, dumbfounded.
Beside you, you felt a figure appear, arms crossed, eyes focused in the same direction.
"So... did he tell you who died?"
"Not now, Jimmy."
The rest of the week drifted by in a strange, muted haze. Clark tried- really tried- to act like nothing was different, so you did too. But every little thing betrayed him, and you caught on fast.
His breath caught when you laughed too loud. His typing stuttered when your hand brushed his. His gaze kept finding you, then jolting away like he couldnât stand the weight of his words still sitting between you.
It hurt. A lot.
You thought you'd understood each other, were happy with the terms spoken into existence months ago. Yet now, he'd stare at you with hesitation in his beautiful, puppy-dog eyes and you actually felt a guilt you'd never known before.
By the time you packed up and headed home on Friday, he had grown quiet again. He didnât offer to walk you, which was how you knew the conversation wasnât just lingering in his mind- it was consuming him.
You made it halfway home before the ache of missing Clark hit. It was unexpected, sharp, and a little frightening. You walked faster, trying to shake it off, but you couldn't.
You'd had arrangements like this before, of course you had.
Being a woman in such a bustling city meant you were free to do whoever you wanted, whenever you wanted, so you never usually cared when it went south. If anything, it was a new start; onto the next. None of this was new to you.
Though you couldn't kid yourself, wouldn't; Clark was different. He'd been so unlike the rest of them that sometimes, more often than you'd like to admit, your brain would wander as he traced shapes on your arm and let your head rest on his heartbeat.
You wondered how it would work, being with somebody like Clark Kent. Being his date to the work gala instead of coworkers sharing space; coming home with him to cook dinner and watch a movie instead of showing up in a red lace set and hoping to discover a new favourite position.
It was exciting at first, a new conquest for you. But then he started treating you like something more and the fear started settling in- a feeling you hadn't paid much attention to until you woke up alone in your bed and started to wish that Clark was just in the other room, nearby.
With a sigh, you unlocked your apartment door, pushing it open, stepping into the warm glow of your living room light.
You'd never brought him here, not inside at least. You let him know straight-up that that was simply a boundary you weren't willing to cross; he'd have you, if you could keep him at arm's length. He respected that, as you knew he would- walking you to the lobby door without any assumption of being invited in.
Your home was yours. Untouched by the dangers of everyday life, a place of refuge amongst the storm of reality.
You barely had people around. It wasnât just Clark, and it wasnât personal. It was just the only place in the world that stayed pure, free from any outside emotional disposition.
Candles lined the shelves, each one burnt to the ends, an homage to the fifty different scents circling the room. Vanilla. Bergamot. Jasmine. Some deliciously gourmand fragrance wafted in every corner of the little paradise you called home, and for the first time that entire week, you felt your shoulders relax.
You loved books, though the last one you completed was a cheesy romance novel months ago that had you rolling your eyes and shoving it in the space under your bed. They filled the room, too, the paper smell a nice break from all the sweet.
You wondered what Clark would look like in the middle of your apartment- all muscle and white button-up and crossed arms. You thought about his fingers flicking through your favourite stories, picking up your picture frames, strumming the untouched guitar in the corner with that goofy grin on his face.
He'd make you breakfast, humming to himself as he waited for you to wake up, your ironic Kiss The Cook apron hanging off his neck- untied at the waist because it was just a prop to hear your laugh in the morning. He'd pull your chair out for you, kiss you on the cheek, serve you up something warm and homemade.
But then you thought about the way he looked at you that first day of the week- all sad and droopy and miserable, all because of you, and you shook your head quickly, desperate to think of anything else.
That was why you never brought him home. Your mind couldn't take it, your heart would never forgive it.
You exhaled, slow and shaky, letting your bag drop somewhere near the couch. You didnât bother turning on another light; the glow of the living room was enough, soft and warm, touching the edges of the room the way he never could.
You rubbed at the back of your neck, trying to ease the tightness that had been building all week. The deadlines were plentiful, but for once they weren't at the forefront of your mind.
You told yourself it was fine. That you were fine.
Rules were rules. Youâd made them. He agreed to them.
So why did it feel like youâd swallowed something heavy and sharp and it was sitting in your chest? Slicing your ribcage, ending the flow between vessels. Making a mess of every single bodily function.
Your phone buzzed once on the counter. You ignored it, hoping it was just Perry wanting something urgently done- something you would definitely leave until Monday.
On your way to the kitchen, it buzzed again.
And again, when you were filling a glass with orange juice.
The fourth time, you gave in.
Clark Kent
Incoming Call.
Your pulse tripped over itself, your heart suddenly jackhammering against your chest.
He hadn't spoken to you in days. Yet here he was, calling out of the blue, no text in advance or warning beforehand.
You shouldnât answer. You should let it ring out, let it go to voicemail; let it be another problem for Monday.
But before you could think twice, your thumb moved on its own.
"Clark?"
For a second, all you heard was wind. You thought you were imagining it. It wasn't loud necessarily, just⊠constant, like TV static in a dark room. Like he was outside, running, sticking his head out of a car window- or just moving. Fast.
Then, Clark's voice filled the line; gentle, apologetic, smooth in a way it hadn't been the past few days. You were pretty sure you hadn't even heard it properly since your conversation on Monday.
"Hi," he breathed, sounding like heâd been running for miles. The ramble began before you could stop it, lacing with the sounds of air. "Sorry, I- gosh, I know you're probably mad at me, and you don't want to speak to me right now, but just listen, okay? Just for a second."
You frowned, already shaking your head even though he couldnât see you. "Clark, wha-?"
"I know what we said," he rushed out, talking over you, words tumbling over each other. "I know you said you donât do feelings, or⊠or whatever this is. Iâm not trying to break that. Iâm not-" He sucked in a breath; you could hear the wind shift around him. "I just- God, I need to see you, to talk to you."
Your stomach twisted. "Clark-"
"Please donât interrupt," he said gently, but firm. âIf I stop talking, Iâm afraid I'm gonna lose my nerve.â
You froze, hand gripping the edge of your counter.
"Iâm sorry about this week," he continued. "Iâm sorry for being weird, and for looking at you all funny, and for making you think you did something wrong. You didnât." Another breath. He sounded like he was bracing himself for impact. "Itâs me. Itâs always me."
The apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Too still. Your candles flickered like they were listening and you felt like slamming your head on the countertop.
"I shouldn't have agreed to it. I shouldn't have said yes, knowing what would happen to me if I did."
Of course he was saying this, taking the blame for the mess you caused. Of course he was still the gentleman, the man who could never do wrong.
"Clark, where are you?" you asked softly. "It sounds like youâre outside. Or- are you in a car, or something?"
A pause. More wind. For a brief second, you thought you could hear birds.
"No," he said, voice low. "Not a car, no. But Iâm⊠close. Iâm really close. I didnât want to wait until Monday, I couldnât,"
You pressed your palm to your forehead, eyes closing. "Clark, please. It's late, and you can't come here-"
"I know." Another breath. Deep, shaky. "The rules, that's one, I know. Iâm trying so hard to follow them. But I canât do this over the phone- I'll stand in the hallway, write it in a note and put it under your door. I just need to see you. Even if you donât want to see me."
You swallowed hard. "You canât just show up at my-"
A dull, soft thump echoed from your front door.
You went still, a shiver running down your spine, warmth pooling at your feet.
Your phone slid slightly in your grip. Suddenly, the wind had stopped on the other line; TV static nonexistent.
"âŠClark?" you whispered.
On the other end, his voice came quiet and unsure. It broke slightly, sheepish. "Yeah?"
Your throat tightened. "Are you-"
"âŠI-I'm sorry," he said again, softer this time. "I know I shouldn't be."
Your stomach dropped. The world seemed to shrink to the thin slice of hallway outside your door, the faint hum of your apartment, the warmth of the phone pressed to your ear.
You wanted to tell him to leave, to remind him of those stupid rules, of the walls youâd built around yourself to keep nothing but your own heart safe.
But your hands wouldnât move. Your legs wouldnât step back.
There was a pause. Just the quiet rush of your own heartbeat, thudding in your ears. And then, a soft shuffle- his shoes, maybe, or the weight of him leaning just slightly against the doorframe.
"âŠI wonât come in," he murmured, the line cracking due to proximity. "Not unless you want me to."
Your chest caught. The simple words carried everything he wasnât saying, everything you hadnât allowed yourself to admit. It wasn't just about being inside your house that Clark was talking about.
You could feel him there, even before opening the door- the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the night air, the slight tug of wind brushing against your apartment threshold.
A part of you, the reckless, wild part, wanted to yank the door open right this second. Another part wanted to pull it closed and pretend none of this was happening.
Your hand lifted, trembling, hovering over the knob. His quiet, nervous presence pressed in through the phone, soft and persistent.
"âŠPlease?" his whisper carried a weight that made your chest ache.
You exhaled, shaky, uneven, like you were letting go of some small, crucial piece of yourself. The phone was still pressed to your ear, his voice still just a phantom sound, still so impossibly close yet so impossibly far.
And then, with a breath that shook your whole body, your fingers curled around the doorknob.
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Phone still in his hand. Hair tousled by wind, curls creating the perfect frame around his face. Tie crooked. Coat fluttering slightly.
Eyes glimmering, searching, vulnerable; the epitome of Clark Kent. For one heartbeat, the world narrowed to him, the open threshold.
The silence between you that felt endless, stretched taut across the narrow space of the doorway. Every part of you wanted to pull back, to retreat behind the walls youâd spent months reinforcing.
You thought of everything that could go wrong; every rule youâd broken, every risk of letting him in, every piece of yourself that might slip through your carefully built barriers. Fantasies of breakfast in the morning and making love under the sheets straight after, all threatening to crumble.
You thought of the weekâs unspoken tension, of the fragile balance youâd been holding between desire and restraint. You thought of how easily everything could shatter if you crossed this line, if you let him.
Yet despite all the fear, despite every thought telling you to stay put, you felt yourself moving.
One slow step, measured and deliberate, cautious.
Another.
Without a word, you stepped aside, allowing Clark enough room to come inside.
Into your apartment, into your space, into the quiet you had guarded so fiercely; the parts of yourself youâd never let anyone touch.
Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.
Word Count: 11.8k
Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),
A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.
With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantesâall waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.
The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estatesâbutlers, ladyâs maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say.Â
â
âI just simply donât understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,â Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her motherâs. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. âIâve never known them to make horrid dishes.â
âItâs the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,â the dowager viscountess murmured politely. âAlong with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one thatâll impress our guests.â
Eloise barked back a laugh. âIf it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?â
âThat, dear sister, is an excellent point.â Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as cleverâBenedictâthe second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. âSurely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I canât imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroomââ
âBenedict Bridgerton!â Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.
âOh Mother, you must relax,â he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. âYou know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thoughtâwhy, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.â
âAh, ever the poet, Benedict,â Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didnât know the way in which they were headed.Â
âThis bakery,â Violet continued half-heartedly. âIs a prestigious supplier for the tonâyou may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphneâs wedding.â
Benedict hummed contently. âIt was a good cake,â he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tearsâof course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphneâs season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.
âI think it was far too sweet,â Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. âI had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.â
âAh, but whatâs life without a little bit of sweetness?â Benedict nearly sang.
âPerfectly fulfilling,â his younger sister quipped back.
The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefrontâthe sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. âWeâre here.â
âI could have told you as much,â Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. âThe scent is⊠overpowering.â If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.
âBut Benedict,â Eloise turned hot on her heels. âWhatâs life without a bit of sweetness?â
Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloiseâs head. âIf itâs too much for you, dear,â she released her grip. âPlease feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.â
âLike a âmomentâ at the modiste?â Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. âIf I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.â
âNothing logical stopped you from coming in,â Eloise drawled. âOf course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousersââ Â
âWeâll only be a moment,â Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. âThere seems to be little wait. Weâll be on our way shortly.â
He huffed towards the sunâwhile there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless childrenâhaving only two of eight married off. âIt should only be a moment,â Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by.Â
That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known betterâhe was taught betterâthan to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, heâd have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise.Â
A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. âHello?â He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. âIs anyone there?âÂ
A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.
âIâm alright,â a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powderâshe had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedictâs heart jump to his throat. âJust⊠made a mess.â
âSo it seems,â Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. âDo you require any help?â
âNo, no,â she laughed. âI wouldnât want you to get dirty. I fear Iâve got quite enough of that for the both of us.â
âI donât mind getting dirty,â Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. âBut⊠yes, I suppose itâd be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask howâŠ?â
âClumsy,â she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. âI must have the slipperiest fingers in townâI wish I could say this was the first timeâŠâ
âManage to cover yourself in flour often?â Benedictâs lips pulled into a jesting smirk.
âNearly every other day,â the woman sighed. âWeâve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."
âI hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,â Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. âBut, I am painting quite the image in my head.â
âOh I do hope Iâm decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,â she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.
âHow do you knowââ
âEveryone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, Iâd be a fool to admit I donât know who you areâthough you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.â
âOh?â
She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. âAh,â the woman waved the air in front of her face, âI suppose I should take my leaveâget cleaned up.â
âOf course,â Benedict said simply. âI wonât keep you.â In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidnessâhaving addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. âDamn,â he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, âI never asked for her name.â Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldnât wrap his head around the interactionâshe nearly sent him into a tizzy.
âBrother?âÂ
Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion.Â
âAh, I suppose youâre finished?â
âHardly,â Eloise scoffed, âMother insisted on doubling the initial order âjust to be safeâ. Sheâll be out in a moment.âÂ
âPerhaps I should go inside to accompany herââ
âAnd leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?â Eloise pressed a hand to her brotherâs chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. âBenedict?â
âHm?â He glanced down. âAh, maybe we should both go back insideââ
âYouâreâŠâ she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. âActing strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, youâre dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?â Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white powerânot enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. âAnd youâre covered in⊠flour?â
âI donât wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,â Benedict said simply, sighing contently. âMy business is my business.â
âBusiness,â Eloise parroted. âSure.â
Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of yearâshe had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more.Â
He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest additionâanother daughter named Belindaâwho happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct.Â
âDamn,â Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.
He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mindâs eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearanceâsave for the copious amount of white flour caking her formâand Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.
âWhy can I notâŠâ He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. âThis is impossible.â
The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kateâs ballâan occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.
â
âMother,â (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, âI donât see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?â
â(Y/N),â her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. âYour brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isnât what it used to be, if you recall.â Â
The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. âHow funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,â the girl mumbled.
âWhat was that?â Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. âIâm sure I misheard you.â
âYou must have,â (Y/N) sang. âFor I said Iâm willing to help with the delivery, mother.â
The older woman narrowed her brow. âNever do I hear such sass from the boys⊠Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.âÂ
âI already agreed,â (Y/N) reiterated. âAs if I had terribly too much of a choiceâŠâ
âNo,â her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. âYou do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.â
She had gotten ready for the ball in record timeâseeing as how sheâs never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her motherâs wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening. Â
âThe carriage is here!â Her father couldnât have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedroomsâ(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, sheâd be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room.Â
âIâll be right there,â (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. âDamned hair,â her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into positionâshe had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it.Â
âWe need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,â her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. âWe must make a good impression, perhaps weâll find more business this evening.â
âThatâll be a blessing,â her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. âWe could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely sheâll have pleasant things to say about our work.â
âI thought we let the pastries âspeak for themselvesâ,â (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process.Â
The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton Houseâthe bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.
âDo you need a hand?â
âOh, that would beââ (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. âIâMr. Bridgerton, Iâm sure I can find my father to assist, you really donât need toââ
âI insist,â Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. âI shouldnât allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.â
âIâm certainly no lady,â she scoffed, readjusting her apron. âIâm not a part of your âseasonâ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.â
Benedict barked out a laugh. âDebuted into the Marriage Mart or not, youâre still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.â
A blinding heat flushed across her cheeksâshe was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. âThank you⊠for your help.â
âItâs no bother,â Benedict said truthfully. âIâve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.â
âHelping me carry a cake?â She asked, turning a corner carefully.
âSeeing you again,â he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. âThough I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.â
âHow do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.â
âYour eyes,â Benedict said simply. âTheyâre the most expressive and exquisite eyes Iâve had the pleasure of viewing.â
Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.
