rin

26 - Pansexual - Writer

[kitkatpadywaks]

welcome to...

Hi, I'm Rin Here you'll find all links to my other platforms, and to navigate through my blog... Blog Rules: 18+ MDNI Empty Blog Will Be Blocked

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[fru1t4fr0gs]

A Totally Normal Crush

Pairing: Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader

Summary: Adrian Chase has a crush. Everyone knows. Well, everyone but you, the object of his affection, who seems completely oblivious to it all. When the rest of the 11th Street Kids finally reach the end of their respective ropes, they decide to step in.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Adrian is kind of a creep, Okay a little more than kind of but we love it, Adrian is head-over-heels obsessed (and so so awkward about it), The team is exhausted with it, Chris is really bad at advice, Mentions of semi-public sex, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this! This dorky killing machine is so fun to write. As always, please let me know what you think!

-

“Holy shit.” Chris says, watching as you dodge one blow and land another with terrifying precision. A butterfly's head is blown clean off in a single shot, and you seamlessly dodge another attack to slam the blade of your knife into the eye of your next attacker.

“Holy shit.” Adrian echoes, but there’s a breathless, dreamy quality to his voice that makes Chris raise his eyebrows.

“Dude, I know she’s hot, but this is turning you on?”

“What? No! I mean, of course not. She’s just…” he trails off as you grab one enemy’s arm, spinning into the man’s chest and firing his gun from his own hand into the forehead of the man across from you. You spin out, and finish off the first guy with a swift kick to the chest.

“Holy shit.” Adrian says again, even more breathless than before, and he’s fucking smiling now.

“Oh God, I think his eyes just turned into cartoon hearts.” Adebayo nearly groans. This time, Adrian doesn’t answer.

And just like that, the entire team watches Adrian Chase fall in love. 

And just like that, it becomes everyone else’s fucking problem.

-

He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.

It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.

You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.

And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.

And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.

-

Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.

“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”

“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.

“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”

Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.

“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”

“Your screensaver is her face.”

“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”

Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.

“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”

“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”

“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything bad!”

“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”

Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.

So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.

-

The briefing the next day is weird.

Very weird.

When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.

He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.

“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.

Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.

That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues. 

“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”

Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”

“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”

“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”

“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.

“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.

He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.

“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”

“You said to neg her!”

“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”

“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.

“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”

Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?

“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”

“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“

“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”

He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”

“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”

And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.

-

You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.

He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.

And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.

Okay, step two.

Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.

You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.

You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.

His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.

And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-

A throat clears.

When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.

“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.

“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.

“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.

-

He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.

And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.

This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.

You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.

Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“

He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.

The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.

And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.

For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.

“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.

“They are covered in blood.”

“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.

“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”

Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.

They thought Adrian’s crush was annoying before. Now that he has you, he is so much worse.

[devisedplan]

Wary Adversary

pairing: adrian chase x reader summary: adrian likes everyone except you. a silly situation reveals the reason behind his resentment towards you word count: 0.9k tags: gn!reader, oneshot, crack fic (?), f-bombs here and there, forced proximity, really nice guy who hates only you trope, takes place after that rooftop party scene (s2e3)

a/n: shoutout to the anon who requested this! ngl this was a tricky one since adrian practically only hates someone if they physically hurt or done him or his close friends wrong

It was a feat that you of all people managed to land yourself on Adrian's bad side. How? Even you were asking the same question yourself. Your relationship with him before everything went downhill was fairly decent. Acquaintances, as you would describe. You often wonder, did you earn the top spot on the list? Or, did he hate his mum or Judomaster more?

"Relax, dude. You won't die being stuck in the same room as me," You snickered at how he was turning the doorknob furiously. No matter how hard he tried to pry it open, it just wouldn't budge.

Adrian had meant to look for John but instead, he stumbled into you. The second he realised his mistake, a gust of wind blew into the room, shutting the door behind him before he could turn to leave.

"Shut up! I have to check if he's okay!" He snapped, looking livid.

"Why? He looks fine when I walk by the bathroom earlier," You replied with a yawn, blinking your eyes to adjust to the light that filtered through the window.

Adrian glared at you, torn between believing your words or breaking down the door to see for himself. You sighed, wounded he would let his judgment be clouded by his abhorrence.

"Just trust me on this one," You stretched your arms above your head, sitting up to lean against the headboard of the bed.

As much as his brain tried to psycho him into thinking that you were lying, he decided to let it go after hearing what sounded like muffled voices of John talking from behind the door.

"Since we're gonna be stuck with one another for god knows how long. I'm very curious. Why do you not like me?" You confronted him, looking at him expectantly.

"Because you're fucking annoying," He said as though it was a matter of fact.

You gasped dramatically, putting a hand over your chest for extra theatrics. "Surely I'm not that 'fucking' annoying," You replied, pretending to sniffle and wipe your faux tears.

Adrian only stared at you with a deadpan expression. You halted your previous antics and sheepishly laugh, raising your hands in mock surrender. "No, seriously. Please enlighten me," You gestured for him to speak his mind.

A conspicuous silence fell upon you two. You waited patiently for him to answer — only to witness his jaw clenched as if he was holding back from lashing out.

Damn, he really hates me, huh?

"Ugh! You're making me feel all weird again!" He fumed in frustration, fingers pulling at his hair as he slid down against the wall — knees folded to his chest.

"Again? I'm not doing anything except ask you questions?" Your head tilted in interest at his response.

He shot you a glower, grumbling a couple of curse words under his breath but, loud enough to be picked up by your ears.

"Good weird, bad weird or, anxiety inducing weird?" You inquired further, your body leaned forward — no longer resting on the headboard.

"Like butterflies in my stomach! It always happens when you are and I quote, 'listening' to me talk about animal facts. Don't act like you actually care," He replied candidly.

You were appalled, mouth forming into an 'O' shape at the discovery. All of a sudden, you broke into a fit of giggles, only stopping and clearing your throat to apologise for your sudden outburst when he scowled in your direction.

Was he actually serious?

Your eyes scanned his expression and to your surprise, he seem to be telling the truth.

"Adrian, are you aware what that expression could mean?" You stifle a laughter, finding it cute that he had no clue on the most obvious plausible implication.

"Yes! It always reminds me of the butterflies I had to fight when they like seize control some of Evergreen's population! Like, dude, I do not want to imagine one of those little alien freaks to take over my body and go into my brain. That's like a such a lame way to die. Though, technically, Goff was kinda nice after Chris put it into a jar," He waved his arms frantically at the admission in the beginning, only to go off track and docile towards the end.

It was then you realised, why he started disliking you. Could he possibly associated you with a negative reinforcement? Did he also had unexplainable feelings for you to the point he couldn't discern how he truly felt when mixed with the unwitting adverse perception of you? Immediately you shook your head, not wanting to jump to conclusion.

"Okay..... moving on. Is that all?" You asked, trying to squeeze every bit of information from him.

"You're also always correcting me. Which by the way, rude. Just because I'm wrong, you don't have to rub it in my face. And, you're always laughing at me afterwards," He sneered, eyes averting from your frame in annoyance.

For some reason, you found his reaction to be amusing. In your defence, you only chuckled because you found it endearing how he continued to list animal facts ardently despite being wrong at times.

"Why did you think I was making fun of you?" You probed on, not caring if he might lash out.

"Because you are? Chris told me that."

Of course he'd listen and believed Chris. He'd probably even believe if Chris were to tell him that the sky was red. You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath to prevent yourself from saying something snarky. Instead, you opted to tease him.

"Have I ever told you that you're cute?" You mentioned out of the blue, a smirk playing on your lips. Right away, his ears turned red and, vulgarities were thrown at you. You couldn't help but laugh at how flustered and confused he looked after you gave him a compliment, which, of course, he thought it was a joke. If only he knew the truth.

(creds: @/strangergraphics for the divider!)

[vigilantekisser]

punch and click

pairing: matt murdock x secretary!reader

summary: it’s ridiculous, because matt murdock is just kind. that’s who he is — kind to everyone, sweet to the elderly clients and charming to the young ones. beloved by the whole neighborhood. this smile isn’t special. you’re not special. (wc: 1.5k)

tags: f!reader, mutual pining, i keep writing flangst when i want to write smut... sigh. SUPER UNEDITED, if this has some similarities to my earlier secretary!reader blurbs that’s bc they’re branched off one mega draft… hehh ^_^;

part one of us at the end of the year

You’ve got it bad.

You sniff inwards, nose starting to drip on account of the weather. The bottom of the paper cups sting and dig into your fingers. This is a timed event, a regular one by all accounts. These coffee runs see you return to Matt’s office precisely when his cup sits empty, the faint ring of dried espresso at the bottom the only evidence of his last drink. 

He’s never in peril of having to go without. Your eight months as secretary to Nelson, Murdock and Page have seen to that. Like second nature, you’ve memorized the rhythm of his days. You can have his files ready before he asks, organized exactly how he prefers: contracts first, discovery second, correspondence last. And if you’re lucky enough, his lack of vision will be enough to veil it, protect your affections for him a little longer, under the guise of simply doing your job well. All of it banked on your hope that he’s not that perceptive.

So, a losing battle.

To say you’re pushing it would be an understatement.

How else to explain the stupid, painstaking braille notes you started leaving three months ago? The first one itself cost you fifty-five minutes and a headache (not to mention one stolen slate-and-stylus set, courtesy of the rarely-opened file cabinet), fingers aching from all that gripping and punching just for five words— 

Made completely worth it by the smile that had broken across his face once his fingers had finally brushed over those dots.

It’s routine now: arriving early, with coffee from the good cart or brewed yourself, and while it cools to drinking temperature on his desk (never too hot, he burns his tongue), you hunch over, punching away at whatever silly thought, whatever sweet contemplation that’s crossed your mind that morning. 

Coffee machine plotting against us / Can feel it

Foggy ate all good donuts tragedy strikes NMP

Happy Friday. All done!

You’re working on today’s (Printer can smell fear / demands human sacrifice. Hire intern?) when the door opens and Matt enters, shaking snow from his dark hair. He’s early. December in New York has been merciless, of the particular wet slush kind rather than the cold, postcard-picture type you’d dreamed about as a kid, but Matt at least navigates for himself well enough to still be charming.

“Morning,” you call out, all casual-like as if your heart hadn’t just kicked into double-time.

“Morning. That fresh coffee I smell?”

“Yeah, just how you like it,” you say, quickly finishing up, and stand to smooth your shirt out, cross his office with the gathered files. To watch him hang his coat and fold his cane gives you the impression of a hot spike sinking between your brows; it’s not hard for you to superimpose apartment walls and picture frames onto the sight, imagine it domestic. 

Oh, you’re so gone.

Matt luckily doesn’t notice. He inhales and groans appreciatively, much to the prickled pleasure at the back of your neck. “You’re an angel.”

“Hardly!” You set the folder down on his desk, punched-out index card included. “Um, okay, you have a meeting with a Mr. Meyer from BMP at ten, then the people from the Lust—sorry, Lutz—case are coming here to see you at two… They should have those files you requested. And Foggy wanted to go over the plan for the Gillespie deposition before noon… I left some out, but you can check the rest in the file I sent you.” All of it comes in a rush and you’re straight short for air, but still, with affected nonchalance: “Oh, and your note.” 

“...My note.” With the way his fingers search the desk and find it immediately, you’d think nothing you said meant anything to him but just that. You chew on your cheek, bouncing on your toes slightly, watching as he reads. His expression softens and a huff of laughter escapes him, the smile tugging at his mouth.

“What? The printer?”

“Yup. Keeps jamming.” 

“I didn’t know you had such cutthroat tendencies in you.” 

“Consider it, Matt. Lots of kids out of work there looking for something to do.”

You’re backing toward the door before you can do something stupid, like stay too long. He’s still smiling, and it’s so bright and beautiful it makes you feel stripped bare.

It’s ridiculous, because Matt Murdock is just kind. That’s who he is — kind to everyone, sweet to the elderly clients and charming to the young ones. Beloved by the whole neighborhood. This smile isn’t special. You’re not special. 

“Okay, then. Let me know if you need anything else,” you squeak, already fleeing. 

“Wait—”

You don’t trust yourself enough to turn around.

“Thanks for the note, it’s sweet.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

Heart pounding in your chest, you feel like you’re going to pass out. You should say something witty. Something light, biting. Instead, you mumble, “Okay, s’nothing,” and escape to your desk, thankful he isn’t aware of the flush creeping up your neck. 

You pass Karen’s office on your way out, and she glances up with an eyebrow raised. She’s caught you staring at Matt’s office door more than once, but to her credit, she’s never said anything.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yup! Fine!” You collapse into your chair, pulling up the planner on your screen. “Just fine.”

A printer demanding human sacrifice.

Matt can’t help smiling like an idiot far after you’ve scampered back off to your desk. He knows he shouldn’t encourage it—he knows it’s wrong or at the very least, doomed. You’ve been leaving these notes for months now; he should tell you that you don’t have to. 

Exploiting his listening ability isn’t something he’s proud of but he does it all the same. Your heartbeat kicks up whenever he’s near. Call it selfish, self-centered, but Matt knows what that means. There’s a sweetness to your scent when you’re near him, warm and coaxing, and it makes him want to gather you up and just—

And just nothing. He can’t. He won’t.

Ruining good things is what he’s best at. Sweet things, of which you’re the epitome— genuine kindness. 

It’s not that he’s a nihilist; in fact, he’s been more optimistic as of late. But even if it were all in good fun, all light and casual—he can’t consider the point of starting anything at all. Maybe if he were younger, he supposes, a little less scuffed and clipped by life, he would’ve risked it for a chance at something like this. But you deserve better than a life of constant lies and waiting up at night wondering if he’ll come home at all. 

Still, it’s utterly endearing to him, hearing every muttered curse and frustrated sigh from you first thing in the morning as you work on the notes. You spend your lunches sometimes at your desk, just practicing, and he’s heard you prick your fingers more than once—the whispered ow, dammit—as punctuation to countless mistakes.

To tell you to stop would mean not getting these notes anymore. These little windows into your thoughts he’s intoxicated with.

So, there’s nothing else to do but be kind to you in return without crossing that line. There are no dinner reservations, no lingering touches nor confessions. He can’t covet that much. Only this: kindness, sweetness, a mirror to your own thoughtfulness, perhaps more than he should. That’s all he can do.

The coffee is perfect again, he isn’t surprised by that. Tracing the note one more time, Matt sighs and pulls open the drawer. 

The card finds its place with all the others.

One way or another though, illusion must give way to reality.

It’s a Thursday. Business as usual. You’re at your desk, slate and stylus in hand, and there’s nothing clever to write. Not even anything particularly funny or interesting. The well has dried up, and your senses instead dedicate themselves to eavesdropping: the conversation is drifting from the break room, where Matt’s getting water.

“You should ask her out,” Foggy is saying. “She was into you, buddy.”

“Ah, I don’t know.”

“Come on!” You hear a thump, and recognize it for the good old-fashioned Foggy Nelson empathic gesticulating. “A, she gave you her number. B, she’s gorgeous, and B point five, she’s a lawyer, so you’d actually have stuff in common.”

A pause, then Matt laughs, soft and a little self-deprecating. “Sure. Maybe.”

“Maybe meaning you’ll actually call her or maybe meaning you’ll lose the number and pretend you never got it?”

“Meaning I’ll think about it.”

You stare down at the slate, at the empty index card holding nothing of note. 

Of course.

There’s a gorgeous lawyer from a bar. Probably sophisticated, brilliant, someone who drinks wine without getting her mouth stained and talks legal jargon and doesn’t need to Google half the terms that cross her desk. Someone who fits into Matt’s world.

It’s not like you were thinking you had a chance. A girl who leaves silly notes and can barely manage basic braille.

You set down the stylus. Even many minutes later, the note sits unfinished on your desk, and you stare at it for a long moment before crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash.

[vampishnes]

Bad Idea/Good Time

Pairings: Matt Murdock/F!Reader/(Eventual)Frank Castle Summary: After obtaining your pupillage at Murdock & McDuffie and working beside them for the past 7 months, life couldn't be better. Except, you may have a huge crush on your supervisor, Matt Murdock. Warnings: Age gap (22/43), Matt is technically her supervisor, no use of Y/N, kind of sweet and fluffy, very minor born-again spoilers, reader is a lawyer. (This is part of a larger work which will have multiple warnings.) Word count: 2.1k A/N: I am aware that pupillage is a UK-based thing only; however, I have chosen to ignore that. This will be a larger work, but it can work as a solo fic. I noticed there was a gap in the market for Punisher/Reader/Daredevil fics (aka I wanted to read more but couldn't find more). I've decided to be the change I want to see in the world. This fic and the following chapter are just set up for the world; there will eventually be an overarching plot. If you want to be on the tag list, just comment saying so! Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Chapter One: Murdock & McDuffie

There was a soft electric hum echoing off the white marble floors; the hustle and bustle of the day had ended long ago, leaving only the quiet, slow ticking of the wall clock interrupted by the infrequent clicking of your keyboard. You’d been at this for hours, writing two sentences, reading them and deleting one. You groan, throwing your head back against the soft headboard of your chair. You rub your forehead, staring down at your almost-finished closing statement.