âThat, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.â He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. âI assumed correctly, no?â
âYou,â (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.âWould be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.â
âBenedict.â
âBenedict,â she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. âMy apologies.â
The ballroom was grandâmuch nicer than any place sheâd dream of residing inâdelicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. âThis is⊠where you live?â
âAh,â Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. âMy brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.â
âOne of the homes,â she repeated back to him. âAnd here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.â
He turned a vibrant shade of red. âOh! I didn't mean toââ
Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. âI was merely teasing. Iâm well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. BridgertonââÂ
âBenedict.â
âAh! Sorry,â (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. âI meant it in jest.â
âFunny girl,â Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. âYouâve got quite a sense of humor.â
âGrowing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,â she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. âThough, I think they were a better audience anyhowâŠâ
âYou wound me,â a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. âOh how the lady wounds me.â
âI believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.â
âWell, the lady has neglected to give me her name,â he peeked up from the floorâhaving found quite a cozy position. âSo how else should I address such a fair maiden?â
âFair maiden,â she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. âCertainly am nothing close to a maiden⊠but, if you must know,â she paused, âmy name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).â
â(Y/N)âŠâ Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. âWhat a beautiful name.â
âIâthank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.â
âWell, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, Iâll pass the message along.â
She froze.Â
âAh, what was that?â
âI hate to be so bold,â Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. âBut I feel the need to let you know of my intentionsâmy interest in you.â
âOh you must be mistaken,â (Y/N) shook her head. âYouâd want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?â
âNope,â he said simply. âNot a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I havenât stopped thinking about our encounter in the alleyâitâs been on the forefront of my mind for days.â
She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. âBut I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtshipââ
âAre you not?â His eyes struck wide open. âIâm quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, Iâm quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.â
âBenedict.â He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. âWhile Iâm not saying Iâm⊠not interested, I canât help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not⊠me.â
âHow do you mean?â
She laughed humorlessly. âYou donât know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancyââ
âSee,â Benedict grabbed her hand, âI wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?â
âI am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our businessâI canât spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.â
âBut if I were, say, the butcherâs son it would be different?â
âYes,â she removed her hand from his. âOf course it would be. Iâm surprised you havenât thought this through.â
âI have been thinking it through since weâve met,â Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. âI am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.â
âSo you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?â
âIâof course not!â
âWeâre perfect strangers who shared a momentâalbeit an endearing oneâout in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,â she shook her head. âNothing cosmic or magical about it.â
âI did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless⊠thereâs another man of your affections?â
She groaned, pinching her nose. âNo. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?â
He paused, clearly taken aback.
âWell,â she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, âlet me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtshipâwith you or anyoneâso do not take it terribly too personally.âÂ
âNever? Donât you plan to have a family of your own?â
âI already have a family,â she said simply. âI have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.â
âThat seems awfully specificââ
âNo matter,â she waved. âThank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.â
She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?
Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldnât recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advancesânever in the name of a courtship, this would be his firstâso to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.
â
Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ârestedâ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apronâthe humor not lost on herâas she thought more and more about Benedictâs proposal.Â
The bell to the shop rang out, her brotherâs voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.
â(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,â Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their motherâs delight. âOne of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.â Â
She stopped dead in her tracks.
âDid he give you a name?â
âOnly asked for you,â Harry shrugged. âI figured you mustâve been expecting him,â he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, âbrought you flowers and looks rather fancy.â
She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. âDonât over-work those, Iâll shove your face into the oven.â
Harryâs laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasnât expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display.Â
âAh, Miss. (Y/L/N),â Benedict said, almost bowing. âIâm delighted you could join me.â
âA wonderful one, I presume?â He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornateâfancy, just like her brother saidâdecked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. âAh! My apologies, these are for you,â Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter.Â
She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. âThank you, Mr. Bridgerton.â
He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. âI must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, youâre practically glowing.â Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. âLess flour than the first time.â
Her grip tightened around the bouquet. âIs there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?â
The man shook his head, laughing lightly. âNo, no order. I just wished to see you.â The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.
âPerhaps I wished the opposite?â
âOh, my dear,â Benedict practically mewled. âIf that were true, you wouldnât have come out here in the first place, now would you?â
Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didnât have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door.Â
âIf you are here to try to get me to change my mindââ
âI wish to spend the afternoon with you.â
She blinked.
âJust one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,â Benedict said earnestly. âAfter that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.â
Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. âI⊠cannot just leave the bakery, itâs my familyâs livelihoodââ
âIâll buy the lot,â Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. âSell me whatever it is you make in a dayâa small price to pay for a moment of your time.â
âYou cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,â she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didnât sound appealing. âI am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.â
âThen consider it a tip,â Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. âFor your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.â
âLoads of bread,â (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilledâthey could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. âFine. One afternoon.â
The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.
âYou wonât regret this,â he said seriously. âTrust that my intentions are pure andââ
ââhonest and true,â she droned, finishing his thought. âYes, yes, I understand.â
Benedict nodded. âRight. Well, shall we?â
âWill you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.â
âFunny enough, I wouldnât have it any other way,â he grinned. She was unamused. âBut, if you insist.â
It didnât take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them⊠so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon.Â
âPerhaps you were right,â Benedict said softly. âThis may be your best look to date.â
A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasnât the summer sun. âFlattery will get you nowhere, Mr. BridgertonââÂ
âAh!â Benedict waved a finger. âIf we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.â
Her lips pressed together in protest. âIf you insistââ
âOh and I do, my darling,â Benedict nearly sang.
âBenedict,â she corrected. âWhat sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.â
âI am feeling quite parched,â Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. âCare for a spot of tea?â In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.
âAnd if I do not care for tea?â
âI hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,â Benedict countered. âSurely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.â
âSweeter than my scones, you mean?â
Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. âSo. Tea?â
They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.
âPass the honey?â (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedictâs hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.
âYou take your tea with honey?â He probed.
âHerbal tea, yes,â she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. âIf it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.â
âInteresting,â Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. âI prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.â
âAnd Colin is which brother?â The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.
âOne of my two younger brothers,â Benedict smiled gently. âNot much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. Heâs practically the babe of the familyâsave for sweet Hyacinth.â
âEight childrenâŠâ She thought aloud. âWere your parents working towards a record number?â
âI always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,â Benedict mused. âBut, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.â He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. âSo, you know there are eight of us?â
âEveryone knows your family,â she said simply. âDo not flatter yourself.â
âOf course,â he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. âYou have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.â
âTwo older brothers,â (Y/N) groaned lightly. âJack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are⊠oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.â
Benedict laughed into his drink. âSounds quite a lot like my siblings.â
âMy parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,â she explained quietly, her voice lowering. âBut he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.â
âAnd a sponge cake isâŠ?â
âOne of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,â she continued. âI usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.â
âAnd Harry?â
âWhen he isnât galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.â
âYou care a lot about your family and the business,â Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. âSurely your parents see it too?â
âOh no,â she shook her head wildly. âThat is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakeryâsomething that should rightfully be mine should the time come.â She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. âBut, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.â
âYou say that as if you are their pet,â Benedict scoffed lightly. âDo they truly expect such obedience from you?â
âI wasnât wanted,â she said simply. âMy parents merely wanted a son to take over the businessâJack, heâs the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now heâs their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.â She sniffled. âAt least they got a decorator out of it.â
Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. âYouâre more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?â
âTheyâll see some use of me when I get home,â she said into her cup. âSeeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. Iâm sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.â
Benedict all but scoffed at this. âYou cannot be serious.â
âNot everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,â (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. âIf it were truly up to my parents, they wouldâve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.â
âAnd you?â Benedict almost felt afraid to ask.Â
âItâs like you said,â she finished her cup of tea. âI am simply a pet.â
Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. âThatâs awful.â It was all he could say.Â
âThatâs life,â she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. âIf you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you shouldâve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. Itâs insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.â
He knew she was trying to change the subject. âI shall do better next time.â
âYes, I suppose youââ she stopped. âThat was a rotten trick and you know it.â
âI am certainly no magician, (Y/N),â Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. âBut seeing as weâre finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?â
âYouâd risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?â (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. âWhat would Lady Whistledown say?â
âYou know of Lady Whistledown?â
âEveryone knows of Lady Whistledown,â she scoffs. âI may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once theyâre finished.â
âOnly read the good bits, I take it?â
âAs much as I donât understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt Iâd be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.â
âI reckon youâre right,â Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. âIâm not one for society anywayânever cared much for it.â
âSurely news of this would cause a scandal, though?â
âNews that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,â Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. âPerhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?â
She didnât dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.
â
It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.
The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish.Â
Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacleâsomething in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.
âI am tired of walking,â (Y/N) said suddenly.Â
âWe have only just begun,â he laughed. âBut if you require a respiteââ
âLetâs sit,â (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.
âHow secluded,â Benedict mused. âI daresay, I never thought youâd be so agreeableââ
âHush,â (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. âI am simply in need of a breakâaway from prying eyes.â
Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. âI rather like this park.â
âA park is a park.â
âHave you been before?â
âHere?â She shook her head. âObviously not.â
âMy family, we would come to London during the social season,â Benedict explained. âOur usual residence is out in Kentâanyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.â
She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. âSounds wise.â
âHe was the wisest,â Benedict agreed. âKeeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.â
âPaste your lips together?â She offered.Â
Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. âNo, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,â he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, âmy father suggested racing.â
âHorse racing?â
He shook his head. âWeâd each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pondâkept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.â
âSmart man,â she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscountâs cleverness.
âSo, pick your contender,â Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck.Â
âYou are serious?â
âDead serious, Iâm afraid,â Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. âCome on, humor me.â
She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leafâit was the longest and skinniestâshe plucked it from his fingers. âThis one.â
âExcellent choice,â Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. âI am more inclined to a smaller oneâseems they move faster down the shore.â
âSize isnât everything, Mr. Bridgerton,â (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.
âAh, perhaps not,â Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. âBut, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.â
After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. âFinish line is by that tree over there,â he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.
âMay the best leaf win,â she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. âAre you not going to chase them?â
âAnd leave you?â He scoffed. âPerish the thought.â
âI just thought,â her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pondâslower than she anticipated, âwell, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.â
âShall I run along the coast, then?â Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water.Â
âOnly to humor me,â she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face.Â
âWell, in that case,â Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadnât gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day heâd have a faster time to keep up with. âYou are in the lead!â He called out.Â
âBrilliant!â Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and invitingâshe wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. âWell?â
âWell, what?â He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward.Â
âThe winner?â
âAh,â he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the bakerâs daughter, pocketing the leaves. âA secret.â
âSo you lost?â
âOh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,â Benedict sang. âHoweverâŠâ
âI lost?â She scoffed.Â
âA gentleman is humble in his successes,â he explained carefully. âWe could go again?â
âNo,â she said, humor in her voice. âI think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.â
âFor once, we agree,â he said. âMay IâŠ? Could I ask you a question?â
âIf you are proposing marriage, I am afraid Iâll have to declineââ
âNo, no,â he laughed heartily. âNothing of that sort.â
âI suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.â
âYou were cold to me this morning,â Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. âBut not on the day we met. What changed?â
She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. âI⊠am not entirely sure.â
âSurely it was not the leavesââ
âThe leaves may have helped,â she admitted. âHumanized you, in a way.â
âWas I inhuman before?â
âNaturally,â she retorted. âI mean, is it not obvious?â
âYou were protecting your feelings,â Benedict finally realized. âAll this time. You did not wish to be hurtâtruly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?â
âHow could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The bakerâs daughter and the son of a viscount?â Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. âIt seems implausible.â
Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above.Â
âI do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,â Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. âI care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.â
âYou may wish for that,â she sniffled. âBut what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your statusââ
âThe only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,â Benedict said sharply. âThe rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.â
This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. âYou truly donât care what people think about you?â
âNo,â he shook his head. âI do not.â
âHow freeing that must be,â she said.Â
âBeing the second son has its perks,â Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. âNo one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedomâfinancially and otherwiseâto do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brotherâs responsibility.â
âWhy me?â
His head quirked. âI do not understand?â
âYou could court any girl of the ton,â she said. âAnd I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgertonââ
âThey wished for the title,â Benedict sighed. âTo be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.â
âYou are not ugly,â she listed, âyou have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.â
âPerhaps the foolish one is you?â
âI beg your pardon?â
âYou truly think those things about me?â He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. âI believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?â
âI-I donât understandââ
âOur class differences aside,â Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, âwhile I was taken by your beauty at firstâyour eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shineâit was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.â
Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. âIt was not my finest moment.â
âAnd you were vulnerable all the same,â he continued. âYou cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classesââ
âPerhaps I am interested in you,â (Y/N) cut him off. âPerhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it isâa wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.â
â(Y/N)âŠâ
âNo,â she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. âI hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matterâyou practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,â she hiccuped, âI did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.â
âYou enjoyed yourself,â Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. âWhy can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?â
âI do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,â (Y/N) said softly. âI must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungryââ
âAnd an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longerââ
âHappiness has little importance,â she scoffed. âI would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.â
âYou have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,â Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He neednât explode in the park. âWhy do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?â
âBecause it is all that I know!â The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. âAll I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hopingâprayingâthat they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.â
âIf you were with me, you wouldnât ever need to think about things like that again,â Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. âI could support you, support your family.â
âAnd that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,â she raised her finger. âI do not need an affluent man to come and save meââ
âBut I could helpââ
âI do not need your help!â
âYou obviously do!â
She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. âO-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?â
âYou know that is not what I meantââÂ
âYou believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldnât possibly say no to you,â her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. âWhile the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.â
âNoâ(Y/N)ââ Â
âThis afternoon has been lovely,â (Y/N) spat, looking to the skylineâthe sun had finally set, âbut I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.â
âPlease reconsider,â Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. âI wish to know you.â
âA shame, then,â (Y/N) said, turning around. âWishing for something so foolish.â
â
âHer head is in the clouds,â Jack whispered.
âNo, I reckon her head is in the dough,â Harry mumbled back to his brother.Â
âI can hear you, you know,â (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. âAnd if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.â
âBut that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. âBesides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?â
She threw the dough against the counterâhard. âHe is not my betrothed.â
âBut you wish for him to be, no?â Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt bunsâa mishap of his own creation.
âI say, Sister,â Harry said. âWhy do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?â
The front of the shop was practically a floristâs dreamâcovering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. âHow could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?â
âHe wants you, surely that is not lost on you?â
âOf course not,â she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. âBut he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply becauseââ
âHe has money, (Y/N),â Jack scoffed. âGood money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married himââ
âSo you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?â
âWhat else would you marry for?â Harry laughed. âLove?â
She stopped kneading. âWhy do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged bakerââ
âThat Bridgerton is already interested,â Harry shrugged. âAt the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough fundsââ
âFirst you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?â She couldnât help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. âWhy can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.â
âFucking stupid,â Jack scoffed. âIf I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desiresâforget about this wretched place and move on with my life.â
âAnd abandon our legacy?â
âYou mean my legacy,â Jack corrected. âI am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work hereââÂ
âWho else will do the baking?â Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. âMother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only oneâthe only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just⊠give that up?â
Jack stood a little straighter. âIt was never your place.â
âHarry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?âÂ
It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brotherâs face was only a confirmation on the fact.
âJack, what the hell?!â Harry practically screamed. âYou hit her?â
âShe insulted me!â
âYou deserved it,â Harry said, pushing his older brother back. âShe only spoke the truthââ
âSo I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?â Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. âA woman? No fucking chance, mate.â
Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasnât lockedâno surprise as Jack was the last one to use itâmaking it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain.Â
Rain.Â
Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting.Â
In theory, anyway, it seemed.
So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldnât dare to brave the elements just to reel his sisterâs whims in.Â
A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?
She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.
âGood evening, maâam,â a butter said politely. âWhat business do you have?â
âI am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.â
â
His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day heâd send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise.Â
At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.
âMr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,â a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.
âA caller? In this weather?â
âShe seemed rather insistent,â the butler shrugged. âShe is waiting in the drawing roomâI already sent for tea and towels for the lady.â
âA lady is here to see me?â Benedict quirked his brow.
âA Miss. (Y/L/N),â the butler said. âNo calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit⊠out of sorts.â
Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.
â(Y/N)âŠâÂ
âI-I had nowhere else to go,â she began to explain. âI did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolishââ
âNo,â Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. âIt is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.â
His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. âI am so sorry, Benedict.â
âFor what?â He asked genuinely.Â
âEverything?â She offered. âI-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.â
âYou neednât apologize for anything,â he said. âNot with me, not ever.â
She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. âI needed to get away. My brother heâJack hit me.â
Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. âIâll kill him.â
âI suppose I deserved it,â she shrugged, now looking at the ground. âTalking back to him, assuming things that could never beââÂ
âA man has assaulted you,â Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. âBrother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.â
âI donât think I can go back there,â (Y/N) said softly. âPerhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.â
Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. âTea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheekââ
âI do not wish to impose.â
âYou shall wish for nothing here,â Benedict said quietly, firmly. âYou will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.â
âI cannot go back,â she finally looked up at Benedict. âAs much as I would like to, I simply cannot.â
âIf you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,â he said seriously. âPlease allow me to support you.â
âI could never ask you for thatââ
âYou are not asking, I am offering,â he clarified.Â
âBenedictâŠâ
The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. âTo know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.â
So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience.Â
If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this.Â
âI-I am sorryââ she pulled away.
âNever be sorry,â Benedict shook his head. âNot for that, not ever.â
âI should not have done thatâŠâ
âNo,â he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, âbut how exhilarating it felt, regardless.â
His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. âI do not know what to do, where to goâŠâ
âBut you cannot stay hereâŠ?â
She smiled sadly. âYou know me scarily well, Benedict.â
He thought for a moment. âSo⊠leave.â
âExcuse me?â
âLeave town, leave the countryââ
âI do not have the means to do such a silly thing.â
âI will pay your way.â
She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldnât release his grip. âBenedictâŠâ
âI told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,â Benedict said. âEven if we are notâif you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.â
She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him.Â
âFrance,â he said, as if struck by lightning.
âFrance?â
âI hear only the expert bakers study in FranceâI have no doubts you could go to learn,â he explained. âI could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.â
âI doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.â
âA fresh startâŠâ she repeated. âThat sounds too good to be true.â
âI shall write to her in the morning,â Benedict said, holding her hands again.Â
âAnd youâŠ?â
âI will only come with you if you want me to join,â Benedict said slowly. âI will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.â
She nodded, understanding.
âI think France sounds nice,â she smiled. âWill you write to me?â
âEvery chance I get.â
âEven if you are vexed with me?â
âEspecially if I am vexed with you.â
She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.
âSounds perfect.â
â
A year. An entire year had passed and she couldnât recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pondâin handsome company all the while.Â
They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.
â(Y/N),â Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. âWe are in need of more buns.â
âI just restocked the buns,â (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. âWhat? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?â
âOui,â Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, âperhaps you should go bring more out?â
âYou are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,â she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, âI will bring them out with haste.â
âI am sure he will appreciate it.â
(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter.Â
Could it be?
âYou know, I would buy your entire stock,â the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, âbut I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.â
âBenedict,â she gasped, nearly dropping her tray.Â
âYou look radiant,â he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. âMuch like the first time I saw youâcovered in flour.â
âI do not think Marie would take a bribe,â (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscountâs son to get together.
âShe refused payment,â he admitted, agreeing with her notion. âBut, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.â
âYou hadnât written to me in two weeks,â (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. âI was worried.â
âI needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.â
âSmart man,â she hummed.
âI am known to be smart occasionally,â he shrugged.
âWhat are you doing here?â She finally asked. âN-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.â
âI came to study art,â Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. âI felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the mastersâmany of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.â
âThat is the only reason?â
Benedictâs gaze softened. âOf course it is not the only reason.â
Her heart fluttered again.
âIt is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,â Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.
âCorrectly?â She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.
âAh, good morning miss!â Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). âI must say, you look ever-so-prettyâtell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?â
âI would wager no,â she said, trying to keep serious. âMost of the bakers around here are men.â
âShame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fairâI fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.â
â(Y/N),â she sang. âMy name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).â
âBenedict Bridgerton,â he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked handâa working hand, one that she was proud to have.Â
âYou are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,â she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. âPleased to make your company.â
âI assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,â Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. âTell me, do you have plans this afternoon?â
âIt seems my schedule has cleared up,â she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. âWhy? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?â
âMight we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.â
She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingersâbrown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?
"Leaves?"
"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leavesâI would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."
His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.
âWell⊠what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?â
Really long post, Breeding kink (extreme), Housewife control & domestic worship, Ownership & possessiveness, Pregnancy sex & praise, Public displays of obsession, Jealousy & male ego, Misogyny as kink (consensual, fantasy only), Stretch marks, soft bodies, and full curves glorified, Lactation & nursing obsession, Twin pregnancy, Multiple children / large family themes, Daddy/mama language, Degradation mixed with worship, Cum addiction, creampie obsession, Postpartum love & care, Pretty girl/doll wife pet names, No work, no schoolâjust Rafeâs perfect stay-at-home wife, Mentions of birth, labor, and recovery, Emotional manipulation (consensual dynamics), Dubcon undertones (in safe, loving context), Hyper-idealized gender roles, Smut. Like⊠a lot of smut. And more. You know why youâre here đđ
You were born into old money.
Not the tacky kind. Not new-rich, influencer-desperate, âlook at meâ rich. Noâyours was the kind passed down through bloodlines and boardrooms. Quiet power. Legacy. The kind of wealth that bought senators and buried scandals. You grew up behind iron gates and 12-foot hedges, in a house where nothing creaked and no one ever raised their voice.
Marble floors you never had to mop. A wardrobe full of couture you never asked for. A personal driver who waited through your ballet recitals, yoga sessions, and those long appointments at the blowout bar. You had delicate hands and soft opinions. Lip gloss at age eleven. A curated Instagram feed your familyâs publicist reviewed twice a month.
Your parents expected you to marry, yesâbut not just to anyone. First, you were meant to become someone. They didnât raise a spoiled heiress; they raised a future CEO, a power player, an Ivy League-educated woman who would sit on boards and speak at galas, whoâd run foundations and her husband simultaneously.
They paid for the best prep schools, pulled strings for elite internships, demanded straight Aâs and poise in every room you entered. You were meant to go to the right school, shake the right hands, get your name engraved on buildings before your wedding invitations.
Marriage would comeâbut only after the degrees, after the success, after youâd become something polished and bulletproof. Someone impressive enough to uphold the family name. Someone who could match a legacy manânot just marry him.
You were supposed to be a force. A lady. A walking empire in pearls and soft power.
You were annoyed before you even got there. Restless. Ready to be worshipped or destroyed.
And then he saw you.
Leaning against the railing outside, bottle in one hand, eyes cold and unreadable. Rafe was dressed like he didnât give a fuckâplain white tee, jeans, hair a mess like heâd rolled out of bed just to ruin someone. But when he saw you, his posture changed. He didnât smile. He didnât blink.
He locked eyes with you and tilted his head. âYou look like youâve never had to beg a day in your life.â
You stared right back, one brow lifted. âShould I have?â
He pushed off the railing and took a slow step forward, beer swinging loosely from his fingers. âYou should tonight.â
You let out a breathy scoff, amused, your hand grazing your hip as if to say prove it.
His eyes dropped to your legs. âThat little dress doesnât even cover your ass, princess. You want someone to make you behave, donât you?â
Your skin flushed beneath the pearls. âYou talk to every girl like that?â
âNo. Just the ones I wanna fuck so bad it makes me insane.â He took another step forward, crowding into your space. âYou think youâre above me? You think just âcause youâve got a driver and a fat diamond trust, I wonât bend you over the nearest surface and make you cry for it?â
You were breathing harder now. Champagne and adrenaline turning your pulse into a drumbeat.
And you didnât stop him when he grabbed your wrist.
Didnât stop him when he pulled you down the hallway, his grip iron-tight like he didnât care who saw.
Didnât stop him when he dragged you into the powder room, kicked the door shut with his boot, and pressed you against the wall like heâd waited years to touch you.
He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.
âYou wanna tell me no, baby girl? Go ahead. But if you donâtâIâm gonna get on my knees, lift this little slip up, and eat you out right here against this goddamn wall.â
You shouldâve said no.
You didnât.
Instead, you whispered, âLock the door.â
His smirk was all teeth and danger. He reached back, slid the deadbolt shut with a heavy click, and turned on you like a loaded weapon.
âYou donât even know what youâre asking for,â he growled, crowding you against the wallpaper, his hands already dragging your silk slip up your thighs. âThey all treat you like glass, huh? Like money makes you delicate. Like you donât wanna be devoured.â
You gasped as his hands slid under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, pinning you to the wall with his hips while your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The marble was cool on your back, but his mouth was fire as he kissed youâmessy, open-mouthed, hungry like heâd been starving for you for years.
Your panties were shoved to the side in one rough tug.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Right there, in his crisp white tee and chains and sin-soaked grin, he shoved your thighs apart and buried his face between them.
âEvery inch of youâs fuckinâ beautiful,â he growled, licking you slow, deliberate. âBut this right here? This is mine now. Youâre mine now.â
You choked on a moan, one hand flying to his hair, the other scrabbling uselessly at the wall for balance. His tongue circled your clit like he already knew what made you cry, already knew where to hurt you just right.
Your head fell back, breath catching. âF-fuckââ
He pulled back just enough to smirk against you, his voice low and filthy. âItâs Rafe, baby. So you know what to scream when I make you come.â
Then he buried his mouth between your thighs againâlike he had something to prove, like he wanted to carve his name into your body with his tongue.
Your head fell back. âRafeââ
He groaned like it fed him. âSay it again.â
âRafe.â
âGood girl.â His voice was muffled, mouth still pressed to your cunt, spit-slick and messy as he sucked your clit between his lips and groaned, like your taste made him high. âFuckinâ sweet. Rich little princess with a pussy made for me.â
You whimpered, legs shaking around his shoulders, your heels digging into his back as he devoured you like he had no intention of letting you go. Your body burned, too much too fast, pleasure sharp and hot as glass.
âRafeâRafe, Iâmââ
He didnât stop. Just grabbed your ass harder and pulled you tighter to his face.
You came in a waveâloud, sudden, and shattered. His tongue didnât stop. He wanted it messy. Wanted it soaking. He chased every drop with his mouth like he could drink your orgasm down.
When it was over, he stood slowlyâlips glistening, eyes dark.
You were still gasping when he leaned in and pressed a filthy kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.
Then he smiled, cocky and cruel.
âNow give me your number,â he murmured. âAnd donât make me ask twice.â
Your hand shook as you reached for your phone. He took it from you anyway, typed in his name, and sent himself a text.
âTell your daddy youâre not coming home,â he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like he hadnât just ruined you against a wall. âYouâre mine now. For good.â
You just didnât realize he meant it literally.
âž»
After he dropped to his knees between your thighs and made you forget your last name, you didnât stop seeing him. Didnât stop letting him inâyour room, your body, your head. It was chaos from the start. You werenât dating, not really. Just hooking up. Calling. Texting. Sneaking off to meet him during country club events where your parents expected you to mingle with politiciansâ sonsânot disappear with Rafe for twenty minutes while he fucked you in the wine cellar. At your parentsâ beach house, where you let him ruin you in your childhood bedroom with his hand over your mouth.
It wasnât supposed to turn into anything. But it did.
Two weeks in, he was sleeping over. A month in, he was showing up uninvited and you were letting him. Somewhere between âthis is just for funâ and âdonât tell anyone,â you realized you hadnât gone a day without him.
And thenâtwo months inâhe proposed.
No dinner. No grand gesture. Just you on your back, legs over his shoulders, his cum leaking out of you as he pushed a ring onto your finger.
âThatâs it,â he grunted, balls deep, sweat slicking his chest as he pinned your hips. âYouâre mine now. Say it.â
You choked on a whimper. âRafeââ
âSay it.â
ââŠYours.â
He didnât even let you put clothes on before taking you again.
Your family wasnât mad. Not exactly.
Rafe came from money tooâold Carolina wealth, the kind with estates and foundations and country club portraits. So it wasnât him they had a problem with. It was the timing. The recklessness. Theyâd wanted you to become something first. Build your name. Finish grad school. Take your place in the boardroom before the ballroom.
But Rafe didnât care.
The wedding was obscene in scale. Held at your familyâs private estate in the Hamptons, under chandeliers imported from Paris, with crystal-studded linens and a guest list that read like a Forbes roundup. You wore custom coutureâivory silk, hand-beaded by artisans flown in from Milan, the bodice molded perfectly to your curves but nothing sheer. Nothing that would let anyone else see what belonged to him. The veil was cathedral-length, your heels custom Louboutins dyed to match the exact shade of your engagement diamond.
Rafeâs hand never left your waist. His jaw was tight the entire ceremony, possessive even then, whispering low filth into your ear as you exchanged vows that made the priest stumble.
âYou were made for this dress. For me. For getting knocked up. You think Iâm gonna let you waste this body on anything else?â
His eyes never left your mouth. Your ring finger. The way your lips trembled when he kissed youâlike it was a warning and a promise all at once.
The promise that you would always and forever be his.
And that night, he proved it.
He didnât just fuck youâhe claimed you. Again and again, until your voice was gone and your thighs trembled, until your wedding dress lay forgotten on the floor and your ring sparkled against his chest as you clawed at him.
He was rough, filthy, worshipful in the most possessive way. Called you his wife like it tasted sweet on his tongue. Whispered, âLook at you. My wife. Taking it so good, so perfect. Thatâs what this pussyâs for, baby. Marriage. Babies. Me.â
You moaned his name like a prayer, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, back arching into every thrust like you needed itâlike youâd waited your whole life to be ruined by him.
He kissed your tears when you came again, breathless and shaking, and smiled like a man who finally had everything heâd ever wanted.
And he did.
âž»
The honeymoon lasted three months. Not because you planned it that wayâbut because Rafe refused to bring you home until the new estate was finished. He said you deserved to wake up in silk sheets, not next to power tools and wet paint. Said heâd wait for the marble to be sealed, the chandeliers hung, the nursery wallpapered in imported silk.
And in the meantime? He ruined you across three countries.
Greece. Italy. The South of France.
Yachts, penthouses, private islands. Dresses you only wore for an hour before he had them shredded at your feet. Custom lingerie sets you never even got pictures ofâhe ripped most of them off before you made it out of the hotel suite.
You didnât even bother unpacking anymore.
The sex was constant. Obsessive. Unrelenting.
He touched you like you were on a timer. Like he was afraid of missing a single opportunity to fill you, mark you, bend you over whatever surface was closest and remind you that you belonged to him now. It was never softânot on the honeymoon. Not when he had you alone and tan and dripping in diamonds. Not when he was grinding into you under foreign stars, muttering filth like heâd been saving it his whole life.
âYou like that, donât you?â heâd snarl, one hand fisted in your hair, the other pushing your knees up. âLike being filled over and over. You want it, baby? Want me to fuck a baby into you on this balcony?â
You always answered with a whimper, back arching, desperate.
He always answered by giving you more.
You were fucked on a yacht in Capri. In a vineyard outside Florence. On the floor of a gilded palace in Paris where you stayed two nights longer than planned because he refused to stop breeding you. His mouth never left your belly. His hands never left your hips. He fucked you like it was a mission. Like the whole point of the honeymoon was to make sure you came back pregnant.
And by the end of itâyou were.
Neither of you knew for sure, not yet. But he was already saying things like âYou feel different. Thicker. Soft and full. Mine.â And you were already glowing, breasts aching, body heavy in a way that felt sweet and raw and addictive.
He kissed your stomach every night on that last week in Monaco. Pressed his face to your navel and whispered, âStay full for me, baby. You were made for this. Made to carry me. Canât wait to see you round and slow and perfect.â
And the way you clung to him after, the way you sobbed through every orgasm, the way you begged him not to pull outâit was already written.
You came home pregnant.
Worshipped.
Owned.
And everything he ever wanted.
âââ
The estate was finally finished.
Fifty thousand square feet of white stone and manicured gardens, marble floors and Venetian chandeliers, custom everythingâfrom the silk canopy bed to the wine cellar hidden behind a mirrored door in the library. The driveway was longer than most roads. The gates had your new initials etched into the iron.
He carried you inside the night you arrived. Didnât let your feet touch the floor.
âPregnant women donât walk,â he muttered into your throat, palms under your thighs, your body wrapped around his like a silk ribbon. âNot in my house.â
Youâd laughed. âYou donât even know if I am yet.â
His eyes darkened. Slow. Sure. Almost smug.
âI know.â
And he did. Knew it like instinct. Like obsession.
You hadnât bled in weeks. Your tits were aching, your stomach turned at the smell of coffee, and your body felt hotter, heavier, softer in his hands. You were exhausted, glowing, needyâand he hadnât pulled out once in three months.
It was impossible not to be.
Still, the next morning, he handed you a pregnancy test without a wordâjust set it on the marble counter beside your toothbrush while brushing your hair out of your face and kissing your temple.
You blinked. âYou had one?â
He shrugged, casual. âI bought ten.â
You choked out a laugh. âTen?â
Rafe just smirked. âBought âem the day we left for the honeymoon.â
You stared at him, heart thudding, mouth dry. âYou planned this.â
He didnât deny it. Just kissed your shoulder and murmured, âGo take the test, mama.â
Your hands shook as you did. Not because you were scaredâbut because you already knew too.
And two minutes later, when the little screen turned bold and unmistakably clearâŠ
Pregnant.
You stared. Breath caught. Lips parted. It didnât feel real yetânot until you turned, test still in hand, and found Rafe standing in the doorway watching you like a predator.
He didnât say a word.
Just stalked toward you, eyes dropping to your stomach like he could already see the bump there, see the life heâd put inside you.
You opened your mouth, but he was already lifting you onto the counter, pulling your robe open, lips dragging down your collarbone like heâd been waiting years for this exact moment.
âI knew it,â he whispered, pressing his forehead to your chest. âKnew this pussy would catch.â
âRafeââ
âIâm gonna take such good care of you,â he growled. âGonna fuck you even softer now. Fill you up all over again. Make sure it sticks deep.â
You gasped when he sank to his knees, lips trailing reverent kisses down your thighs, then up again as he hooked your legs over his shoulders.
âLet me taste it, angel. Let me taste what my babyâs growing in.â
You moaned, head falling back as he worshipped you with his mouth, tongue slow and sinful, arms wrapped tight around your hips to keep you still. He licked into you like he was addictedâlike heâd never get enough of you pregnant and wet and wrecked just for him.
By the time he stood and slid inside you, you were already shaking.
And he didnât fuck you like before.
He moved slow. Deep. Careful but greedy, every thrust a prayer, every kiss a promise.
âMy wife,â he groaned, rocking into you, his hand cradling the slight curve of your belly. âMy girl. My babyâs mama. You feel that? Feel me right there?â
You whimpered, arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching him close.
âGonna keep you like this forever,â he breathed. âRound. Full. Mine.â
And you let him.
Let him take you again on the bathroom counter, on your back with your knees to your chest, his voice rasping in your ear as he filled you up slow and warm all over again.
Because there was no going back now.
You were his.
A wife. A mother. And soonâundeniably, visibly, gloriously pregnant.
âââ
Being Rafe Cameronâs wife wasnât about brunches and Pilates.
It was about devotion.
He didnât want a wife with a career or a calendar full of lunches and networking events. He didnât want a partnerâhe wanted a purpose. Someone who existed just for him. Who breathed because he said so. Who never had to work a day in her life, because her only job was to look good and stay soft and wait for him to come home.
And you did.
Your car sat untouched in the garage, a sleek, custom luxury thing he bought just because he liked the color on youâbut you never drove it. Rafe didnât let you. âYouâre too pretty to be behind the wheel,â heâd said with a lazy smirk, tossing the keys to one of his men instead. âYouâve got people for that now.â And you did. Drivers, stylists, security. You never had to lift a finger. If you needed to go anywhere, you were chauffeured. But truthfully? You barely left the estate.