“This sounded so much better in my head,” you mumble, placing your face between your palms. You’d written multiple court statements before, too many to count at law school and at least a hundred mock-up ones during your bar course. Sure, you’d written a handful of statements in the seven months you’d been doing your pupillage at Murdock & McDuffie, but you'd never led your own cases, especially in court. Kirsten gave you a simple case to start, a minor thievery case.

You’d been assigned to work beside Matt, who would supervise but not interfere. He had offered to stay late with you, saying he had his own cases to work on. You’d declined at first, worrying your bottom lip as your heart pattered against your ribcage, but he’d insisted.

Matt rolls his chair beside you. “Read it to me,” he orders, crossing his arms across his broad chest. He’s wearing that same smile he always does, as though he’s somehow aware of how painfully handsome he is.

You readjust on your chair awkwardly, taking a heavy breath in. “The evidence shows that Leroy Bradford has been spat out by the same system that promises to uphold justice. There are certain facts in this case that are not in dispute: Mr Bradford stole. However, his lawlessness will not change if the state of New York punishes where it can rehabilitate. We ask that Mr Bradford-” you trail off, unsure how to continue.

Matt nods, his lips stretched in a proud smile. You can smell his citrus cologne at this distance; the scent’s been worn through the day, mingled with his sweat, which makes it even more intoxicating. “I mean, you have the facts down great,” he starts, reaching up to scratch his neatly trimmed beard. “But I think you’ll have better luck trying to get him the 10 days in jail.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head. “Mr Bradford did what he had to survive; the legal system is meant to be in place to protect him, Matt.”

“I’m not fighting you on that,” he justifies, chest widening as he defends himself. “This is your first case; you can’t expect to rework the entire court.”

“It wouldn’t matter if this was my last case; if our client is put back in jail, we’ll just be doing this song and dance again in a year- if he doesn’t die in that time, that is.”

Matt opens his mouth to argue again, slowly closing it with a smile. He readjusts on his seat, and you watch how tight his shirt is against his arms. He’d long abandoned his blazer earlier in the night, to which you’d practically had to tear your gaze away. “You’re a lot like how I was when I started,” he laughs.

“An amazing attorney?”

“A hard-ass.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes as though he could somehow see it. “Ah, so nothing’s changed in your sixty years of practising.”

He scoffs in mock-offence. “How old do you think I am, young woman?”

“You’re just so good at your job I assumed you must’ve been around when the first constitution was signed,” you watch the way his under-eyes crease; you can see his dark brown eyes jutting left to right beneath his red glasses.

“You better be careful, I can write you up for workplace discrimination,” he jokes, tilting his head towards you. You smile, closing your laptop lid; you’re too tired to even think about finishing it tonight. Anyways, the court date wasn’t set until another four days.

“You have no jurisdiction,” you cross your leg over the other to face him fully; your pant leg grazes his, and your heart flips. “Kirsten’s my supervisor and she likes me a lot more than she likes you.”

“Hearsay.”

You smirk, squeezing your hand tight. You were certain he’d been flirting with you for the last handful of months, but any time you tried to pursue further, he’d politely shut you down. Yet, the next week he would go right back to crowding your space. At first you thought that maybe it was just his personality, and it was, at least half of it was. But you saw how he acted with Kirsten- that same flirty inflection, same handsome smirk, but that’s where it ended.

You weren’t stupid; you knew why he kept you at arm’s length. Close enough to touch, to tease, but far enough to feel as though he was doing the morally right thing. Catholics.

You were half his age. An adult? yes. Capable of making your own decisions? Absolutely. Matt knew this, of course; you knew he was aware of it, but he was still your mentor, partly your supervisor. In five months that would no longer be the case, but he’d still be your superior. Unsurprising for a lawyer to be as hypervigilant as he is.

“Other than a hard-ass,” you start, reaching over to take a sip from the cold dregs of your fourth cup of coffee of the day. “What were you like at law school?”

You watch his tongue dart from his mouth, wetting his top lip in a slick streak your eyes follow. “I was less focused on school than I should’ve been,” he says hesitantly. “Spent far too much time enjoying the ‘college experience’, I’m sure you know the type.”

You can imagine a young Matt Murdock with some outdated long hair, breaking women’s hearts left and right. You imagine being the same age, sitting beside each other in class. You think about him leaning over to whisper some stupid joke to make fun of whatever the professor said. You like to think you’d be able to resist how charming that stupid smile was- but if present-day Matt was anything to go by, you know you’d end up another heartbroken girl.

“I usually tried to stay away from the type,” you confess, feeling strangely shy under Matt’s faux-gaze. “Too focused on getting into the prestigious position I’m in now.” That was semi-true at least; you’d gone on one or two dates at college. The romance was always short-lived, ending with a kiss at the door. You’d never followed up more than that, engrossing yourself further and further into your studies until your date’s pretty face became a ghosted contact. Maybe young-Matt would’ve been your heartbroken boy.

Now, having exactly what you wanted, you realise how much you sacrificed.

“Not that I’m entirely interested in dating nowadays,” you lie, heart stuttering as you look Matt down, gaze catching on his white scars that scatter his arms. You bite your lips to resist asking, terrified of breaking the moment between you.

“You don’t sound particularly convinced,” he says, stopping your breath in its tracks. You awkwardly scratch the back of your head, unsure how to say ‘I’m actually interested in a hot, blind, lawyer double my age’ without him acting as though he isn’t completely aware of this fact.

You look down at your hands, lightly picking at the sides of your nails- peeling off the chrome nail polish you’d painstakingly applied last night. “I would be lying if I said there wasn’t someone in my life.”

“Someone you’re dating or-” he asks hesitantly. He’s stock still in front of you, as though you’d shut down the topic if he moved too quickly.

“No, not dating,” you interject, shaking your head. You tuck a fallen piece of hair behind your ear and try to meet his gaze again. “I think he wants something too, but whenever I try to do something about it, he just..” You drift off, gesturing noncommittally, hoping Matt will still get what you’re trying to say.

“How do you know he’s interested?”

You fight the urge to grip his shoulders and yell ‘Because I’m talking to him’, instead opting to roll your eyes. “I guess I don’t know,” you admit. “I know I find him handsome, and funny, if not a little arrogant.”

Matt smiles at that, finally moving and leaning further back, arms uncrossing from his chest to rest on his thighs. “I understand.”

“Do you?” You retort, warmth flooding your cheeks in a small smile. You watch as Matt shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as though he could feel the heat of your gaze. You feel like a child talking back and forth like this; if Matt’s so much older than you, maybe he should be the one to address you head-on.

“And you understand it would be bordering on unethical if the,” he looks up for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “Receiving party,” he lands on, uncertain with his choice of words. “Were to reciprocate.”

You lift your eyebrows, stifling a small laugh at his avoidance. It escapes regardless, and you bring up a hand to cover it. Matt smiles in response, realising how stupid he must sound. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“And you’re aware the age gap complicates things even more.”

“Matt,” you warn, growing tired of the little game you accidentally started. “You know I’m a grown woman.”

“I’m frustratingly aware,” he all but growls, leaning forward, his face inches away from yours. You watch all the reasons he told himself to stay away from you melt before you. Now replaced by burning hot want. It’s as though even if he told himself again, he wouldn’t listen to reason. His hand reaches up to your face, warmth pooling beneath every place his fingers caress. His callous thumb slowly glides against your bottom lip. You watch as his own pulse thumps against you, loud and quickening, the same as your own heartbeat. You see his mouth move, but you can’t hear anything other than your thudding blood rush in your ears.

Finally, his soft lips meet yours. You sigh into his mouth, fingers reaching up to snake around the back of his neck. You want more. The scratch of his beard sends a tingle down your spine as you push into him further, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours and you fight the urge to moan around it. Matt's hand moves from your face to wrap around your waist. You feel your muscles ache from the way you're tangled around each other. You’re still sat on the very edge of your chair, feet planted firmly down to stop the wheels from pushing you away.