Everything you wanted was already inside: the warm scent of gardenias in the marble foyer, the closets full of couture and cashmere, the twenty-foot windows that overlooked the water, the glass cabinets filled with your favorite teas, the nursery heâd designed in secretâpink silk wallpaper, pale French lace curtains, and a real gold crib.
There was no office, no desk, no laptop.
There was no job to return to.
Rafe had made sure of that.
âWhy would you work?â heâd asked once, genuinely confused, like the idea offended him. âDo you think I canât take care of you?â
And he did. In every way imaginable.
Renata, your full-time housekeeper and maternal shadow, took care of the rest. She brought your breakfast to bed every morning. Kissed your cheek like a proud grandmother. Kept the estate running like a quiet, seamless machineâalways slipping away when Rafe walked in, always smiling like she knew how adored you were.
Your days followed his rhythm, not yours.
You woke up tangled in his arms, always wearing one of his T-shirts, your thighs sore and his big palm still resting possessively on your stomach. Before you could sit up, Renata would come in with coffee and a trayâtoast, fruit, something light that wouldnât upset your pregnant belly. And while you sipped it, Rafe would kiss your neck, his voice low and smug against your skin: âSpoiled little thing. Just how I like you.â
He picked your breakfast. Picked your clothes. Always silk or lace or something delicate and softâno pants, never pants. Dresses that clung to your body in all the right ways, that made your tits look bigger and your bump look sweeter. Pearls, diamonds, vintage heels. He liked you dressed like a doll and treated like one too. He put your shoes on for you, always on his knees, big hands gliding up your calves with slow reverence, eyes locked on yours as he murmured, âMy girl doesnât work. My girl doesnât stress. My girl just stays home and stays mine.â
Your phone stayed mostly untouched on the bedside table. Your Instagram was a curated, sugary dreamâsoft-lit selfies, close-ups of your wedding ring, morning shots in silk robes, espresso cups and fresh flowers, mirror pics of your growing bumpâbut you only posted when he asked. You didnât scroll. You didnât text. Not when Rafe was home. When Rafe was home, you were in his lap. In his bed. Under his hand. Under his delicious control.
He fucked you when he wantedâwhen you wanted. which was oftenânever cruel, always obsessed.
Sometimes it was in the middle of dinner. Heâd drag you onto his lap, slip his hand up your dress, feed you a bite of cake with his fingers while grinding against your thighs. âYou want me to stop?â heâd whisper. âLie to me, sweetheart. Say you donât love being mine.â
Sometimes it was in the bath, the water spilling over the marble edge as he shoved your knees up and rocked into you, slow and deep and reverent. âThis pussy was made to be full,â he growled. âSay it. Say it, baby.â
Once it was in the hallway closet. Youâd laughed at something on TV, too loud, too flirtyâand he snapped. Dragged you into the dark, pushed your panties to the side, slammed into you with his hand over your mouth and his breath hot in your ear. âTalk to another man and Iâll kill him,â he hissed. âDonât test me, angel. Youâre mine.â
And you believed him.
God help youâyou loved it.
Youâd never felt more adored. More protected. More owned.
And every time he kissed your swollen belly and muttered, âCanât wait to fill you up again,â you felt yourself clench around himâaching, desperate, ready to give him everything he wanted. Again. And again.
Because if this was your life?
Youâd never need anything else.
Youâd die happy. And full. And his.
âž»
By six months of marriage, your family had stopped trying to âsaveâ you.
There were no more awkward calls. No more long, worried voicemails or tense brunch invitations. No more hints about careers or independence or being âtoo young to settle.â
Because now they saw it.
Now they saw the way Rafe held your hand at every doctorâs appointment, how he paid for the best OBGYN in the state to come to you, how he stood behind you with both hands on your belly during ultrasounds, whispering, âLook at her. Thatâs ours.â
They saw how you glowed in silk maternity gowns and soft curls and your vintage wedding ring catching the light. They saw the way your pantry was stocked top to bottom with your cravingsâimported fruit, fresh pastries, lavender honeyâand how Renata always had something warm waiting on a tray, prepared exactly how you liked it.
They saw the fucking nursery.
Rafe flew in designers from Paris to craft it like a museum wing. Custom pink and ivory furniture. Because he knew your baby was a girl, before she was even conceived. A rocking chair that cost more than most peopleâs mortgages. A gold-plated inicials plaqueâyour daughterâs name, already chosen, already claimed. And walls painted the color of a strawberry milkshake, soft and sweet and expensive.
And they saw him.
Kissing your fingers when you walked into a room. Pulling out your chair. Rubbing your swollen feet in the evening while you curled against his chest and sighed, full of life and happy and kept.
By the time you were seven months in, your mother teared up every time she saw you. âYou look so loved,â she whispered once. You didnât answer. You just smiled and touched your belly.
Because you were.
Rafe spoiled you like it was his full-time job.
Craving peaches at midnight? They were peeled and sliced on a crystal dish before you even finished your sentence. Feeling sore? He drew your bath himself, poured in oil, scattered rose petals, made you sit between his legs while he massaged your thighs and whispered, âSo fucking good to me, mama. Let me take care of you.â
You never lifted a finger.
Not to carry a designer bag.âwhich you had many ofâNot to open a door. Not even to wipe a countertop. Werenât allowed to reach too high or sit too long without him adjusting your pillows.
âYouâre growing my girl,â heâd murmur. âThatâs your only job right now.â
And Godâhe touched you like he worshipped you for it.
Sex was slower now. Deeper. More reverent.
Every night, without fail, he made love to you like he had something to prove. Like he still needed to mark you, even though you were already full of him. Heâd press you into the pillows, spread your thighs, kiss every new curve like it was holy. Murmur things against your neck like, âYouâve never been more beautiful. Look at you. Look what I did to you.â
Sometimes he got teary-eyed when he fucked you. Especially when you guided his hand to your belly and whispered, âSheâs kicking.â It made him still. Just for a second. Like the weight of it hit him all over again. Then heâd groan and roll his hips deeper, kissing your mouth like he couldnât breathe without it.
âIâm gonna give you more,â he promised one night, after he made you come with your legs around his waist, his hand cradling your belly. âI want you like this forever. Always round. Always mine.â
And you didnât doubt him.
Because everything you wereâevery inch, every mood swing, every craving, every part of this new soft, slow, pregnant lifeâwas being loved. Treasured. Fucked. Fed. Worshipped.
You werenât just Rafe Cameronâs wife.
You were his purpose.
And with every soft kick, every flutter beneath your ribs, every whispered âI love you, angel,â you knew one thing:
You were never going back to normal life.
This was your forever.
Wrapped in lace. Drenched in devotion.
âââ
You were eight months in.
Barefoot. Ethereally glowing. Belly full and high, tits swollen, and hormones making your thighs extra soft. Your baby shower looked like a wedding. All white and cream, gold-detailed everything, Dior onesies, gold spoons, and paparazzi outside the gates.
Rafe made you sit on his lap the whole time. One hand on your stomach, one around your waist. Eyes sharp anytime someone tried to talk to you too long. You werenât even paying attention to the gifts.
âYou like beinâ like this, huh?â he murmured against your neck. âAll knocked up and perfect. Everyone out there looks at you and sees exactly what you areâmine. My girl. My dream. No one else gets to touch this. No one else deserves to.â
You didnât answer. You didnât have to.
He took you upstairs halfway through the party. Fucked you slow and possessive with one hand on your belly, moaning against your stretch-marked thighs, telling you how beautiful you looked wrecked like this. âJust wait âtil I get you pregnant again.â
âž»
Later that evening, Rafe followed you into the nurseryâyour babyâs nurseryâsoft light spilling over the pink silk wallpaper and the goldâplated crib, where RâŻRâŻC was carved into the side. He settled you into the rocking chair, then knelt at your feet, massaging them with slow, sure strokes as you leafed through a leatherâbound name book.
âOnly R names,â he reminded you in a low voice. âGotta match her initials.â
You traced the carved letters.
ââRâŻRâŻCââRosalind Cameron?â you offered, testing the rhythm.
He hummed, looking up from your feet.
âRosalind⊠itâs beautiful. But it doesnât feel like our girl, yeah?â
You giggled, rubbing your belly.
âMmmâŠI donât know.â
He stroked your ankle, thumb brushing gentle circles.
âWhat about Rosalie Rae Cameron? Rae means âgraceââold money, classic.â
Your heart swelled.
âRosalie Rae CameronâŠâ
Rafe pressed a soft kiss to your foot.
âHey, Pretty,â he whisperedâyour daughterâs very first nickname echoing through the room. âThatâs her. Thatâs her name.â
You slid the book shut and leaned forward, cradling his face with both hands.
âRosalie Rae Cameron. Perfect.â
He grinned, kissing your hair.
âOur Pretty girl.â
âââ
You cried through labor.
He held your hand the entire time. Pressed his forehead to yours between contractions. Kissed your damp cheeks, your trembling fingers. Whispered, âYouâre so strong, baby. Iâve got you. Youâre doinâ perfect. Youâre everything.â
He cried when she came out.
Real tears, hot and silent. He cut the cord with shaking hands. Kissed your temple like a prayer. Held her like she was made of glass, like she was a miracle heâd never deserve. Laid her gently on your chest and brushed your hair back from your eyes, voice raw: âThatâs mine. My girls. Fuck, Iâve never loved anything more.â
He stayed alert all day just watching you.
You were tired. Pale. A little sore and quiet. And he couldnât stop touching youâyour fingers, your cheeks, the spot just under your jaw. A sushi boat the size of your bedside table was already waiting, flown in from the city, packed with everything he knew you craved but couldnât have for nine long months. Caviar, mochi, Wagyu. All of it arranged just for you. He poured your sparkling water into a crystal glass and pressed a kiss to your temple as he helped you take the first bite.
âIâm so proud of you, angel. You did everything right. Sheâs perfect. Youâre perfect.â
You mentionedâsoftly, sleepily, between bitesâthat you wanted the good supplements. The ones that help your milk come in strong and healthy. âI just⊠I want her to have the best,â you mumbled.
He was already texting someone. Already making calls. âSay no more, baby,â he said, brushing your hair back. âYou get anything you need. Anything for my girls.â
And by the time the sun set, the pills were deliveredâimported, organic, prescribed by the best. Because you asked. Because heâd never let you want for anything. Because your body made life, and heâd spend his own making sure you were worshipped for it.
And later, when the room was dark and the baby was asleep in her bassinet, he curled up beside you in the hospital bed, one hand stroking your stomach like it was sacred.
âGonna do it again,â he said softly.
You laughed, weak but warm. âRafeââ
âI know. Not yet,â he murmured, kissing your shoulder. âWanna make sure youâre healed. You gotta rest. Gotta eat. Iâll take care of everything. You just focus on feelinâ good again.â
His hand slid lower, protective, worshipful. âBut the minute youâre ready? Iâm puttinâ another baby in you. I want a house full of âem. All with your smile.â
He paused. âI already got everything I ever wanted. But Iâd do it a hundred times just to see you like this again. Glowing. Full. Happy.â
He kissed your wrist. Your knuckles. The curve of your cheek.
âYouâre not just the love of my life,â he whispered. âYouâre the mother of my babies. My home. My whole fuckinâ world.â
And that night, he didnât try anything.
He just held you, kissed your face, and watched your baby breathe.
âž»
The first six weeks were a blur of heaven.
No chaos. No rushing. No pressure. Just the three of youâyou, Rafe, and your baby girlâtucked inside the mansion like a secret too sacred to share.
You barely left your bed the first few days. You didnât have to.
Rafe carried her in and out of the room like she was made of spun sugar, careful not to wake her, even more careful not to disturb you. He brought you warm food, helped you to the bathroom, held your hand while you cried for no reason and kissed the tears with reverence.
âPostpartumâs a bitch, I know,â he whispered into your hair. âBut youâre doinâ perfect. Sheâs happy. Youâre safe. We got everything we ever wanted.â
He never left your side for long. Not even when the estate buzzed with staff and deliveries and family wanting to visit. âLater,â heâd say, shutting doors and dimming lights. âThey can wait. My girls come first.â
You spent entire days curled into each other in bed, the baby between you, her tiny fingers curling around one of Rafeâs bigger ones. She slept on his chest. Cried into his shoulder. He learned how to swaddle her in perfect triangles and change her diaper one-handed. He hummed lullabies in the middle of the night, low and off-key and sweet.
âShe likes my voice,â he said once, awe-struck, when she stopped fussing just because he held her.
You watched him fall in love.
Not just with her. With you, too. In a way he never had before. As the mother of his child. His home. His everything.
He watched you nurse like it was holy. Fetched your pills without being asked. Made sure your water bottle was always full and your phone always charged. He read the baby books, then threw them away and said, âFuck itâweâll do it our way.â
You never felt more safe. More soft. More cared for.
âLook at her,â he murmured one night as you rocked her together in the nursery. His hand was on your thigh, warm and grounding. âShe looks like you when she sleeps. All sweet and smug like she knows sheâs already got me wrapped around her finger.â
âShe has,â you whispered, smiling.
He turned to you, lips at your temple. âYou both do.â
And even when she screamedâred-faced and furious at 3 a.m.âhe never flinched. Just scooped her up, held her close, whispered, âYouâre okay, baby girl. Daddyâs got you. Youâre safe now.â
She calmed almost instantly every time. Because he made the world quiet. Because his voice was steady. Because she already knew, somehow, that heâd never let anything touch her.
He bathed her. Dressed her. Held her little body against his bare chest for skin-to-skin naps while you slept, exhausted. And when you woke up?
He looked at you like you were still glowing. Like you were still his miracle.
âWe made her,â he said once, brushing your hair off your forehead. âYou made her. Outta your body. Iâll never get over that.â
And he didnât.
For six weeks, he didnât touch you in that way. Didnât ask. Didnât tease. Just kissed you, held you, touched your belly with something close to worship.
âI love this,â he murmured once, watching you both sleep. âYou two⊠this is all I ever wanted.â
And it was true.
Even knowing he wanted moreâmore babies, more love, more little girls with your eyesâhe never made you feel like this wasnât enough. Because she was enough. You were enough.
You were everything.
And the night before the six-week mark, he held her against his chest, kissed your shoulder, and whispered:
âSheâs never gonna know a day without love. Not one. Not ever. Neither will the rest of our babies.â
âââ
You were six weeks postpartumâto the day.
And Rafe had waited. Barely.
He never touched you before you were ready. Not really. Not like this. Sure, he kissed you. Touched your belly while you slept. Held you every night with a hard-on pressed against your back. But he never pushed. Not when you were still healing. Not when you were sore and swollen and soft.
âYou did somethinâ holy,â heâd whispered once, watching you breastfeed in the moonlight, his voice hushed like awe. âYou gave me a daughter. You donât lift a finger now. You just heal. Let me take care of everything.â
And you did.
But tonight?
You were ready.
You told him. In bed. After your daughter finally drifted off in her bassinet. You whispered it, skin flushed and voice shaking, âI want you.â
And thatâs all he needed.
Rafe moved over you like a shadowâslow, reverent, already groaning into your neck like a man starved. âFuck, baby. You sure? You feel okay?â
You nodded. Wrapped your arms around his neck.
âIâve been dreaminâ about this,â he breathed. âWaited so fuckinâ long. You donât even know what you do to me.â
He took you in bedâyour bedâwhere you belonged. Where heâd held you every night. Where he worshipped you through swollen ankles and late-night feedings and aching postpartum limbs. Where you made your baby. And nowâwhere heâd make another.
He fucked you rough once you were ready for itâhard and deep and perfect, like a man obsessed. Pressed your knees up, kissed your leaking tits, moaned like a sinner as your milk spilled between you.
âMy girl,â he growled. âSo fuckinâ full. So good. So ready to take it again.â
You were still full of hormones. Still soft and fertile and open in the way only new mothers are. And Rafe? He knew.
âYouâre gonna get pregnant again,â he hissed against your throat, hips slamming into yours. âGonna make it stick. Your bodyâs begginâ for it.â
And it was.
You cried when you came. He kissed your tears. Came deep inside and held you like something preciousâlike the altar he prayed to.
Then he whispered in your ear, voice shaking with love and hunger:
âYou were made for this, angel. Made for me. Iâll put a baby in you every year if you let me.â
And you would. God help youâyou would.
Because if this was forever?
Youâd take it. Again. And again.
âž»
Three weeks later.
You stood barefoot in the bathroom, heart hammering, lips parted, staring down at the little stick like it was some impossible trick.
Two pink lines.
Your breath caught. You whispered, âI just had a babyâŠâ
Behind you, the door clicked. Strong arms slid around your waist, and you felt Rafeâs lips at the curve of your neck before you even registered he was there.
âYou were ready,â he murmured, voice husky. âFucking ready.â
You turned in his arms, holding the test in your trembling fingers. âYouâre insane.â
He just grinned, eyes alight. His hand slid lower, palming your bellyâclaiming what was his. âMaybe. But I know what I want. And I always take care of whatâs mine.â
You shouldnât have been surprised. Not after that nightâsix weeks to the day postpartumâwhen heâd finally taken you again in your bed, slow and reverent at first, then rough and desperate, like he couldnât remember how to breathe without being inside you. And not after the way he hadnât gone a single night since without touching you, worshipping you, burying himself inside you as if to anchor himself to this world.