Begrudgingly, you let him pull away, still close enough that his warm, stale-coffee breath mingles with yours. You peel your eyes away from his spit-ridden lips, denying yourself the pleasure of kissing him again.

“Matt,” you mutter, confliction whirling around in the depths of your stomach. Although you imagine its no where near the amount he must feel. You watch as he pulls back, standing up in one swift motion.

“Sorry that was,” he grabs his blazer from the back of his chair, placing a sizable distance between you. Unprofessional, you think. “Can I walk you home?” He asks, changing the subject. 

You shake your head, disoriented, packing your laptop away as you explain. “I, uh, live in Hell’s Kitchen. I have to drive home.” You reach for your phone on your desk and extend it out before embarrassingly pulling it back. “I can give you my number, though, if you’d like?” you ask; you couldn’t believe you kissed before you had moved from emails only.

Matt pulls his phone out from his back pocket; it’s an older phone, one with push-buttons. You think it must be easier for him to feel what he’s pressing that way. It looks like a newer model; the screen still takes up half the phone space. He unlocks it and hands it to you; the speaker quietly tells you each thing you press as you enter your phone number. You smile as you hand it back to him. You decide to keep all the phone calls in his history to someone under the contact ‘K.P’ to yourself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Matt,” you say, throwing your bag around your shoulder. You want to give him a small kiss but think better of it, settling instead to enjoy his scent that wafts as you walk past.

[chvoswxtch]

the devil and the widow

[status: in progress]

summary: matt murdock is recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. to help take down a trafficking ring run by a new crime organization that rose to power in fisk’s absence. he’s forced to work agent y/l/n, who’s just as thrilled about the pairing as he is. as the investigation unravels more webs of lies, haunting details are uncovered, and matt starts to question who he’s actually working for, especially as he digs further beneath the skeletons of his mysterious partner’s dark past. every revelation leaves matt with the same unsettling question; who’s the real villain?

a/n: there was an idea...and it got out of hand and so here we are. i'm so excited to finally share this with y'all. it's been in the works for quite some time now. if you loved the bodyguard, I really hope you'll love this one. it's another slow burn, so get comfy. there's also going to be a lot of mature themes in this series, as well as spice (duh), but as always, I will post specific content warnings for each chapter as they drop.

if you've been in the daredevil fandom this whole time, it's great to see your beautiful faces again. if you're new here from dd born again, on behalf of all of us, welcome. we're glad you're here.

without further ado, sit back, relax, grab a drink and a snack, maybe some tissues, and enjoy.

»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

chapter one: the head of the snake

chapter two: follow my lead

chapter three: by any means necessary

chapter four: an olive branch

chapter five: lucky

chapter six: the entertainment

chapter seven: back up plan

chapter eight: the deal

chapter nine: dance with me

chapter ten: good luck charm

chapter eleven: indulge*

chapter twelve: consequences

chapter thirteen: forgive me*

chapter fourteen: a red door

chapter fifteen: rebranded

chapter sixteen:

chapter seventeen:

chapter eighteen:

chapter nineteen:

chapter twenty:

chapter twenty one:

the devil and the widow soundtrack

taglist sign up for updates

[vigilantekisser]

apple lotion

pairing: college!matt murdock x f!reader

18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol

summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)

a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…

“No fucking way.” 

It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his. 

And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that. 

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”

[lily-lilith26]

Love language : physical affection. Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis : You were one of those who love physical contact. That was your love language. So when Bucky arrives at the compound, the Avengers are surprised to see that you actually keep your hands for yourself and even more when Bucky is almost the one to ask for it.

Warnings : cuties, jealousy (from myself toward them), love love love, kind of slooooow burn, friends to lovers, long a** one shot.

When Bucky arrived at the compound, the first thing he did, without even realizing it, was assess everyone.

It was automatic. A reflex carved into him after decades of survival.

Steve didn’t need analyzing. He was familiar. Safe. A constant in a world that had changed too much.

He knew Sam was already getting on his nerves, no need to check twice.

The others, though… they were different.

And then there was you.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to notice something about you. Something subtle, but persistent.

You needed contact.

Not in an obvious, overwhelming way. You weren’t clinging or invasive. It was quieter than that, instinctive. You leaned into people when you laughed, rested your head on someone’s shoulder during movie nights, brushed against others without even thinking about it.

And the strange part?

No one seemed to mind.

Natasha would casually move closer to you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tony didn’t even react when you rested your head against him, just kept talking or watching whatever was on screen. Steve had simply shrugged when Bucky pointed it out.

“It grounds her,” he had said.

Bucky didn’t understand that.

Not at first.

He had spent seventy years learning the opposite, that touch meant pain, control, punishment. That it was something to fear, to avoid, to endure.

Even now, in a place that was supposed to be safe, he didn’t like it. Not really.

And yet…

You understood.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

Because you never touched him.

Not once.

You never brushed against him in passing, never stood too close, never reached for him the way you did with the others. And it wasn’t out of fear, he would have recognized that instantly.

It was respect.

You moved around him like someone who knew exactly where the invisible boundaries were. Like someone who understood what it meant to have your body used against you. Like someone who knew that trust wasn’t given, it was earned, slowly.

So you didn’t push.

You just… existed near him.

And you smiled.

Every time he walked into a room, your eyes would find him, and you’d give him that same soft, genuine smile. Never forced. Never hesitant. Just… kind.

At first, he didn’t know what to do with it.

Sometimes he ignored it, not because you had done anything wrong, but because he didn’t understand it. Kindness without an agenda felt foreign. Suspicious, almost.

But you never stopped.

And slowly, something shifted.

After a while, he started nodding back. Small, almost imperceptible acknowledgments.

Then, eventually, a faint smile.

Barely there.

But real.

The first time you touched him, it wasn’t intentional.

It happened on an ordinary evening, during dinner.

The compound was loud, everyone gathered in the dining room, conversations overlapping. You had slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, enjoying the brief quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Lost in your thoughts, you turned around with your glass and walked straight into him.

The impact was solid enough to make you stumble slightly.

“Oh my God,” you blurted out, startled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Your hand came up instinctively to steady yourself and landed on his metal arm.

You didn’t even notice.

To you, it was nothing. A natural reaction. Normal.

Bucky, on the other hand, went completely still.

“Don’t worry,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter than usual. “I wasn’t very loud either.”

You smiled, a little sheepish, apologizing once more before heading back to the dining room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

His gaze dropped to where your hand had been, like he could still feel the imprint of it.

It hadn’t hurt.

It hadn’t felt wrong.

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t treated it like something to be careful of.

You had just… touched him.

Like there was nothing to fear.

And the strangest part?

It didn’t bother him.

Not even a little.

That was when things started to change.

At first, it was subtle enough that neither of you noticed.

You leaned closer when you didn’t hear him properly instead of asking him to repeat himself. Your arms would brush during movie nights, and neither of you pulled away. It just… happened. Naturally.

Comfortably.

Every morning, you made coffee for everyone and at some point, you had learned exactly how he liked his.

He noticed that.

Of course he did.

The first time your fingers brushed when you handed him his cup, he almost pulled away.

The second time, he didn’t.

And then, sometimes… it lingered.

Just for a second longer than necessary.

Always by “accident.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t know what he was feeling.

Something unfamiliar. Something that didn’t fit into any category he understood.

And you, you were completely oblivious.

But the others ?

Oh, they noticed.

They noticed everything.

“Twenty bucks says they kiss within a month.”

“Forty-five says she hugs him without thinking first.”

“Hundred says they’re a couple by the end of the year.”

The bets had started quietly. Casually.

But they were very real.

It was October.

And things were only just getting started.

You and Bucky began learning about each other without ever sitting down and deciding to. It happened in fragments, in instincts, in the kind of details most people overlooked.

He noticed the small sigh that slipped past your lips whenever things started to feel like too much, the kind you tried to hide so no one would make a big deal out of it. He noticed it every single time.

Just like you noticed the way his expression shifted when the noise around him got overwhelming, how his brows would knit together slightly, the crease between them deepening as if the world itself pressed too loudly against him.

You learned the way he scanned every room the moment he walked into it, his gaze instinctively flicking toward exits, corners, anything that could become a threat. And he noticed that you did the exact same thing, just more discreetly.

There were other things, too. Smaller, almost ridiculous details. The way your tongue slipped out slightly when you were focused on something. The way his jaw tightened when he was irritated but chose not to say anything. None of it was ever pointed out. None of it needed to be. It settled between you naturally, like a language only the two of you spoke.

By November, something had changed again, something quieter, but heavier in meaning. Bucky felt safe around you. Not just comfortable. Not just at ease. Safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in a very long time, and even now, he didn’t fully understand it. But it was there, undeniable.

One night, Tony decided to throw what he called a “small party,” which, in reality, meant loud music shaking the walls, voices overlapping until they became indistinguishable, and an energy that buzzed too intensely to ignore. Most of the team was drunk, laughter spilling too loudly, movements less controlled. The kind of chaos that filled every corner of the room.

You and Bucky stood apart from it, without ever explicitly deciding to.

You didn’t drink, you never really liked it. And Bucky couldn’t. So the two of you ended up sitting across from each other, not really interacting with the others, not really interacting with each other either. Just… existing in the same space, both too deep in your own thoughts to pretend you were enjoying the party.

Bucky hated environments like this. Ever since HYDRA, loud, unpredictable spaces had a way of putting his entire body on edge, like something bad was just waiting to happen. And you, your day had drained you completely. Every sound felt sharper than it should have, every burst of laughter just a little too loud. You stayed anyway, out of politeness more than anything else, but it was wearing you down.

Then it happened.

A loud bang echoed from the other side of the room.

It was sudden. Violent in the way it cut through everything else.

Both of you flinched instantly, your bodies reacting before your minds had time to process it. Your heads turned toward the noise, hearts jumping in your chests. It didn’t take long to realize it was just Tony and Thor, caught in some ridiculous competition that had clearly escalated too far.

Nothing dangerous.

But the damage was already done.

You let out a slow, controlled sigh, trying to steady yourself, trying to push the tension back down where no one would notice. Across from you, Bucky’s brows were drawn together, his expression tight in that familiar way you had come to recognize.

Your eyes met.

And in that moment, everything was said without a single word.

You tilted your head slightly toward the stairs, the gesture subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. A silent question.

Do you want to get out of here ?

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He gave the smallest nod.

You both stood at the same time, as if it had been planned, moving quietly through the room without drawing attention. No one stopped you. No one even seemed to notice you leaving.

With each step toward the stairs, the noise dulled, the pressure easing just enough to let you breathe again.

When you reached your room, you opened the door without thinking, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. But behind you, Bucky paused.

It was brief. Almost unnoticeable.

But you saw it.

And, like always, you didn’t push. You didn’t rush him, didn’t turn around to question it. You simply continued moving, giving him the space to decide for himself.

You crossed the room and opened the balcony door, stepping outside into the cool night air. Your hands rested lightly against the railing as you exhaled, this time without trying to hide it. The quiet wrapped around you, soft and immediate, like a shield against everything you had just left behind.

For a second, you were alone.

Then you heard the door.

Bucky stepped out beside you, the hesitation gone, replaced by something steadier. The tension in his shoulders eased almost instantly as the silence settled in.

He had chosen to follow you.

To trust you.

And from that night on, it became something unspoken between you.

A habit. A reflex.

Across crowded rooms, your eyes would find each other, and a simple glance would be enough. Sometimes a small nod. Sometimes, one of you would lean in just slightly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“Wanna get out of here ?”

And sometimes, it was Bucky who said it first.

But every time, without fail, you left together.

Trust didn’t come all at once. It never did with him. It was built slowly, piece by piece, in silence more than in words.

At some point, he had stopped tensing when you leaned closer during movie nights. Then, one evening, when exhaustion got the better of you and your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder, he didn’t move away.

He had gone still at first.

Not stiff. Not panicked.

Just… aware.

Aware of your weight against him, of your steady breathing as sleep pulled you under, of how natural it felt despite everything in him that used to reject contact.

And then, after a moment, he let himself relax.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t wake you up. Didn’t even acknowledge it out loud.

He just stayed.

Another time, in a crowded hallway, your shoulders brushed as people moved around you too quickly, too closely. Bucky’s body reacted before his mind did. His hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching, but close enough to guide you if needed. Close enough to shield you from anyone getting too close.

Protective. Instinctive.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first.

And you didn’t comment on it.

That was the thing between you, nothing was ever forced into the open before it was ready. You both let things exist as they were, without questioning them too much.

It was… natural.

So natural, in fact, that neither of you really noticed how much things had changed.

But others did.

Steve was the first one to say something.

It happened one afternoon, quiet and uneventful. Bucky had just come back from training, his movements still carrying that residual tension that never fully left him. You were in the common area, sitting on the couch with a book in your hands, your posture relaxed in a way that always seemed to soften the space around you.

You looked up when Bucky walked in.

And you smiled.

That same soft, genuine smile you always gave him.

Bucky paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before nodding back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he moved further into the room.

Steve had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with quiet attention.

He waited until you looked back down at your book before speaking.

“He seems less on edge when you’re around.”

His voice was calm, observational, but there was something warmer beneath it.

You glanced up at him, slightly caught off guard.

Steve’s gaze shifted briefly toward Bucky, who was now moving around the kitchen, quieter than usual, more at ease than he had been earlier.

“I’m glad he has someone to trust other than me,” Steve added.

There was no jealousy in his tone. No hesitation.

Just relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, Bucky wasn’t carrying everything alone anymore.

By the very end of December, nothing had officially happened.

You hadn’t kissed. You hadn’t hugged, not really, not in the way people would define it. And if anyone had asked, you weren’t together.

But you were close.

Closer than either of you realized.

Without noticing when it started, you leaned on Bucky more than you did on anyone else. You were still yourself, you still walked side by side with Natasha, still leaned into others during conversations, still laughed the same way.

But something had shifted.

Your head didn’t find Tony’s shoulder anymore during movie nights.

It found Bucky’s.

In crowded rooms, your hand reached for his arm without thinking, fingers curling lightly around his sleeve as if it had always belonged there. It wasn’t desperate, not even conscious, it was instinctive. Grounding.

And he never pulled away.

Not once.

Bucky, in his own way, mirrored you.

Every time he entered a room, his eyes searched for you first. It became automatic, something he did before even realizing it. And once he found you, something in him settled.

Like he could finally breathe properly.

In crowded spaces, his hand no longer hovered near your lower back.

It rested there.

Light. Careful. Always giving you the option to move away.

But guiding you nonetheless.

Protecting you.

Trust, for him, had always been the hardest thing to give.

And yet, one night, you found him in the kitchen, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

The lights were dim. The compound was silent.

He was standing there, leaning slightly against the counter, his posture tense in a way that told you everything before he even spoke.

You didn’t ask too many questions.

You never did.

You just stayed.

And somehow, that was enough.

Because that night, he told you.

Not everything. Not all at once. But enough.

Enough about the nightmares. About the things that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. About the memories that didn’t feel like memories, but like something still happening, over and over again.

It wasn’t easy for him.

You could hear it in the pauses, see it in the way his jaw tightened, feel it in the way his voice sometimes dropped too low.

But he trusted you with it.

And you didn’t try to fix it.

You didn’t interrupt.

You didn’t look at him with pity.

You just listened.

And when the silence came back, heavy but not uncomfortable, you stayed right there beside him.

That was enough.

It became… normal, after that.

In the mornings, it wasn’t unusual for someone from the team to walk into the living room and find the two of you asleep together.

You, curled slightly toward him, your head resting on his lap.

Him, slouched back against the couch, one hand absentmindedly tangled in your hair, like even in his sleep he needed to make sure you were still there.

Both of you completely at peace.

It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that didn’t need labels or explanations.

And Steve had been right.

Bucky was calmer around you.

The constant tension in his shoulders had eased, the sharp edge in his gaze softened. He wasn’t as quick to withdraw, not as guarded as he used to be.

But what no one had really expected, was that it went both ways.

Because somehow, in the same quiet, unspoken way, Bucky soothed you, too.

Tony, like every year, had organized New Year’s Eve at the compound.

The living room was overflowing, music blasting, people talking over each other, laughing, dancing, clinking glasses. Strangers mixed with old friends, investors, acquaintances Tony barely remembered inviting. It was too much, too fast, too loud. The kind of chaos that usually would have sent both you and Bucky slipping away within the first hour.

But this time, you stayed.

Not out of obligation, but because you actually wanted to.