Heâd fuck you and make love to you every night, deep and slow and loud enough to wake the dead, whispering, âGod, you feel so good,â even when you were sore and raw, even when you were exhausted. Those moments had left you swollen with his seedâand fertile as only new mothers can be.
And now⊠this.
He chuckled, breath warm against your ear. âMaybe itâll be twins this timeâputs us ahead in numbersâŠor maybe itâs just one perfect little you. Either way, Iâm already dying to fill you again.â
âTwins?â you whispered, eyes wide. âYou are crazy!â
He laughed, brushing your hair behind your ear. âIâm just fucking around.â His thumb circled the positive window. âBut this pussy, It does exactly what it was made to do.â
He nuzzled your neck, voice dropping to a rumble. âMaybe boys this time. Or more girls. Doesnât matter. Iâll take them all.â
Your knees wobbled. You swallowed. And despite every rational bone in your body? Your panties were already soaked, and your heartâyour stupid, in-love heartâhurried yes.
Because you didnât want him to stop either.
You wanted more. Another tiny miracle with his eyes. Another year in his arms, swollen and worshipped and safe.
You looked down at the test again. Then back at Rafe, that feral, loving grin on his face.
âGuess weâre doing this again,â you whispered.
His grin widened, pride and hunger mixing in his dark eyes. âDamn right we are.â
âž»
You got rounder faster the second time.
You still remembered how, the moment you saw that first tiny heartbeat, Rafe had whispered, âSheâs a girl,â and youâd laughedâbecause heâd been right. And when you held the second positive test, still shaky and overwhelmed, heâd smirked, half-joking, âMaybe itâll be twinsâget us ahead in the game.â Youâd rolled your eyes at him then, certain he was just talking dirty.
But when the ultrasound wand glided over your belly and revealed not one but two flickering hearts, you stared at the screen as if it were magic. Rafeâs reaction nearly broke you: first he laughedâdeep, incredulous, triumphant, just like the day you found out Rosalind was a girl. Then tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and silent, as he reached for your hand.
âMy jinx worked again,â he whispered, voice cracking. He kissed your knuckles, then pressed his forehead to your belly where the twins pulsed in unison. âTwins. My two little miracles.â
In that moment you knew he didnât just predict your lifeâhe manifested it. And youâd never been more in love with the man who dared to call it before it even happened.
From that moment on, he worshipped every inch of you. Heâd slip into your closet at dawn with his camera and find you nude in silk lingerie, your stretch marks catching the morning light like stardust. Heâd oil your belly until it gleamed, then step back to admire you like a masterpiece. âFuckinâ art,â heâd murmur. âYouâre art, baby. My art.â
At the next galaâan invitation-only affair packed with powerful rivalsâRafe never let go of your hand. He had you in a slinky couture gown that hugged both bumps, his other hand always drifting down to cup you. When curious glances flicked your way, he leaned in and whispered, âBet they all wanna fuck this, huh? Too bad itâs just mine. I win.â
You sat on his lap through the entire evening, decadent and untouchable, your twin bumps on proud display. And on the ride home in his armored limo, he slid a hand up your thigh, whispered, âCanât wait to feel you full again,â before slipping two fingers inside youâslow, intimate, a promise that heâd keep you pregnant as long as you let him.
In that moment, with your two tiny future children resting safe inside you, you werenât just Rafe Cameronâs wife. You were his living miracle, his manifest destiny. And he loved you for it.
âž»
With Rafe? It never ends.
After little RosalieâŻRae arrived and filled every corner of your world with her soft cries and perfect yawns, the two boys came nextâReid Adam and Gabriel Alexander, your twin miracles, their tiny fists curled tight around Rafeâs fingers as he wept with joy. Three more daughters followed in the yearsâRamona Evelyn, Genevieve Pearl, and Gwyneth Sloaneâeach one wrapped in pastel blankets and crowned with satin bows, each one taught from her very first day that she was Daddyâs girl. And finally, two more sonsâRodrick Grey and Emmett Grantâfour little men with strong shoulders and dreamy eyes who made your home laugh and roar with life.
Eight children in all: four daughters, four sons, each an honor to RafeâŻCameron. You sometimes caught him in the nurseries at dawn, humming their names under his breath, tracing letters in the air as though heâd carved each one into his heart. He never missed a milestoneâfirst baths, first steps, first wordsâalways there, arms outstretched, calling each of them by name or nicknames and boasting to the world: âThey belong to us. And theyâre perfect.â
Through every pregnancy, every newborn wail, every lateânight feeding, he worshipped you. He carried you down the marble halls when your feet couldnât hold your weight. He massaged your swollen ankles with oils heâd imported just for you. He designed each nursery theme himself, from the girls roseâpetal pinks, purples, and beiges to the boysâ muted navy, emerald greens, and neutrals, with gold accents, then snuck into the rooms at night to kiss the crib rails as if they were sacred altars.
Even after the eighth blessing, when your body finally whispered that it was done, his devotion never wavered. He still fanned you gently as you napped in his lap on Sunday mornings, ran his thumbs beneath your chin as you sipped coffee on the terrace, and laughed with you over silly things no one else would understand. He still fucked youâsoft and slow after long days of motherhood, passionate and deep whenever you needed reminding that you were his only.
He spoiled you with lateânight drives in the old Bentley, just to watch the stars reflected in your eyes. He surprised you with big expensive bags, does, watches, and designer scarves. But you love the little things like bouquets of cherry blossoms in winter and fresh lemon sorbet in the summerâanything to see you smile. And every evening, when you slipped into one of the silk robes he kept waiting on your vanity, heâd trace the curve of your hip and murmur, âYouâre still my wife. Still my obsession. Still the best thing I ever did.â
You were born rich. Now you were born again into his world, where love was measured in children and devotion was endless.
Somewhere in the middle, RafeâŻCameron made you his doll, his home, his queen, and the most gloriously adored mother any family could ever know.
Because with Rafe, itâs never truly the end. Itâs always just more love.
So sorry Iâve been MIA but Iâm back for good (probs?) hope yâall enjoy this! Love you all đ€ MUAH!đ
friendship breakups are lowkey the worst thing ever cause what do you mean this person I used to share every single detail of my life with is just gone
- â - a/n: ⧠reposting this fic because tumblr nuked it from the tags. if you ever happened to find the original two-parter floating somewhere lmk :3 â§
- â - tags: ⧠reader is a member of the straw-hats ⧠light!voyeurism ⧠teasing ⧠fem!reader ⧠some subby!sanji and dom!reader but Sanji-kun is a true switch :3 ⧠panty sniffing ⧠begging ⧠male!masturbation ⧠cum play-ish ⧠leg fetish(?) ⧠body worship ⧠humping ⧠Sanji gets a nose bleed so there will be mentions of blood ⧠idk how else to tag this but reader teases sanji and he's a lil desperate cunt-slut ⧠never had a beta, we die like fools â§
âBye, guys! Stay safe!â
 Seated on Frankyâs mechanical shoulders, Chopper waved back at you. His adorable laughter drifted past the treelines along with their farewells and energetic chaos fleeing towards another mini adventure. One you would not be a part of this time.
 The rest of the crew left you on board with the promise to return soon as they scoured for supplies on an inhabited island, but with the way Luffy sped awayâ and Nami shouted after himâ you knew there wouldnât be much hope reigning in the Captainâs excitement.
 You could trust Luffy to disrupt a plan and completely derail a simple situation. His shouts and the crewâs calls for him to slow down faded faster than the dust he left behind.
 The seconds ticked.
 You held your breath.
Standing alone, you listened intently for the silence to shatter the way you have become accustomed toâ only to hear nothing but the squawk of birds resting on the mast. Undisturbed and unthreatened. Without so much as a song or laughter to burst, the ship rocked against the crystal waters of the shallow shore as you stood on the massive boat.
 The world quiet, the view serene.
 âYes!â You let out an excited squeal, stomping your feet on the grassy deck in a silly dance of freedom and peace. âItâs finally quiet!â You shouted, laughing to yourself when no one answered you but the flaps of the wind against the furled sails above you.
 There were no shouts other than your own, no arguments or explosionsâ no disturbances of other people. Finally! After five weeks of non-stop excitement and open sea, you twirled, jumped and danced your butt off with no one to interrupt or insult your ridiculous display of glee because you were alone!
 âThey all left, yes, yes!â
 You sang merrily, taking up space with wide arms and a beaming smile.
 You loved the straw hats. Travelling with them has been the most thrilling adventure of your life. They were amazing! Incredible, free-spiritedâ but sometimes, when the songs turn repetitive, and the merriment mutates into mayhem, you just want time to yourself.
 Having grown up alone, you had become accustomed to the stillness of an empty room. It was comforting, the calmness of your own company and the hyper-independence it developed. A stark contrast to the life you started with your new makeshift family, and after so long of bumping and sharing space with colourful, loud personalities, you were thankful for the chance to stretch your arms and lay on the soft grass.
 A moment to unwind, relax, and hear nothing but the waves below and revel in the tranquillity of solitude.
 âNow, iced tea on the deck or a long bubble bath?â You mused out loud, whistling while making your way to the kitchen, âor both?â You paused up the stairs.
 You sought to utilise all the time you had with maximum relaxation â with the way Luffy screamed over the odd-looking animal that stole his fruit; reading a book in the bathtub right now would guarantee no disturbances or uncomfortable attention for a while. No long lines or perverted interferences. You could take your time soaking in the warm water, and if they arrived by late dinner, they would find you already sated, happy and relaxed in the kitchen.
  Right, decisions finally made, you went back down the stairs.
 First, you needed your book back from Usopp, who swore he would finish and return yet never did, so you made your way to the boyâs quarters. They have lockers with their names, so it wouldnât be too difficult unless he stashed it somewhere else, hopefully, the room wasnât too messyâ âDamn,â you heard someone hiss, a low voice that stopped you in your tracks, followed by inaudible murmurs that most definitely belonged to a man.
  Fuck. Just like that, your good mood died, snatching your solitude away before you had the chance to indulge in it fully.
 There was someone else here wrecking your fantasy and all the excitement of relaxing alone. No one ever said you would be guarding the ship with another person, yet the sounds of shuffling filled you with instant disappointment as you stood outside the room with the door slightly ajar.
 You eyed them carefully through the crack, peeking in to seize a glimpse of who was ruining your day of fun, only to catch a wisp of blonde hair and a streak of smoke before you heard him hum something to himself as he shrugged off his suit jacket, clearly undressing.
 Oh.
 Swallowing your nerves, you spied from the slim gap through the doorâ watching smooth, slender hands loosen and tug on the tie around a pale neck until it slipped out and neatly folded on the dresser in front of him.Â
 You paused, disappointment somehow melting as something else fluttered through your body. Something hot. Something wicked and indecent thumped an ache in your core as you watched him unbutton his top collar.
 Then the second.
 Third.
 Unwittingly, your thoughts began to drift. Obliviously slipping into a heated dream envisioning how his strong hands would feel on your hips, your waist, gripping your supple skin when he presses you into his chest. The hot wisps of smoke and spice fogging your perception when he tilts his head down to yours, lips soft and slightly partedâŠ
 Sanji rolled his neck, popping the tension that released a low hiss from him, startling you out of the fantasy you unknowingly faded into before a sudden realisation rooted you to the spotâ you were watching a man undress.Â
  You were watching Sanji undress.
 You only needed your bookâ a simple noise or shuffle would make your presence known, but you watched Sanji rake his fingers through his hair instead and toe off his shoes, standing in the middle of the room.
 You werenât all that sure about the layout of their quarters, considering you were usually respectfulâ but you could tell Sanji was closer to the beds and had a medium-sized dresser beside it with a sink and mirror in the corner. The room was spacious, bigger than the girlâs quarters, including a sofa and table in a sunken spot nestled in the middle of their room. It wasnât as disorganised as you pictured. A lot of colourful knacks matching different aesthetics, but they all had a place that belonged to them. A piece of individuality.
 You leaned back, hoping you went unnoticed by the man who often sang for your attentionâ and Namiâs and Robinâs, and any pretty girl he laid his eyes on. He was shameless, obscene. Yet there you stood, watching him unwind and strip ever so slowly exposing a physique you never expected from the shipâs cook.
 The wavering sense of guilt drifted from your consciousness, fading into a vague afterthought with every second you spent gazing into the rift through the door as if it were luring you into depravity.
 You wondered why you held your breath when his humming stopped.
 Say something beforeâ
 His tired groan flushed warmth on your cheeks as you ducked behind the frame, shamefully peering into the room and watching him finish unbuttoning his blue striped shirt with deft fingers. Gingerly unclasping the buttons one by one until the shirt hung loosely on his shoulders. Over soft skin and hardened muscle.
 It was almost elegant how he shifted his cigarette with his teeth to avoid the tiny trickles of ashes from falling on his suit, then gently placed his black jacket on the bed with grace you couldnât fathom as he slid the shirt off his broad shoulders in the same motion.
 Brightening the room, hitching your breath.
Sanji... he was beautiful.
 In a gentle sort of way, with poise, strength and a style all his own. In an amorous way that kept you fixated on his toned back. His broad shoulders, smooth chest, and the cut of his well-defined abs. In the sense that had you admiring the grace of his movements and all the years he must have spent perfecting them.
 You have watched him work while travelling with the strawhats these last few weeks. For no other reason than admiration, at the time, because you respected his power and the regency of his fighting style. But now, in the absence of stubborn rivalry and heart-eyed temptationsâ to glimpse the softness of his smile for yourself was like witnessing the shimmer of undisturbed water shining in the light of a spring day.
 Peaceful.
 A smile all his own, no snarky comment or perverted leer to taint the innocence or sincerity of his expressionâ you could only describe it as pretty.
 It had you clutching the hem of your sundress, crouching down slightly when his lithe body sauntered from your sight. Was he preparing to take a shower? Did they have their own private facilities? Or is he about to walk out and catch you and your hidden decadence for unassuming men?
 Your mind raced with questions, mixing with a perverted sort of fascination you dared not to admit, leering behind the door that hinged on the stillness of your presence.
 Sanji turned back to your frame, humming another tune that was all too familiar when music played merrily on the deck. He sounded at ease, his voice carrying through the room softer than the smoke that swirled around him.
 You bit back a smile, unintentionally slanting into the door, craving more than a slim peek into the room. deeper than a glance, especially when his hand inched towards his pants.
 His movements were effortlessâ if it were not for the click of the buckle and the loud snap of leather, you would have missed how he unclasped his belt with one hand and yanked it fluidly with one rough tug out of the loops.
 Fuck, that should not have been as attractive as it was, yet heat flushed anyway like it was coursing through your blood vessels, pumping your heart into a sensual beat out of its control. As much as you wanted to deny it, and turn your guilt away, it forced you to realise how difficult it was becoming to justify your presenceâ and even tougher to care about the intrusion of Sanjiâs privacy.
 He would have done the same, right? Though Sanji would have been less conspicuous and ten times more audacious, it was still innocent for you. For now.
  âWhereâs?â He mumbled before a soft aha came right after, a blue towel appearing in your field of vision. Hard muscles and a lean torso shifted through the gap, his back to you as he fiddled with something you could not see.
 Your gaze lingered, slinking down every tight ridge and exposed skin you were blessed to witness.
 There was a beauty to him you had not seen before, a tenderness to his features you only noticed now through the sliver of light. The colour on his cheeks, the tilt of his lips, the little curl of his eyebrow most people teased him for. There was something feminine about itâ a spark of gentility he may have inherited from his mother, not that you knew much about that, just a softness he seemed to be blessed with.
 It was admirable how he took excellent care of his things too. Rolling his belt, setting aside his cufflinks, buffing his shoes, even hanging his shirt over the chair to be later washed and pressedâ you know he did after Brook thanked him for kindly ironing his shirts as well.
 Perhaps there is more to him than silly sexual deviances. More than hazy eyes over full tits and round ass-cheeks. Sanji was diligent. Thoughtful. Tender.
 Whereas you were the deviant leaning in a little too intently now, your perverted gaze following the veins on his forearms as he stretched them above his head, emitting low groans when his back pulled tautly and the muscles constricted tight.
  You squirmed, the sounds of his groans and sighs making you clench your thighs as you watched him stretch, then admired himself in the mirror, rubbing his chin over the dark hairs you wished he wasnât thinking of shaving. You liked the facial hairâ almost as much as his ass when he leaned forward to splash some water on his face.Â
 âWait..â you murmured out loud without thinking. When did he snuff the cigarette?
 Shame filled you instantly. Sanjiâs ass distracted you for too long because now he was wiping his face with a clean blue towel, droplets of water rolling down his sturdy neck before they were selfishly wiped away just when you began imagining licking it off his skin.
 You huffed, your feet planted to the floorboards, unable to speak louder than a tortured gasp while your thighs cinched to ease an unpleasant ache when he ran his hand through his hair again, with pretty blonde strands falling wet over his face. Over sweet eyes and high cheekbones.
 It was exhilarating, intrusive, and extremely impolite, yet you could not turn away or apologise for the violation, too mesmerised by the physique usually clad in lavish suits. Only witnessing a faint glimmer of the man you had never known beforeâ lurking behind the shadow of the door frame that separated you from him and spared him from your wandering stare.