You wanted to spend the night with your friends, to feel part of it instead of watching it from the outside. And instead of leaving the moment things became overwhelming, you and Bucky found a rhythm. Small breaks. Quiet pauses. You’d drift into the kitchen for a few minutes of silence, or step out onto the balcony to breathe in the cold air, letting the noise fade just enough to reset. Then you’d return like nothing had happened.

Bucky stayed close the entire night.

Not suffocating. Never that.

Just… there.

Sometimes he’d drift off to talk to Steve, a few steps away, but he always came back to your side without needing to be called. Like it was instinct now. Like you were the anchor he didn’t realize he’d been searching for.

At one point, he tilted his head toward the stairs, a silent suggestion, familiar by now.

You looked at him and smiled, shaking your head.

No.

He rolled his eyes dramatically in response, exaggerated enough to make you laugh under your breath. But there was no real frustration in it. His face was relaxed, his shoulders loose in a way that would’ve been unthinkable months ago.

Then the music shifted.

A song you loved came on, immediately recognizable, immediately yours.

Your face lit up before you even realized it, a wide, unfiltered smile spreading across your lips. It was the kind of expression that made everything around you feel softer just by existing.

Bucky noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

He followed your gaze toward the speakers, then back to you. And something in his expression shifted, not a full smile yet, but the beginning of one. Something warm, faintly amused, almost fond.

Before he could say anything, you were already standing in front of him.

Holding your hand out.

“Wanna dance ?”

You weren’t shy about it. Not hesitant. Just bright-eyed, smiling like the night itself belonged to you.

He blinked once.

Then again.

“No,” he said immediately, because of course he did.

You leaned in slightly, widening your eyes.

“Pleaseeeee, Buck.”

That was new too.

Buck.

Something about the nickname alone almost broke his resistance.

He tried to look unimpressed, he really did, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite him. His gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face.

You were still waiting. Still smiling. Completely unbothered by his hesitation.

With a long-suffering sigh that fooled absolutely no one, he finally slipped his metal hand into yours.

The moment your fingers closed around his, something in him eased.

He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t think about his arm. Didn’t think about the crowd. Didn’t think about anything except the fact that you were already pulling him forward.

You led him into the middle of the room where people were dancing, laughter and music blending into a steady pulse. You turned to face him, your hands finding their place naturally at the back of his neck, while his settled carefully at your waist, steady, grounding.

Something from The Beatles filled the room, loud and familiar, wrapping around everything like warmth.

You started to sway first.

Bucky followed.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

At first, he kept his expression carefully neutral, like he was only doing this because you had asked. But the longer you stayed there, smiling up at him, moving with the rhythm without hesitation, the more that act started to slip.

Especially when you laughed.

Especially when you pulled him just a little closer.

He made a point of acting annoyed every time you tried to make him move more, every time you encouraged him like this was some kind of performance. But the truth was in the way his grip stayed steady, in the way he didn’t step back even once.

And in the way he started to enjoy it.

It reminded him of something distant. Faded. A version of himself that used to exist before everything changed, before HYDRA, before silence, before he forgot what it felt like to be just a man in a room instead of a weapon in survival mode.

Dancing with Steve, back in a time that felt almost like someone else’s life.

Except this time was different.

Because this time, he wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

He wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong.

He was just here.

With you.

At some point, he spun you once.

Then again.

And again.

You laughed every time, louder each round, until he was laughing too, quiet at first, then more freely, like something had finally cracked open inside him.

The two of you collided lightly into an older couple at one point, earning a sharp complaint that neither of you fully heard through your laughter.

And for once, neither of you really cared.

Because for a moment, just one long, fleeting moment, the world wasn’t heavy.

It was just music.

Just movement. Just you and him.

“Come on, people! The countdown has begun!” Tony’s voice cut through the music, booming over the crowd as he waved his arms dramatically from somewhere near the center of the living room.

Ten minutes to midnight.

The energy in the compound shifted instantly, louder, brighter, more chaotic. People cheered, laughed, rushed to refill glasses, gather closer together, ready to welcome the new year as if it meant something different from all the others.

You and Bucky lingered for a few more minutes, still caught in the afterglow of dancing. The music had shifted into something less familiar, less alive, and you wrinkled your nose slightly at it like it had personally offended you.

Without much thought, you grabbed Bucky’s hand again and tugged him toward the kitchen.

He followed without resistance.

Not because you pulled hard, but because he let you.

The kitchen was quieter, though not completely. The muffled sound of the countdown and distant music still reached the walls, but it was softer here. Manageable. Breathable.

Seven minutes.

You reached the counter first, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water, drinking almost immediately like you had forgotten how long you’d been moving, laughing, existing in the noise.

Bucky stayed by the doorway for a moment, watching you.

Just watching.

When you finally set the glass down and leaned back against the counter, you were facing him now. He had stepped further inside without you noticing, but still kept a bit of space between you, comfortable, familiar.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t awkward.

It never was anymore.

Just quiet.

Then you broke it gently.

“Are you having a good night ?” you asked, voice softer now, like the question belonged in this quieter space.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if considering it far more seriously than necessary.

Then, with a lazy shrug and that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth, he answered:

“Worst night of my life.”

It came out dry. Teasing. Perfectly timed.

But his eyes gave him away.

Because there was no bite in it. No edge. Only warmth, hidden carefully under the joke, like something too honest to be spoken plainly.

What he meant was something entirely different.

Best night of my life.

But that stayed where it always did, behind his teeth, unspoken, safe.

You rolled your eyes immediately, a smile spreading across your face anyway, effortless and familiar. Like you’d learned how to read him without needing anything more than a tone, a glance, a pause.

“Liar,” you muttered, but there was no real accusation in it.

Only fondness.

Bucky’s smile softened just a little more as he leaned back against the counter, watching you like you were the quietest part of the entire night, and somehow the most important.

Outside the kitchen, the countdown kept building.

But in here, time felt slower. Quieter.

Like it was waiting for something too.

Five minutes.

“You know… I’m glad you ended up here,” you said softly, your voice honest in the way it always was when you weren’t trying to hide anything.

Bucky’s gaze lifted to you immediately, like the words had pulled him out of whatever quiet space he’d been standing in.

“Yeah ?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, gentle. “You keep me sane.”

Something in his expression softened, so slight it could’ve been missed if someone wasn’t looking for it.

“Well,” he replied after a beat, voice low, almost careful, “I’m glad, too.”

You blinked once, a little surprised by how quickly he answered.

“Yeah ?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.” He mirrored you, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You keep me out of my head.”

The honesty of it settled between you instantly, simple, unguarded, heavier than either of you treated it.

Your gaze dropped to your glass, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat, like it had decided to make itself known at the worst possible moment. Your face felt warmer than it should’ve, and you didn’t quite understand why.

So you stayed quiet.

Three minutes.

“Maybe we should go back before the countdown ends,” you murmured eventually, breaking the silence gently.

Bucky nodded without hesitation, pushing off the doorway. “Yeah.”

You walked side by side back into the living room.

The atmosphere had shifted completely. The lights were lower now, replaced by neon glows and scattered reflections bouncing off glasses and windows. Everyone had gathered in the main space, bodies packed closer together, anticipation buzzing through the air like electricity.

One minute.

People were already counting loudly, voices overlapping in messy unison. Some were laughing, some were shouting, some were already turning toward the people they cared about most.

You and Bucky stayed slightly apart from the center, not fully stepping into the crowd. Not quite retreating either. Just… existing on the edge of it together, like you always seemed to do without planning it.

Fifteen seconds.

Someone bumped into you from behind while pushing toward the center. Instinctively, you stumbled forward slightly.

Bucky’s hand was on your back before you even registered the movement.

Steady. Immediate.

Grounding.

And just like that, your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just contact.

It was him.

Ten seconds.

He felt it too.

You could tell by the way his hand stayed there a second longer than necessary, not pulling away, not adjusting. Just… present. Anchoring you in place like he’d done so many times before without thinking about it.

Five seconds.

Your eyes lifted.

His were already on you.

It wasn’t loud in your head anymore. Not the room. Not the countdown. Just him.

You didn’t need words.

Not now.

Three.

His gaze flickered, just briefly, to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Two.

Your breath hitched, subtle but real. Your hand shifted slightly at your side like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

One.

His hand on your back tightened, not pulling you, just holding you closer without force.

“Happy New Year!” the room erupted.

The sound hit all at once, cheers, laughter, shouting, glasses clinking, kissing, the world exploding into celebration.

But you barely heard it.