 There was a clink and a small flame before the smell of smoke wafted through the door once again. A thick cloud of vapour swirled around Sanji as he tilted his head back, eyes closed and basking in the serenity of the surrounding silence. Much like you wanted to before you became lustfully distracted, spoiling his privacy. Invading his space. That guilt you previously estranged yourself from inched back into your consciousness as Sanji sighed softly, looking every bit of the peace you intended for yourself earlier.Â
 Your teeth latched on your bottom lip, nervousness churning, desire twisting into a sick delusionâ your prying had to end. Even Sanji deserved the politeness of privacy.
 So, you turned to leave, determined to ignore all you had seen, just for the floorboards to creak under your weight when your feet shuffled a little too loudly.
 Your body stilled, you felt your pulse explode, and excuses and apologies were ready to spill from your trembling lips as you whipped your head back to the doorâ only to freeze when you caught him unbuttoning his pants.
 He stood there, shirtless, hair damp and dark pants low on his hips as the zipper rang louder than the blood rushing in your head.
 A smothered gasp escaped behind your hand, an inaudible âOh god,â choking out beneath the pleasured grunts you heard through the wall. Sweat beaded down your temple, somehow feeling hot and sticky despite the chilling wind that ruffled your hair, tickling the flushed skin of your chest as your breathing quickened.
 He was... touching himselfâ idly, lazily, using the heel of his palm to rub on his crotch as it steadily grew into a heavy bulge pressing into the teeth of the zipper.
 âFuck... â
 You squeaked, thankfully no louder than his own low grunt.
 His teeth peaked through his smile, chuckling at something past your sight. His smile was sultry, his laugh airy. Thank God, no one could ever see the creeping blush up your neck over Sanji. Or feel the stickiness that marred your panties over the sight of his erection lewdly shaped beneath the fabric of his dark pants. The man who needed blood transfusions whenever he saw a pretty girl.
 You would have felt humiliated if you werenât so distracted. And breathless, lightheaded, and not to mention wet.
 His ridiculousness was why you never noticed these things before, like the slenderness of his long fingers, or how his sharp jaw clenched to keep the cigarette in placeâ or the elegance of his strides across the room to place his shoes in the locker and hang his suit jacket before stepping into the sunken sofa.
 A new light, a new Sanji to youâ a voyeuristic secret you could never confess even through the stuttered breaths of your own arousal.
  Shit, shit, shit!
 He was right there, facing youâ yet unaware of the glowering eyes and thundering pulse a few feet away from him. At least, thatâs what you hoped as you watched him throw his head back over the couch and rub the back of his neck tiredlyâ teasing you with a view of his sculptured body and the heavy tent straining against the zip of his pants.
 Fuck⊠he was a vision. Perhaps if he had a fraction of this elegance towards women, he would have them falling at his feet, begging for his attentionâ panting his nameâ raking your nails down his smooth chest.
 Caressing him the way your fingers unconsciously mimicked on the door as you pressed yourself against it, tits hot and heavily squished into redwood, desperate for cool relief on your flushed skin while straining to see past the hem of his pants. He was so close, yet out of reach, as you watched his hand run down his neck, gliding it on his chest sensually before grasping the chubb that had him sighing lowly into his own touch.
 âJust a little,â he groaned, rubbing on his cock lazily, as if he was convincing himself to indulge in his own pleasure, âbefore they come back.â
 Oh god, oh god.
 You werenât in the right state of mind to be making decisions when every grumble and low hum of his vibrated straight between your thighs. Pooling slick in your panties that had you chewing on your bottom lip to sanctify some sanity when heated arousal rushed through your body.
 âWe have time,â he murmured, shifting in his seat to tug down his pants a little more, dark blonde tufts of hair peeking through, giving himself room to breathe with his underwear sliding just beneath it. His chubb was fat and still hidden, but you could see the tip twitch with every squeeze of his abdomen, teasing himself with the friction rubbing upon his dick. âuhh, yea, please.â He moaned a sweet sound seeped in desperation, his eyes closed and hips jerking, playing his fantasy out loud, his hands clenched by his sides. âTouch me, please, Iâll be goodâ, he whispered, smiling as he did, a flush colouring his cheeks. âJusâ for you, yea? All you. Pretty girl, make me so hard.â He choked the last word, taking the cigarette out of his mouth for a steady breath of air before clenching it back in his teeth.
  You were a mess.
 You had to stop, turn awayâ breathe.
 Sanji was begging, whining to be touched as he bucked his hips, using his abs to move his cock in his pants. Edging himself in a fantasy you only hoped to be a part ofâ but you could never dare to interfere. Your chest heaved, nipples taut and stroking against the door, gripping the handle so it stayed put even as your legs shook from the pressure to keep you upright.
 Leave, you had to leave.
 Move your feet, release the grip on the door and shift your weight to the side.
 You manually counted your breaths, ripping your gaze from Sanjiâs pleading stare.
 Leave, just leave.
 âDon't leave,â he whined, sitting upright. âat least let me watch you too, itâs only fair.â
  It was as if a wave of cold, salty, ocean water dunked on you from the way you shrieked at the sound of your own name.
 The door creaked, opening wide, betraying you by exposing the statue you had become and on the brink of collapsing from shame or even darting from his sights if you could have managed to work your knees.
 Though his eyes were free from shock or disgust, he looked almost excited. Eager. The cigarette clenched in his wide grin; hair pushed backâ you could see how his eyes glowed.
 You gaped back at him, shock contorting into a dry wheeze you couldnât control while his smile curled into a light chuckle, amused by your flustered expression.
 âDonât leave,â he repeated, the invitation sounding almost kind coming from his lips, a charming smile hidden behind an obscene request while tugging on his pants when his hard cock pressed too tightly in its confines. âWatch me, please.â
 Sanji asked you not to leave.
 Sanji said your name while asking you not to leaveâ not to leave watching him masturbate.
 Your breath fell past your lips, frozen just outside the bedroom door, your blood still humming through your body. You were stuck. Mortified. No matter how many times you rephrased or repeated it in your head, you could not move or answer him in anything but a squeak. âWhy?â
 âWhy not?â He countered, striding towards you, bulge still prominent. âYouâve been watching me the whole time. Why stop now?â
  âNo! I-I didnât mean toââ
 He nodded teasingly, âyou liked it.â Sanji snickered when you snapped your mouth shut, your denial ruined by the searing shame choking your words as he stalked closer. âI liked it too,â he said lowly, âmade me so hard.â
 âI wasnâtââ you huffed, desperate to explain yourself despite the way your gaze flickered down at his chest with every pathetic stammer. âI just wanted- and then you- itâs onlyââ
 Sanji laughed, waving his hand dismissively with his cigarette pinched between his fingers, twirling a ring of smoke between you. âDonât worry about it, sweetheart. No harm in a little peeking,â his teeth flashed prettily, excitement shining at your bashful glances towards his shapely crotch. âIf you want, maybe you can make it up to me. Iâd hate to tell the rest of the crew what you did.â
 âHow?â You hated how timid you sounded, so you cleared your throat and stood straighter, only taking a small step back when he got closer, heart thundering and not at all bothered by his proximity. âItâs not like Iâd let you watch me. I know what youâre like.â
 âDo you?â
 âY-yes.â
 His curly brow quirked up, amusement glossing his tone, âYou donât sound so sure, dearie.â
 âI know youâll just brag about me looking at you as if Iâm some horny perv lurking around the boyâs roomââ
 âBut you are,â he interjected, taking a slow drag of smoke and blowing it downwind. âI wasnât the one caught lurkingââ
 âThis time!â You bristled from the accusation, digging an accusatory finger at his firm, muscled chest, lingering a second too long before snapping. âYouâre the one always butting in when the girls bathe. Youâre the one trying to sneak a glance when we change! Youâre the rude one!â You shouted, guilt clawing in your chest when all he did was smile. âI didnât mean to! Iâm sorry, okay? But donât make me out to be a pervert like you.â
 Sanji rubbed his chest sadly, palming the exact spot you touched as if he were cherishing the contact with his big hand sprawled on his own skin. âAw, darlinâ,â he cooed with a cute pout on his lips, âdo I make you uncomfortable?â
âNo!â you shrieked a little too quickly, âI-I mean, yes! When youââ
 âWhen I undress?â
âGod!ââ
 âWhen I rub my cock?â
 Your cheeks burned, a strangled whine slipping before you could clamp your teeth on your bottom lip, âThatâs not! Youââ
 âI, what?â he purred, tilting his head down again, the simmering scent of smoke tickling your lips, âyou canât even look at me in the eye, but you had no trouble watching me stroke my cock to you. Did watching me make you wet, darlinâ?â
 The lie spilled in an undignified splutter, the word no holding too many syllables when you tried to say it.
 His laughter chimed in your ears, a vibrant sound that brightened his face, and though he was laughing at you, a part of you softened from the sight. Mesmerised by it.
 Pretty. Shimmering waters.
 Somehow, it helped you release a steady breath, perhaps for the first time since you discovered him. Putting you at ease and in control.
 Taking another step back, it was easier to blurt out your next half-lie. âI wasnât watching you, I came for something.â
  âIs there any chance that thing being me?â
âThere is a better chance I slap you if you donât back the fuck up.â
  âPromise?â Sanji chuckled, a rosy blush tinting his cheeks. He invaded your space again, smoke and soap stroking your senses while his hands stayed respectfully by his sides. âWow, dirty words sound so pretty when you say it.â He tilted his chin, inching closer, lips inviting, âSay fuck again.â
 In your head, you slapped him. You pushed past his large, dominating frame, and went on your way to enjoy the bath you had planned and forget all that you have seen.
 In reality? In the sensuous bubble of arousal he encased you inâ the curse tickled his lips in a low murmur. Like a pre-emptive kiss he savoured by swiping his tongue on his bottom lip just so he could taste the words you teased as an insult.
 âAgain,â he pleaded, slanting you into the wooden railing. Gripping the beam. Almost chest to chest. Almost touching.
âFuck,â you breathed, âyou.â
 âPleaseâŠagain..â
âSanjiââ
 âmmhh..â
ââfuck⊠you.â
 âShit.â his laugh strained into a desperate husk.
 You could almost taste it. And you wanted to, to taste him that is, because you could tell he was cracking. In a singular moment, you turned the tides on him, taking the upper hand and the dominance he flexed exposing you. And like a switch, Sanji was pleadingâ his adams apple bobbed, lips parted, eyes blown. Not anything like the charm he exuded earlier. He sounded helpless. Distraught. Struggling against the invisible line you still held between you, yet honouring the boundary you have placed because he was still a gentleman.
 You admired that.
 Part of youâ the wretched, drunk on lust part you shoved in a cage most nights to escape her fantasiesâ wished for him to push the waters and break the barrier. To feel the warmth of his skin pressed against yours. His hands, his lips.
 His eyes shined instead. Hooded and sparkling a desire you mimicked with your slow breaths.
 The birds squawked above, and Sanji finally found his voice.
âCan I masturbate to you?â
 âHuh?â
âYouâre so pretty, so tempting,â he said. Flexing his grip on the beam as if it were a lifeline. âI loved it when you were watching me. If you donât want me to touch you, thatâs fine. I wonât push you. But please, watch me. And I promise it will be just between us, okay?â
 You squirmed. The words of rejection faded faster than they formed while you tried not to shrink under his pleading stare. You could feel your back pressed against the rail, digging into your skin as Sanji stood tall, shirtless and strongâ caging you with his hand gripping the wooden beam right by your hip. Your bodies close, breaths hot and almost in sync, yours just a little shakier as you contemplated his invitation.
 To watch him. Openly.
 Why was it so daunting with his permission? With his lust blown eyes homed in on yours. Longing for something more than your stuttered breath to brush his skin.
 Even in the open air, all you could feel was the heat raying from his bare chest and the twinge of smoke fanning around you. His arousal straining yet inches away from contact with your thigh he keeps achingly out of reach. It was just him, you, and the birds sitting on the mast, but it felt like you were locked in a steel cage with hundreds of spectators waiting on your next move.
 You couldnât hear them above the raging waves of your own thoughts. However, it was hard to stay objective when the currents that pulsed in your blood rushed between your thighs, dousing you with a tender ache that was becoming harder to ignore.
 When you took too long to respond, his smile faded. âIâll leave you beââ
 âSit back down,â you commanded, pushing on his chest and smiling when he shuddered beneath your palm.
 Sanji grinned. He took your hand, your name spoken softer than any ballad as he whispered it into your skin and placed a kiss to accompany the warmth it spread. âYes, my lady.â
 In the depths of his eyes, you fell. The world blackened and you plunged deep into his domain. Into his desires.
 Tethered only by the delicate hold he kept of your hand, you stepped into the room behind him, keeping your head up despite the nervousness that swirled within.
 The anonymity you deluded yourself into believing snapped when the door closed behind you. Sanji was freakishly deceptive. Of course, he knew. Of course, he was teasing you. But the genuine plea that shined in his eyes made it impossible to walk away.
 He looked so cute. So masculine and vulnerable at the same time. You wanted to see more of him it drove you right into the lustful fog that blanketed the space in between.
 When he released your hand, you found yourself missing the contact of his large palm clasped in yours.
 Sanji took his place back on the sofa, thighs spread, and lips parted in breathless excitement. But before anything else happened, he snuffed his bud in the ashtray in front of him. âYou can walk away any time you want, sweetheart. No hard feelings or awkwardness, okay?â
 Your shoulders visibly relaxed, unaware they were ever tense, but it made you smile anyway. Grateful for the reminder and the familiarity of his gentlemanly deference.
 âI know,â you give him a genuine smile, âjust between us, yeah?â
âOf course, darlinâ.â His smile mirrored yours like the glimmering waters they are modelled after. Putting you at ease and in control once again when he affirms; âJust between us.â
 With a deep breathâ you cooled your expression, while his eyes shined as an air of apathy befell around you.
 There was no turning back from this, and as you stood there, shielded from the cooling wind and the anchoring weight of the door you once hid behind, you realised that you truly didnât want to.
 You were inside.
 You had his attention. You could watch himâ Sanji, undress, and pleasure himself without anything obstructing your view or fixate on the shame twisting in your gut this time because he invited you in. Led you by the hand while you pretended the contact didnât ignite anything.
 That the warmth of his hand clasped in yours didnât buckle your knees when you stepped over the threshold. Or that you could still feel the brush of his lips on your fingers.
 You could continue pretending none of it mattered because this was just a game, and you were good at playing games. You could play this one with him too.
 âSit back,â you ordered after finally finding your voice, ââand show me what you were doing.â
 âFuck,â his hands fumbled.
 His excitement forced you to chew on your bottom lip to surpass a snicker. It was endearing, but you held onto your indifference like a vice. You were looking forward to seeing him unravel.
 âKeepââ he swallowed thickly. âKeep talking to me like that.â
âLike what?â you watched him palm his cock through his pants again, his erection growing harder with the new stimulation beneath his hand. âTell you how I like to watch pretty boys touch themselves?â
 âuhh-ha,â Sanji choked softly. âYou think Iâm pretty?â
 You crossed your arms, smirking when his attention locked on to the swell of your breasts curving over the top of the dress, flashing delectable skin that had him swiping his tongue hungrily. âI think youâre a little pathetic,â you shrugged, âand predictable.â
 His lip tilted. âI guess I just canât help myself.â
âHmm, well, you can have a little more decorum, though. Be a little less obvious too.â
 He chuckled airily. âNot when Iâm stroking my cock to you, darlin.â
 Sanji shifted slightly, dragging his pants down lower and exposing more of the dark blonde trail that led past his waistband. Taunting you with a flash of skin you couldnât turn away from. âWant to see how hard just looking at you makes me?â
 A smile peeked through despite your best efforts. âI can see well enough from here.â
 âThatâs not what it looked like before,â he teased, cupping his balls through the fabric. âI thought you might fall through the door from how far you leaned in trying to sneak a peek.â
 âI wasnâtââ
âI thought we were passed the bashful lies, sweetheart?â
 You peered down at him through your lashes, ignoring the flush creeping up your neck from his sultry gaze.
 Neither of you said another word for a minute as the room filled with Sanjiâs breathy sighs. He was using his abs again, clenching them and bucking his hips to rub his cock against his pants. The friction making him grip the sofa. His lips part.
 Your thighs cinched watching his reddened tip slip through when his pants slid further down. He looked wrecked already. Pearly dribbles of pre-cum smeared over his abs, trickling over the toned lines and ridges with every jerk of his hips, adding a lewd sheen to his skin as the rise and fall of his chest quickened.
 Just standing there stumbled whines from his throat, you wondered about the sort of sounds he would make into your neck.
 âSanjiâ. His gaze snapped up. âUse your thumb for me,â you said softly. âRub on your slit, I want to see your tip get sensitive.â
 âSh-it, like this?â
âGood boy.â
 He moaned.
âOh,â you grinned. âYou like that, huh?â
 Sanji nodded timidly, his blush darkening when his control slipped. He didnât mean to confess such a kink, but the way you purred the praise sent shockwaves up his spine. Made his cock twitch, hand tremble.
 âI like how you talk to me,â he confessed lowly. âYour voice, how it sounds when you say my name. How you lower your tone, or your breath catches when I groanâ fuck. It drives me crazy.â
 You hummed playfully, nibbling on your bottom lip when he canted his hips into his hand rhythmically. Now completely free from the confines of his slacks, his cock stayed caged in his fist, his shaft long and slender throbbing with a hue that matched his cheeks as pre-cum slicked loudly, coating his fingers in its sticky mixture while you stood there ignoring the wetness soaking your own panties.