Because in that exact moment, you leaned in.

Slow enough that it wasn’t taken from you. Confident enough that it wasn’t uncertain.

Bucky met you halfway without hesitation.

His lips were warm against yours, steady, certain, like something that had been waiting far too long to finally happen. There was no rush, no chaos in it. Just everything you had both been saying without words for months finally collapsing into something real.

When you pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe.

Your foreheads almost brushed, your eyes still half-lidded, soft with something neither of you bothered naming yet.

“Happy New Year, Buck,” you whispered.

His mouth curved faintly, breath warm against yours.

“Happy New Year.”

And then, like restraint had finally run out completely, Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper.

Less careful.

His hand slid fully to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was any space left between you. Your fingers immediately caught in his hair, holding him there just as firmly, like you had been waiting just as long as he had.

The noise of the world didn’t matter anymore.

Not the countdown.

Not the crowd.

Not anything except you and Bucky, finally understanding that your relationship hadn't been even close to friendship for a long time.

[goat-limbs]

Ruin That Boy

contents (nsfw): Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader, Benedict's POV, semi-established but secretive relationship, virgin!Reader (but with some experience gained already), talk of marriage, mild voyeurism, aphrodisiac, first time, mirror sex, love confessions.

synopsis: Benedict's relationship with you blooms in the confines of hushed rooms and away from everyone's eyes. When you ask him to take you to Granville’s salon, he's worried it is to broaden your palate and soon learns he's the only one there. Or: a lousy part two to Touched, but can be read as a separate piece.

word count: 5,9K

a/n: Thank you for the love, Bridgerton fandom ❤︎ Banner is by me, dividers by @pixopix and @uzmacchiato!

Thrill. Excitement so sudden and pleasurable it surprises the recipient, even when they have actively sought it out. It shudders a damp neck, licks warmth up the spine, soggs the backs one’s knees and leaves their bellies blissfully knotted. Elation. Exhilaration. Rapture. It’s everything Benedict lives for. It’s everything he looks for, wandering between parties, bottles, and legs until each blade of joy eventually dulls.

Then, a change finds him. One that doesn’t require him to reform anything about himself, because all the traits his mother lists under redeemable are openly and shamelessly admired. From secretive glances, through teasing about your improper extracurriculars, to outright begging your hands for mercy in a library—you become Benedict’s inexhaustible source of everything perfervid.

The only places he gets lost in now are your neck and knuckles and lips. The only thing he longs for is the deathgrip of your thighs on his ears when your body seizes and mouth forsakes cleverness in favour of sounds entirely unholy. The altar of your legs is the one Benedict prays at, as this is where he lays his offerings for the God who lives in the hedges.

He’s a faithful convert. You manage to sate the appetite he carries for things of lovely kind, like kissing, touching, partial undressing. And things of perverted kind in equal measure: your voice when you read out loud. Your fingers on the piano. Getting his collar fixed by your hands when nobody’s the wiser. A brush of thumb on his mouth.

Even though he knows you do not wander off either, it sheens him with cold sweat when you ask, “Will you take me? To Granville’s salon?”

He’s promised. Once, and twice, and more times than he can count after that. A place where freedom is the only law, where nobody asks questions beyond how do you want me? and where horizons stretch so vast the very notion of return goes thin. He knows refusing a kindred spirit would be wrong, and still the worry lingers. That you will see him plain. A lovesick fool already.

“Have I managed to bore you?” Benedict asks. He looks up from his shelter—his head is cradled on your lap. The library is so quiet he can hear the way your lips smack.

“No,” you say. Your fingers brush his cheek. “Never. But I wish to be with you with less… constraint.”

He seizes the hand and kisses your wrist. It would be a relief, he thinks, to stop living on thresholds. You have done everything else. You have made him shake and beg and bite down on silence. You have taught him the shape of your want with your mouth and your hands, and he has repaid it in kind, careful and patient, stopping only at the one thing that would make it final. The thing that would make you his in a way the world understands, and dangerous in a way the world punishes.

His mouth shifts to your palm. A slow lick across it, and then he draws two of your fingers between his lips and sucks. First gentle, then firmer, eyes never leaving your face. Devotion, in plain action. He lets you feel what he can do, what he means to do, and how well he can mind himself while doing it. Then, he releases you and asks, hoarse and honest, “Are you certain?”

You huff and cover his mouth, defiant. “How do you expect me to have a clear mind when this is what you chose to do?” He smiles under the gag. “But yes. I am certain. My mother leaves for the countryside this weekend, and I have already convinced her to let me be and spend time with Eloise. Opportunity like no other.”

“Saturday then,” Benedict says, your hand clasped in his. “You will need a disguise. A mask of some kind. And we’d have to arrive separately.”

“Oh? Would it hurt your carefully preserved reputation to be seen entering with a companion?”

“My darling,” Benedict says. “Of the two of us, I’m the blackguard. It would simply keep you safe from gossip. And—” He takes a strand of your hair between his fingers. “Would make it easier for you to see all the establishment has to offer. Had someone caught your eye, of course.” 

His voice stays light, but the hand in your hair gives him away. Benedict tempts fate—offers you freedom he wants for you and fears it in the same breath. Granville’s rooms are full of beautiful people whose sole purpose is to entertain, to be entertained, to make a want feel ordinary by answering it quickly. Someone will look at you there. Someone will try. He knows it. He hears it in his own pulse as soon as he says it, and his fingers tighten on the strand for half a second too long before he loosens them again. Better, he tells himself, to walk you through it with his hand at your back than to have you slip from him in a crush of bodies and candlelight. Better to be the one who sees, who decides, who can pull you away before anything becomes a story other people can tell.

You watch his mouth as he speaks, then his eyes, and the way only you can, forge scrutiny into tenderness. “Benedict,” you say. “I do not seek entertainment with another. I simply wish for a place where I do not have to whisper about how I want your hands on me.”

Benedict lets the relief come and go without giving it a face. He shifts on the chaise, rises only to resettle himself beside you, closer than manners would ever advise. His hands come together on his lap. He looks down at his knees as if they are suddenly of great interest.

“You know,” he says, voice kept painfully even, “there is a remedy society is very fond of prescribing for precisely this sort of… inconvenience.”

Your hand inches on your lap, nearer to where his fingers are laced. “Marriage.”

“Yes.” He swallows. The word tastes odd in his mouth, too large for his body and this quiet. “If we were married, you would not have to whisper about my hands. You could say it plainly and nobody would blink. They would call it dutiful.”

“I… know.” Your voice softens in candour. “But I am surprised you are the first one to mention it.”

A quiet huff of laughter leaves him, more genuine than he means. “Believe me, the rake is as surprised as you are.” His head tilts a fraction towards you, still watching your hands instead of your eyes, as if that is safer. “You must have thought of it, though.”

“I have. But—” You take his palm into a cradle of yours and set it on your lap. Your fingers begin to play with his, turning them, smoothing them, testing the shape of them the way you test words before you write. “Do not let my answer be misleading about my feelings towards you. I enjoy and cherish every moment with you, and I am certain that if our fates were bound together it would be an exquisite life. But if we marry now I will be expected to bear children and be a wife. And I wish to enjoy being a woman first. Does that make sense?”

Benedict’s throat tightens in a way he does not care to examine. He watches the hands. There’s a vow in the simplicity of it and, by rights, it should meet his every desire.

He thinks it does.

“It makes perfect sense,” he says, and it costs him something to say it without bargaining. He manages it anyway.

He turns his face and presses a kiss to your cheek, gentle and unshowy, then leans close enough to put the words where they belong, private. “I would give you anything you want, and nothing you do not want. I shall have a carriage arranged for you on Saturday, and meet you by the entrance.”

“Fantastic,” you say. “And thank you.”

On Saturday, Benedict is nervous. A juvenile, boyish thing takes up residence in his chest when he sits in his carriage and lets his eyes wander through its small window in hopes of spotting you. The city moves past in indifferent pieces: stone, iron, lamps, the wet gleam of a recent drizzle. He keeps smoothing a crease that does not exist on his glove. Keeps checking the distance as if a man can hurry a horse by thinking at it hard enough.

Then he sees you.

A figure stands by the entrance with the posture of someone attempting to look idle and failing. A full-face Venetian mask turns the head into porcelain. The mouth is painted into a calm that does not belong to you. You raise a handkerchief and give him a theatrical little wave, as if you are greeting him from a stage and not a doorstep that could undo you.