 âYou look desperate already, Sanji-kun.â You teased lightly, hiding your hands behind your back so he couldnât see you dig your nails into your palms. âDo you like being watched that much? I can see you leaking, your cock is so wet, and weâve just started. Are you going to cum so soon? Thatâs sort of pathetic, donât you think?â
 âI canât help it,â he groaned, damp blond strands falling over high cheekbones. âItâs like your eyes set me on fire. Igniting everything that sits under my skin, burning me through, it feels so good, it almost hurts. Fuck, sweetheart, I canât imagine what would happen if you touched me. Your hands on my chest, your sweet lips on my neck. If you so much as leaned into me, letting me breathe in your scent, uhh-shit- Iâm ashamed to admit I might cum untouched.â His throat constricted, seizing his words into a tortured rasp. âDarlinâ, for my sake, for my sanity, you have to stay back and let me just watch. Let me look at you and imagine all the ways youâd set me alight with just a kiss.â
âWould you let me?â you asked breathlessly. âKiss you, I mean.â
 âOh, in a heartbeat.â
âEven if youâd gush blood and pass out?â you couldnât help the giggle.
 âEven if it were my last,â Sanji groaned desperately. âTo kiss you would be the end of me, and I would pray theyâd bring me back so I can do it again.â
 Your chest tightened hearing the affection hidden beneath his moans.
 There were deep crescent shapes in your palms now, the skin reddened and pinched from your efforts to maintain even an ounce of control, but the sting paled in comparison to the drum of your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. Rattling the bars of your sanity the longer you stood in his presence.
 Sanji looked at you as ifâ as if he would never see the light again.
 With awe, longing, and something close to anguish when the light shines further away from him. As something beyond his reach yet to be cherished and marvelled at all the same. To be revered. Desired. Loved but never possessed because it wasnât his place to assert his will, but to bask in the warmth the light spread.
 It was intoxicating, and he was unravelling faster than you anticipated.
 You could tell from how he thumbed the thin veins forking along his length, how pre-cum spilled over his fingers, pooling at the base of his cock and how his chest heaved that he was chasing a fast-approaching release that had him stuttering your name past his lipsâ involuntarily rising heat all the way to the tips of your ears.
 Sanji was too erratic. Too frenetic.
 Moaning and thrusting and rolling his wrist over and over his shaft so fast, it was a wonder he remained conscious. He looked unbalanced. A sort of frantic that reminded you of all the times he over-excited himself and exploded into a fit leaving him comatose and bloodied.
 You had to slow him down, to set the pace for now only to have him moan in a melody of salacious cries later on, and then bend him into a rhythm only your pulse can match.
 At your mercy, your control.
 In a way that wouldnât end with the rest of the crew returning to find Sanji dead on the floor seeped in his own cum and blood. This is exactly how this was heading if you let him continue down this path.
 Whining incessantly while fucking his tight fist in faster strokes, his teary gaze seared straight into your core, almost certain you could feel the warmth of his touch from across the room as you fought the urge to squirm and find the power to bark:
  âStop.â
 The command shot straight through him. Snapping him at attention like a stinging whip on his back.
 His jaw ticked. Veins pulsed.
 Sanjiâs rigid composure would have been comical if his erection hadnât slapped against his stomach. Angry red and swollen with need, it looked almost painful, especially with the way his brows twisted miserably as he panted heavily glowing with sweat and desperation.
 âBreathe.â
 When he inhaled a wheezing, sharp breathâ you shook your head, instructing him to go slower. Calmer. Until his shoulders laxed and his throat swallowed a decent gulp. âGood boy, just breathe for me.â
 Sanji nodded meekly, even managing a smile as he clenched and unclenched his hands on his knees, wiping off the gooey, sordid evidence of his arousal in quiet shame.
 You observed him critically, assessing his mental and physical state and deeming him a little untethered. As if he were floating, glassy-eyed and adrift in his own mind until enough deep breaths grounded him back to your focus. You watched him come to grips with thingsâ his attention shifting to his pants bunched at his thighs, to his cock standing full mast, to the hot air suffocating the room.
 Sanji sighed wistfully, threading his trembling hand through his sweaty bangs and out of his face, a deep blush colouring his cheeks.
âFeeling better?â you asked gently. âI just canât have you passing out on me before things really get started.â
 It took him a moment to find his voice again. His throat was dry despite the wetness clinging to his skin.
 âSorry. Iâm justâ Iâm so hard,â he chuckled weakly. âCanât, uhhâ I canât imagine what you might think of me right now. How ridiculous and pathetic I might look being soâ so enamoured by you.â
 You shrugged to lighten the mood. âI always assumed you were a two-minute man, but I wonât tell anyone.â
 The laughter didnât quite reach his eyes as he flexed his fists, actively avoiding the erection pulsing against his stomach, or the truth of his blinding lust and the dizzying spell it held over him.
 âI thought I couldâ I thought I had more control, like when we were on the deck.â Sanji said sullenly, vaguely aware of the festering insecurities. âIt was exciting being the one to tease you, to look down at a beautiful woman like you and make her flustered. Being so close to you was- it was so hot, electric evenâ but having you watch me right now in that commanding tone is ten times more intense. Itâs addictingâ itâs also humiliating and thrilling all at once. I feel so contorted and ⊠Iâm embarrassed to admit how far Iâm willing to let you break meâ. He confessed shyly.
 âSanjiâŠâ
 âBut that somehow turns me on even more. Itâs just⊠youâre so beautifulâ. Sanji whispered gravelly, âItâs just not fair what that does to me.â
 âItâs okay,â you released your own shaky inhibitions with a slow exhale and offered a tilted smile, warmth tickling your cheeks upon his conviction. âI like seeing you this way. It was fun on the deck, how dominating you were teasing me. But right now, your eyes shine and itâs really flattering.â You smirked playfully, âPretty boys like you look best when theyâre sweaty and desperate.â
 Sanjiâs blush was much more obvious than yours, his fair complexion making every inner thought radiate through his skin, but he stayed quiet for a few seconds, his smile strained.
 âBe honest with me. If-if I hadnât said anything, would you have walked away without a word afterwards?â
 You thought about it for a moment, stunning him with your impassive gaze towards his raw vulnerability.
 There was a touch of wistfulness in itâ in the tenderness of his question making it clear that your answer would mean more to him than simply feeding his egoâ he needed to feel desirable, worthyâ so with a wicked idea, you took those steps forward to bridge the gap between you and relished when his chest hitched visibly as you stood planted between his open thighs.
 You pulled him back from the edge, only so you could push him down yourself.
 You were so close he could reach out and touch you now if he wanted, his leg could press against yours. His arm could brush your thigh and call it an accident, or he could even brazenly drag you into his lap to finally feel relief on his aching cock. It wouldnât even take much strength on his part, to grab you by the arm and yank you into his awaiting heat. Your body warm and pressed against his. Flushed and tight.
 But as you peered down at himâ his lashes wet, face burning, pre cum glistening. Hands stilted on his knees as he inhaled your scent so deep it filled his chestâ you know Sanji would never cross that line, not without permission.
 You felt powerful in that fact. In the knowledge that you could break a man as powerful as him with a caress, a word. A kiss.
 âYes. I would have walked away,â you confessed firmly. When his expression fell, you bent down at the waist, the words brushing on his lips. âBut I would have paid extra close attention to you.â
 His mouth fell open, your name almost coherent in the pitiful whimper that escaped disguised as a breath. Yet he still managed to smile despite the blood rushing to his head. âSweet God, youâre cruel.â
âAnd youâre shaking.â
 He was.
 Already unsteady and trembling to keep himself upright. To stay conscious and not let his vision completely glaze over as white spots danced across your face, sparkling you in a tantalising light he fought to keep in his sights even if it muffled his other senses when your scent enveloped him too. Erotically feminine and something so distinctly you his pulse ticked beneath his jaw.
 âMore, please..â
âmhmmâ you have to open your eyes and look at me, Sanji-kun. I might get sad and walk away if you donât.â
When he finally opened them, you were blessed by the sight of shimmering tears glossing wide, love filled pupils.
 âyâknowâŠâ you sighed, fighting the warmth spreading between your thighs, âwatching you made me realise something.â
 âWhat?â
 âThat there are layers to you, and I liked discovering them.â The noise he made resembled a strangled animal when you brushed your thumb over his soft cheek. âYour patience, tenderness, diligence, I never paid it any special attention until today. How you take care of your things, how gentle your hands areâ I never thought you would be soâŠâ you swiped your tongue upon his bottom lip. âBeautiful.â
 âFuck..â his eyes rolled. A full body shudder raked down his back this time, prickling every fibre etched in his being and ultimately triggering sensitive blood vessels in his nose to pop suddenly as spurts of cum pre-emptively dribbled out of his tip.
 You giggled. âAre you okay, Sanji-kun?â
you watched him shake his head inaudibly, hips humping the air for much needed relief as the blood trickled down his nose in slow drips. Almost mimicking how his cock drooled obscenely.
 He wouldnât last much longer like this. Every muscle, nerve and vein burned to keep himself tethered to the seat. âMore, I beg you. T-talk to me more, âm so close..â
 His plea sounded hoarse even to his own ears, but it made you smile all the same.
 âI think,â you trailed off, flickering your eyes to his lips, then wiping off the blood gently. âI would have paid attention to your laugh.â
 That sobered him a little bit, the confusion furrowed his brows.
 âYou looked at ease, even though you were teasing me. I liked hearing you hum, chuckle, seeing you smile. You looked relaxed. There was something attractive about it, I canât quite explain how much I enjoyed seeing that, even before you unzipped your pants. I think I was a little enamoured by you.â
 His expression glowed. âR-really?â
 You nodded earnestly. âYouâre beautiful, Sanji. Thatâs why I was watching you, why I had to walk away cause it made me feel guilty to see you so ⊠unguarded.â
 âIââ
âDo me a favour,â you cupped his jaw with a warm palm, âdonât pass out.â
 Before he could reply, Sanji tasted heaven.
 It was the slightest touch on his lips, barely a kiss, hardly a brushstroke, but it was enough to hear something akin to an angelâs song as he was bathed in a white light.
 Or âŠ
 His eyes rolled so far back, his vision became discoloured, and the sound he heard was a high-pitch whine that tore through his own throat and reverberated in the room.
âOn your knees.â
 Sanji collapsed, gasping and quaking on his hands and knees as if heâd been fighting for his life. Which, in a way, he really was. Fighting to keep some blood in his system that hadnât already poured into his cock or down his nose when the heat coiling in his belly burned that much hotter from your kiss. Scorching him, blistering the goosebumps that prickled along his flesh making him hypersensitive and numb all at onceâ numb to the sounds outside this room, hypersensitive to your every move. And if anyone were to find him like thisâ no, he didnât care. You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from, even if it ripped him apart, and heâd be damned if anyone came to ruin it now.
 Instead, he chewed on his bottom lip, savouring the taste of you, of your sweet gloss and plump lips and dizzying scentâ but when he reached to fist his cock to the memory of you pressed against himâ Sanji couldnât stop himself from keening loudly when your foot pushed his hand away.
 âI didnât say you could touch yourself, cutieâ.â
 âWhat can I do?â Sanji quivered up at you pleadingly. âIâll do anything, please. Oh please, please tell me what to do for you, darlinâ.â
 âTake off my shoes.â
 You lifted your right leg for him, offering up your foot clad in the strappy sandal and watched him inhale sharply through his nose.
 âIââ his adams apple bobbed as he sat back on his heels, âI can touch you?â
 This was a test, a prank. You were only playing with him. the kiss was enough to kill him, and your smile was too sinful to be sincere, but he prayed, nonetheless. Pleaded and hoped and then choked on his own spit when you nodded firmly.
 âYes, but only my legs. And if youâre a good boy, Iâll give you something better.â
 Sanji nodded heartily, murmuring his thanks and gratitude for the opportunity presented to him, his voice carrying a thick layer of emotion he didnât have the sense to evaluate for this blessing. Only knowing the relief he felt when your bare skin pressed against his, whispering the praises into the cleft of your ankleâ his lips brushed a chaste kiss, a sweet touch that could only be seeped with devotion.
 You wouldnât have heard it at all if it werenât breathed into your skin, ardently sincere like the last prayer whispered by the helpless. So, in an act of mercy, you brushed his hair back and tilted his head up towards you, holding him delicately as if heâd shatter by your hands. Which you were fully capable of doingâ but you presented him the tenderness of your smile instead, verbalising your consent and letting it flow soothingly between you.
 He took a few seconds to stabilise himself, though even with your permission, Sanjiâs touch felt shaky against your skin as if he was unsure about your words or his own strength to maintain consciousness, but he did anyway. Willed himself with the strength to harden his spine and indulge in his deepest desires. Just this once, while you still graced him with it.
 His hands were warm, soft, and gentle. Everything like the man they belonged to as Sanji stroked your leg sensually, starting from your knee all the way down to your ankle. His long fingers pressing and squeezing the supple skin beneath his palms, curving along your plump flesh pulling quiet sighs you didnât bother to hide that he drank in greedily, relishing in your pleasure as if it was pierced straight into his vein.
 âyâso beautiful,â Sanji groaned into your leg. âI canât believeââ he shook his head, ridding himself of the doubt that plagued him before dragging his lips along your calf as his fingers fiddled with the strap that wrapped around you. Achingly slow and deliberately unhurried. âYouâre so soft, itâs incredible. Even your legs are gorgeous.â he spoke as if thorns were scraping his throat, every word coming out in a low rasp filled with need. âEvery part of you sets me on edge,â he continued, his kisses following where the straps once curled, ââ as if Iâm holding on by my fingertips, and the only thing that keeps me from breakingâ from plummeting and colliding into the ground is you.â He slipped your shoe off and placed it gently to the side, your foot now bare, then moved on to the other leg and gave it the exact same treatment. âBut⊠its also like youâre waiting for me at the bottom, ready to unearth me and giggle as you dust off the dirt from my shattered bones.â
 You feel his kiss on your ankle again, a breathy sigh tickling your flesh as you swallowed your nerves. âWhat if I am? I like you beneath me.â
 âI donât mind,â he replied easily. He held you up carefully, his grip firm yet tender as he kneaded the taut muscle, every caress and gentle stroke pooling desire deep in your core. âIf it were anyone else, I would have done what I usually do by making a fool of myself as soon as the rest of the crew left.â The heat of his stare was almost unnerving. âBut it was you, and I never felt more compelled to fall.â
 Fuck.
 You lost your resolve, and your expression softened with a laugh that fluttered out like the butterflies tickling your chest. âYou shouldnât look so attractive with your cock so wet, Sanji-kun. Itâs unfair, and hard to remain impassive when you look so beautiful desperate for me.â
 âIâm sorry, darlinâ.â He laid his cheek against your leg, exhaustion weighing him. âWe can stopâ, he offered sincerely. This momentary pause gave him the clarity he needed, the fog inhibiting his senses cleared enough to think. Though his cock still ached, there was a layer of calm settling too. Your comfort important to him above all else. âYouâve done more than enough for me,â Sanji pressed another kiss to your knee, your shoe accompanying its twin on the floor, âmore than I could have hoped for already. It wonât take much for me to finish on my own. You were wonderful, darlin'.â
 âYou would stop, just like that?â
 âOf course,â Sanji affirmed candidly, his eyes kind. âLike I said, I would do anything for you. My pleasure is secondary.â
The words hung in the air, but your plan was still in motion.
 âTell me, then. What would happen if I touched rightâŠhere.â
âAhh-uhh!â
 âDoes it hurt?â you cooed sickeningly sweet. âhmm, from your expression it looks like youâre enjoying it a little too much.â
 He bobbed his head frantically, blonde hair flailing with the movement, your devious plan wrecking him immediately. âYe-es, in the-uhh best way, angel. Fu-uuck, I-I canât believe youâre tou-ching me like this.â
 âYeah? yâlike it that much?â you laughed airily. âYour balls feel soft on my foot, all rounded and heavy.â Lifting your leg up higher, you rubbed your leg on his length, sliding it up and down, skin to skin, until those salacious moans spilt from his mouth in loud cries. âwow, itâsâwarm and wet from all the pre you were leaking earlier, too. How gross.â
 âOh-oh, god, pl-ease, sweet darlinâ. Fuck-ngh!â
 You hummed delightedly, watching his cheeks blossom into another sweet blush, his eyes glazing over immediately as Sanji shuddered and keened beneath you with the familiar scent of desperation clouding the room in a thicker layer. A potent, charged atmosphere that had you panting as you watched Sanji unravel once again in the short time you had him under your commandâ your plan a success.
 âYouâre dripping all over again.â you teased with another slow drag of your foot, his balls resting on top while his shaft twitched upon your shin. âLook at how your pretty cock leaks! All red and cute! So much cum, Iâm surprised you havenât squirted.â
  âohh-ahh, sw-sweetheart donât be me-eean!â
 âIâm not!â you insisted through unfiltered giggles. âLook at you, humping my leg! Gettinâ yourself all worked up from just touching me, youâre so cute, Sanji-kun.â Your laughter seized as you clicked your tongue, faux disgust colouring your tone as you rolled your foot over his long shaft, collecting the stringy wetness that drooled from his tip on your toes. âTsk, your cock is makinâ a dirty mess all over my leg, though. Could you be anymore pathetic?â
 ââm soârry,â he squirmed. âCa-an I clean it uhh-up?â
  You leered down at him, âonly if you use your mouth, pretty.â
 Sanji licked long strokes along your leg, collecting the sticky essence that spit from his tip the harder he rolled his hips. Swallowing his own dirty arousal while fervently grinding his cock along the curve of your leg with no sense or rhythm, only following the lust you stoked within him, stumbling moans, hitching his whines. Begging and squeezing his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling, but you saw them anyway.
 You saw everything. How his chest concaved with every breath he took, how his balls pulled tight on your foot, how deeply and utterly he was at your mercy.
 It filled you with pride. Along with a dark sense of satisfaction you couldnât quite place to have Black-leg Sanjiâ bounty over a billion berries, the left wing of the future king of the piratesâ whinging and coating your skin with his arousal.
 And you had one more trick up your sleeve. One that could possibly kill him, but you wanted to push the boundaries.
  See how far you could bend him before he snapped.
 âYou canât cum yet,â you sang cheerily, weaving your fingers through his hair again. âYou have to be good for me, okay?â
 âFuu-uk, âm tryinâ!â Sanji cried out, his last threads of control almost slipping from his grasp, stitch by stitch, seam by seam, but he gripped them tighter in his fists, and fiercely blinked away the fog misting his vision just to have the chance to gaze upon your smile for a little while longer. âI wo-onât, jusâ for you. Cause you-you asked.â
 âGood boy. Now, tell me you like it.â you gave his hair a firm tug, directing focus to his bucking hips. âTell me how much your cock aches, how hard it is, how much you love touching me.â
 Sanji shuddered, another frantic nod dizzying his vision as he jerked his hips harder. âI do! So-so muchâ, he hiccupped. âI lo- ohhh, uhh, yes!â I love you touch-inâ me. Teasinâ me, makinâ a mess of me-eeeâ ahh, shit! Tou-uch me, please, fuck! Please, I love itâ love your eyes, your voice, your touch. Iâll die, ohh, god-oh god, lemme jusâ die like this, itâs oka-ay if itâs you. For you, all you, fuck-fuck!â
 âI think you deserve your reward now, Sanji-kun.â
 Sanji snapped his head up, his hips stilting. âThis-this isnât the reward?â how could it not be? He was touching you, kissing your body, smearing his cock all over your pretty leg. What could be better than this?
 You pulled back from him, and slowly, painfully slow, deathly slow, you lifted the hem of your dress.
 He first saw your thighs, thick and supple, making him swipe his tongue along his bottom lip just imagining the taste of your sweat, of the grooves of your cellulite.
  your dress lifted higher, and his hands flexed, picturing squeezing on the squishy flesh and feeling it fill his palms and pudge out against his fingers where he couldn't quite grasp.
 This was the reward, yes? Pretty, coloured thick thighs heâd be happy to touch, to worship with hips he could sink his teeth into, full and curved and beautifully rounded.
 But your hand lifted higher. Higher. Until he ascended so high he heard the angelâs song again, welcoming him to paradise.
 âSanji, youâre shaking anâ whining loudly.â
 Was he?
âWipe the blood first⊠good boy. Come here, itâsâokay,â you tugged him closer, his face inches away from your panties. âYouâve been so good, I thought you might like to ...â your cheeks burned, âTo touch.â
  He could smell it now, the wetness that made your thighs clench earlier. That had you sighing and chewing on your bottom lip as he chased his own pleasure. The arousal that allowed him this far with you, coating your pink panties and, fuuck.
 You-your panties⊠theyâ they had the cutest bow on it. right above your mound and the lewd wet patch he ached to⊠âDid-did you say touch?â
 You nodded, tugging him closer by his hair. âI wonât take off my panties, but I donât see why you canât use them to get yourself off, just this once. Itâs what you always wanted, right?â
 What he always wanted.
 âAre⊠are you sure?â
 What he always wanted and prayed and dreamed and lusted afterâ but he had to make sure. To know this is what you wanted. Sanji couldnâtâ he wouldnât be able to live with himself if it werenât your desire too. Even if he was seeing double and the room tilted on its axis or his blood pooled on the floorboards more than his own body, he wouldnât be able to stand again without hearing you sayâ
  âSanji-kun, touch me.â
 You tugged him closer, cooing your affirmations, stroking his hair. Going slow and speaking so softly, he wondered if you were talking to him at all.
 âItâs okay,â you purred, your eyes gentle. âYou can use me to cum. I want to see you cum for me.â
Use you?
His brows knitted. That didnât sound right.
Use.
 Use.
Use?
 That word felt wrong, dirty. Even in his inebriated, lust-filled fog, Sanji knew that it wasnât right. That it was tactless. That you deserved better than that.
 âI donâtâ I donât want to ever use you.â he husked. Just saying the word made his stomach churn, and though his limbs felt heavy, he lifted himself a little taller on his knees. âDonât ever say that to me again.â
 Sanjiâs sudden coherency surprised you when he was trembling moments before, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone, and you could only stareâ awed, heated and incredibly wrecked with the emotions he stirred. Yet rather than replying, your grip on him tightened, a challenge tilting your brow, waiting to see what move heâd make with the offer you raised.
 âOkay⊠oh-okay, âm gonna touch you now, darlinâ.â
 With all the strength he could muster, Sanji pushed forward and inhaled deeply, pressing his nose in your crotch, and filling his lungs until the only air that could possibly flow through him was you. âOhh, fuck.â Sanji groaned, the sound vibrating on your most intimate parts, pulling deep from his throat, and sounding nothing short of sinful that had you keening lowly in response.
 âOh, fuck- oh fuck, darlinâ youâre a dream.â He murmured into your cunt, his words bleeding back to babble as he breathed in long and deep. It was intoxicating, the heady scent of your pussy. Driving him mad, sick, practically delirious by the slick that marred your panties, creating the most dazzling patch of arousal right in the middle. Oh fuck, his tongue immediately began lapping at the damp fabric caging your plump lips. âFuck!â
 You choked on a moan. âIs that all you can say?â
 Sanji shook his head, his hands finding your full-figured hips and squeezing, eliciting a low mewl with the fat filling his palms and bulging out at the sides just how he pictured it. âFuck!â he grunted again into your cunt; his mouth muffled but his shouts reverberated from the intensity that shook him at the core. âFuck-fuck!â
 You huffed out a chuckle. âSweetie, if itâs too much for youââ
 He couldnât hear you. Sanji held you tighter, drew you closer into his open mouth, his jaw slack, muscles taut, cock achingâ but it was a sensation he could ignore while his tongue messaged and rolled and lapped at your clothed cunt. Dragging along your labia over and over until it wettened enough to slip his tongue down the seam of your pussy, spreading it to finally circle your pulsing clit and suck, the fabric damp with a lewd mixture of slick and saliva as your whimpers rang loud.
 âFu-uhh, shit, you taste so gooâ foâmeâ, his words were gruff, his mind addledâ Sanji couldnât focus past your cunt, your scent, not when it wafted through him and settled deep in his abdomenâ twisting lust straight down to his neglected cock drooling on the floor.
 âSa-anji! Fuck, hmm, keep-keep going!â
 He groaned, digging his fingers into your hips and shoving you harder into his mouth. âSuâch a pretty cunt, shit-fuck.â He held you firmly, his strength unrelenting even as you swayed, letting you writhe on his face. âDarlinâ, sweet girl, sweet sweet cunt, uhh, yâmake my cock hurt so-so much. Make me so hard, so dizzy. All you, shit-shit. Uhh-uhh, sâwet foâme. Thaâank you. thank y-you, than-k you.â
 You moaned for him, and the sound of it tingled his spine, acutely aware of the sharp tugging on his scalp, but Sanji paid the rest of it no mind. He was touching you, licking your pussy through your pretty panties, inhaling your arousal, making you moan.
 Making you cry his name, making you wet.
 And he answered it all with low hums and deep grunts of praises, thanking you fiercely, his devotion syphoning from every breath as if you poured into him yourself.
 Sanji flickered his tongue on your clit, alternating between soft and hard strokes that had you grinding your hips on his tongue, and he revelled in it while your pussy rewarded him by staining your panties with sticky fluids he drank greedily. Devouring your cunt with his whole face, bumping his nose into your clit, his chin wet, cheeks flushed.
 âImma cum!â you tried to warn him, to stave off the flutter in your belly and not embarrass yourself by cumming so soon, but his touch, his tongueâ even with the panties in the way it only added to the friction. To the burn flooding over your body from the moment you discovered him. You squirmed, rocked, and sighed as the coil tightened in your bellyâ a sensation so intense you attempted to cinch your thighs, but Sanji pinched your hips, pulling you apart for him, ignoring your pleas.
 Holding you closer, grunting praises, flattening his tongue, pressing hard until you came with a loud cry.
 âSuâch a gooâgirl, so good for me. thatâs it, lemme clean that up for you, darlinâ.â
 Sanji lapped at your cunt, your panties ruined and almost dripping from your release that he swallowed as best he could before you ripped him off with a harsh tug.
 âStand,â you panted harshly. Your balance was shoddy, but you stood firm, yanking the man to his full height, and wrapped your fist around his cock. Gently tugging on his flushed sex in quick strokes. âCum for me.â
 Sanji curled into your touch, white-hot and just barely keeping himself standing with a hard grip on your hipsâ he slumped into your chest, fucking into your hand chaotically. âI-I didnâtâ y-you. Uhh, fuck!â
 âWhat is it?â
 Tears stung his waterline. âI di-idnât clean u-uhh, ahh, mmm, I wantedâ wanted to clean you u-uhp.â He cried out, fidgeting in your grasp, his cock overly sensitive and shamefully drooling all over your wrist. He wanted to be strong, to make you cum and slump on his chest, but Sanji could hardly keep his eyes open at this point. He felt airy, foggy, every sensation felt like it was dolled up to ten and he couldnât find the strength to keep standing.
 And it hurt, fuck, his cock hurt. His balls hurt, his chest hurt, breathing hurtâ it ended up as short gasps and high-pitch whines into your neck until you brushed your thumb over his slit and Sanji saw stars.
 âahh! Im-imma cum! âmma cu-uuh, fuck-fuck!â
 âItâs okay, sweet boy,â you jerked him firmly with one hand and pulled down the bow of your panties, exposing your plump mound. âCum right here, I wanâ feel you cum on me.â you slipped his tip between your pussy lips, a low, wet, squelching noise added to his moans now.
 To yours and the raunchy sounds that swirled in between.
 âSweet-sweetheart!â Sanji squeaked, bucking his hips widely, your pussy smearing wet kisses all over his cock. Hot and squishy and so so delicious his orgasm crashed through him like a tidal wave, surging and pulsing and dousing him with a pleasure that raked a voiceless cryâ splatting his cum in your panties and slathering your slit with gooey, icky glops of his release. Your panties filled with both stains of arousal.
âGood boy.â your kisses feathered over his rapid pulse, the praises almost as gentle as your lips. âSuch a good boy, shh. I got you, hun.â
 Sanji held you close, shivering through his climax, pitifully cowering his face into the warm crook of your neck until his cries settled into cute whimpers and the spots misting the corners blended into colours he could actually see.
 âShh, you did so well, cutie.â You stroked his back, unbothered by the sweat clinging to his skin or the sticky, hot mush that was caged to your cunt. the latter tingling the nerves of your spine in an addictive way. âThat felt amazing.â
 âYe-yea?â
âYes, hun.â
 There were a few seconds of heavy breathing, then shuffling of clothes, and suddenly, Sanji was seated back on the sofa, but the comforting weight of your plush body sat on top of him too. He liked it, it was grounding. Safe.
 Sanji held you tight, his strong arms locking you in place over his lap. Your bodies hot and tempering down ever so slowly in each otherâs embrace.
 Thereâs was a gentle hum in the room, or maybe it was your voice, tenderly washing over him as Sanji came to grips with his body again. With the heat, the sweat and throb of arousal cooling into a low ebb in his abdomen. With the reality that you both stood in and your roles in it. But he couldnât bring himself to care of anything else but you curling in his lap.
 You smelt nice, you played with his hair and hummed in his ear, and you felt so⊠so good in his arms.
 âThank you.â he croaked after a while. Feeling satiated and satisfied sinking into your embrace, Sanji could do nothing else but whisper his thanks into your lips over and over, his kiss filled with all the gratitude of an answered prayer. âThank you for this, for holding me. I donât know when it got so out of hand.â
You smirked, patting his chest playfully, hoping he did not notice how your heart soared as you attempted to joke. âprobably as soon as I agreed to this little game.â
 This time, Sanjiâs smile beaned wide, pretty teeth shining bright. âI just canât help myself, darlin.â he nuzzled into your cheek, savouring the intimacy. âI told you what would happen if you got too close.â
 You laughed softly, âI suppose I was warned.â You shifted in his lap, straddling him now instead with the gooey mixture flushed hot in your panties, squishing against your achy clit, it made you breathless. Eager. âIf youâre a good boyââ
His stomach flipped excitedly.
 ââMaybe weâll play again.â
 Sanji shuddered, his smile waning as his lips parted cutely. âDonât tease me. Iââ
 âSANJI! OI! I GOT THIS BIG FISH! IT HAS TWO HEADS CAN WE EAT IT?!â
âOi, Shitty-brow! I found this buried sword, lemme cut you with it!â
 You stifled the laughter behind your hand, the cutest frown scrunching his face from their untimely interruption. Even so, you began moving to crawl off his lap before the other straw hats walked in with their treasures, but Sanji gripped your wrist, his pleading stare shooting familiar sparks in your core.
 âPromise weâll do this again?â
You smiled warmly, leaning in for a kiss only to swipe your tongue upon his bottom lip, âYes, and it will stay just between us.â
 Sanji blushed, savouring the taste of you on his own tongue. âYea, of course. Just between us, darlinâ.â
 This time, you stood up to leave, but not without one final look over your shoulder, âjust like your cum soaking my panties right now.â
 You quickly slipped out of the room before anyone could notice, twirling your shoe as the sound of a heavy thud crashed behind you and the boys shouts followed shortly after.
 âWOW! So much blood! Was there a fight?! Are they still here?! I wanna fight!â
 âLUFFY N-NO THATââ
 âEW SHITTY BROW! WAKE UP AND CLEAN THIS SHIT YOU PERVââ
// - tysm for the support! hopefully the tags will hold up this time:333 please do not repost or translate my stories.
bruh I want headcanons for Nate from Anne With an E (or scenairo whatever you want)
Nate Headcannons:
Nate is the type of guy to call you names like doll, babygirl, in a slightly condescending but also loving tone
Nate loves to come up behind you while youâre cooking and wrap his hands around you while giving you kisses on the neck
Nate sees you talking to another guy in the square and he steals his wallet then treats you to dinner with it
Nate definitely helped build your house with a few other towns people
Nate tries to keep you in bed all morning even if you have duties to attend to
Nate would be the type to have his arms around you at all times reminding everyone youâre his
Nate likes to visit you at work and make sure everyone knows that heâs your husband/partner
Nate likes to be able to take you out, knowing he never could, and now he can
Nate would pour and whine when you tell him to get a real job, but would end up really enjoying it, but Ofcourse heâd never tell you that
Nate would go on walks with you to meadows and pretend his doesnât like cheesy bs, but in his head heâs loving every moment of it and picturing you as his future spouse
Nate would propose to you in the most nonchalant way possible: youâd be cooking and heâd come up behind you and show you a ring and then ask you if you wanted it, you wouldnât even know he meant marriage until he asks you a few days later what season you want to get married in (I lowkey wanna write a Drabble or small fic about this, lmk if I should)
Nate would instantly fall into a caring soft position when you get pregnant, rubbing your feet, making you food, calling you soft things like babygirl or angel, he definitely would change when you see the bump forming
Nate would cradle your baby with such softness
Nate wouldnât let a single person touch your baby, especially not kids with their germy fingers
Nate cares so so much about your baby and wonât let anyone hurt them
Nate would play dress up with your little girl and even learn how to sew to make her new dresses
Nate would go flower picking with your girl even if he gets itchy and isnât super fond of it, all for your baby girl
Nate would wear something absolutely ridiculous just because your kid made it
Nate would spend hours preparing a tea party for your baby girl if she asked him
Nate would buy a thousand baseballs for your son if he needed them, even if it meant not being able to get things for himself
Nate would come home from the most stressful day at work and still make time to go out and play ball with your son
Nate would make sure that if he hadnât been as affectionate lately heâd cradle you and whisper about how much he adores you
Nate would see you sitting on the couch in silence with a book and get a guilty look and cuddle up to you
Nate would always make sure you feel loved, even if he knows youâre content
Nate would sprint to your children if they needed him, no matter whether it was a boo boo or someone being mean
NSFW
Nate would come to you while you nap after a tiring day and grind against you until you wake up
Nate would pepper your whole body with kisses while you shudder after making you orgasm
Nate would stroke himself to the thought of you while heâs home alone and youâd come home to a mess in the sheets
Nate would pump into you slow but deep, he makes sure you feel every inch of him
Nate is 8 inches, no argument
Nate eats you out like youâre the best meal heâs ever had, because you are
Nate would let you bounce on his cock for hours if you let him
Nate would rub your nipples while he sucks your cock to oblivion
Nate would be the type to make you make eye contact while you cum all over his face
Nate would prefer position where he can see your face
Nate would draw you a bath after sex and cook you a meal, making sure the kids are content
Nate would fuck you slowly while the kids are playing until he doesnât, heâll speed up at random trying to make you scream, but forcing you to keep quiet