Benedict gets out before the footman can decide whether to assist. He crosses the pavement and you turn your back to him as though this is the most natural thing in the world—allowing a gentleman his proper approach.

He comes close and hums into the edge of your ear, low. “Was it hard to sneak out?”

“No,” you say. “Only because my lady’s maid is an exceptionally good egg. She believes in my best traits.”

“Naïve,” Benedict replies, and reaches for your hand. He sets it on his forearm. “Ready for a dive?”

Your answer is an audible haul of breath. It draws his eyes to the line of your throat and the careful stillness of your shoulders. Then you nod. Benedict laughs, quick and helpless, and it is a good sound on him. It makes the whole thing feel possible.

At the door, a man in livery intercepts you with the ease of someone accustomed to discretion. Not a footman. Not quite a servant, either—something between guardian and gate. “Mr Bridgerton,” the man says, and his gaze flicks once, politely, to the masked face beside Benedict. “A courtesy of the house.”

He places two bonbons on Benedict’s open palm. They sit there, glossy and innocent, wrapped in thin paper, too pretty to be trusted.

Benedict lifts his brows, knowing. “And what, precisely, is the courtesy?”

The man’s mouth twitches, as if he has said this a hundred times and still enjoys it. “A sweet,” he answers. “For those who prefer their courage taken by the mouth.”

Benedict feels your attention sharpen at his side. He keeps his face composed. His hand turns slightly so you can see the pair of them properly. Then, he nudges you with his elbow. “Keep?”

You let out a small, scornful sound. “Poppycock.”

Benedict’s smile turns. “If it is, there is no threat, is there?” His eyes dip to your hand on his arm, then back to the mask. “Or are your feet getting cold?”

You go motionless for a beat. Beneath the porcelain, your eyes deliver scrutiny with surgical neatness. “Keep,” you say at last. With a smile Benedict tries his damndest to not turn smug, he closes his fingers over the bonbons, and pockets them.

“Brave girl,” he hums, proud.

To him, walking past the threshold is crossing the border between the world that allows and the world that does not. Here, everything is permitted, and that is precisely the peril. It takes more courage, more forbearance, to be handed choice in both palms and still steer oneself true than it does to live in the safer places where rules are printed in neat little pamphlets and obedience is mistaken for virtue.

The place is what it always is. Warm lamplight that flatters skin; laughter threaded with music; bodies arranged with an ease that would make a ballroom choke. Paintings and half-finished sketches sit alongside silk and spilled drink, as if art and appetite are the same kind of work. Benedict has seen it often enough to be blasé, and yet a new thrill climbs him today, born entirely of you.

Your gaze widens beneath the mask. Little gasps escape you—small, involuntary, betrayed into the air. More than once you stop short, fingers tightening on his sleeve when something catches your eye, and Benedict has to check his own stride so he does not drag you forward like an impatient guide.

He keeps you in the lee of his body as you move, steering you with light pressure at the elbow, watching your eyes more than the rooms whose ajar doors tempt and promise and dare.

The first door shows a wrist dressed in ribbon, the bow tied with the same neatness one reserves for gifts meant to be kept. The knot is firm, pretty, brazenly intentful. The person bound is smiling as if the constraint has unhooked something in them. Someone else bends to the inside of that wrist and kisses the pulse there with slow care, mouth lingering. Your head tilts, curious. Benedict feels his shoulders ease, one careful notch at a time.

Another door, further down, holds three figures in candlelight. One seated, two standing close, the arrangement practiced enough to look effortless. A hand covers the seated one’s mouth because it is wanted there, palm sealing in sound the way silk seals in heat. It turns muffled breath into a private thing, where it’s not fear being stifled, but pleasure being hoarded. You inhale sharply, and Benedict watches the way your gloved fingers curl, then uncurl, as if you are trying not to touch the air.

He murmurs close to you, “We can leave.”

You keep looking ahead, steady. A minute shake of head is your answer.

A third door gives onto a bed and a mirror. The room looks empty at first glance, and yet it is already occupied; the glass catches you both in the corridor light and holds you there, two figures caught before you have even crossed the threshold. Your masked face turns, your hand tightens on his sleeve, and Benedict watches the decision arrive in you with a steadiness that makes his mouth go dry. He understands, all at once, what you are asking for.

“This one?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. “But with doors closed.”

Benedict nods, and opens the door wider for you to step in.

Then, the clamour of voices and clinking glasses softens to a hum beyond the wood. He watches you step into the middle of the chamber and reach up to untie the ribbons of your mask. It comes away, revealing a face far more beautiful than any painted porcelain. In the candlelight, Benedict catches the glint of your eyes—bright, ferocious—and his own chest tightens, as if it’s him visiting for the first time.

“And what of your poppycock, hm?” you ask, setting the mask on a table.

His mouth quirks. He takes a step closer, enough that your perfume cuts through the wax-and-candle air. “Poppycock has its uses,” he says. “Granville likes a flourish. Those sweets are part of it.” His hand lifts. Hovers near your hair, and waits. “May I?”

At your assent he finds the first pin and draws it free, then another. Your hair loosens in heavy fall, arrangement giving way to something more tameless. He stands there with a breath held and his face composed by force of habit. Leans in to cover it with a mutter of lips against your neck.

“I have taken one before,” he says. “It does not steal a person’s wits. It only makes the body louder. A warmth under the ribs, a quickening. Touch lands harder. Kisses linger. Everything you already want becomes difficult to ignore.” His mouth shifts, just beneath your ear. “It takes little time. A quarter of an hour, give or take. You will know when it begins.”

He draws back enough to look at you, bare-faced, eyes still bright. “We take them only if you wish it. We stop the moment you ask. You may say it plain. You may say it once. I will hear it.” His thumb ghosts your jaw, brief. “And if you decide you would rather keep your poppycock and leave, I shall walk you out as though nothing happened at all.”

You nod once. Stifle a girlish giggle that might as well be the death of him, and begin a slow stroll. Circling him, as if he were the prey here.

Despite all the consent he needs being handed on a silver platter, Benedict still finds it in himself to seek verbal confirmation. “I am asking for the last time—are you certain?”

“Do you ask your courtesans this?”

“I am not in possession of any courtesans,” he huffs, catching your waist, exasperated with the dance. “Regardless, they do not need to guard their virtue. But I feel that I ought to guard yours.”

“Sweet boy,” you coo, ruining him a little with it. An infuriatingly patronising palm is placed on his cheek, and thankfully you have enough mercy to notice his furrowed brow. “I appreciate the sentiment, Benedict, but I’ve already bled on your fingers—I do not think there is much virtue left to salvage. Let us not be fickle and pretend a fabricated concept of feminine virtue can be vanquished only by something as blunt as a cock.” His eyes widen and the cuss and cheeks fill with blood. “You’ve torn my virtue apart with your hands,” you whisper into his mouth. “You ate it and kissed it and I am grateful for it.”

“Your beautiful tongue makes the foulest things sound hallowed,” Benedict says, rapt. He reaches into his pocket, produces the bonbons onto an open palm. “Here,” he says; you take one. The other he poises at your lips, and rattles, “Let us succumb together then.”

“Sante,” you say, pushing the ball of lust past his mouth and opening yours in the same breath.

A sweet, wicked ritual. You both accept the communion from the God of the wild parts of a person. Assent one can hold between their fingers. It leaves your cupid’s bow powdered with sugar, and Benedict licks it off, eager as a boy who’s been promised he’ll be allowed to run and get mud on his knees past the afternoon tea.

He’s about to kiss you. Rip the layers off you, when you put firm hands on his chest, and command him, “Undress.”

“And you?” he asks, grin crooked.

“I will watch. Then—” You ease yourself off him and take the most inconspicuous stroll towards the bed where you sit, politely, and entirely unfit for the scene. “Then you can undress me.”

“Wilful beast,” Benedict murmurs, fond enough that it comes out rough.

He obeys. Coat first, shrugged off and dropped where it lands. Waistcoat next, the buttons a small battle his fingers win too fast. He loosens the cravat and pulls it free, then the shirt, tugged up and over his head. All the while your eyes stay on him with a steadiness that makes him feel watched in a way no room at Granville’s ever managed. When he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and works his breeches down, the heat in him has nowhere to hide; he steps out of them, bare except for stockings, then strips those too, until there is nothing left to perform decency with.

He is shamelessly hard. Feels the weight between his legs as laden and embarrassingly eager when it kicks against his stomach.

That is when your eyes begin to travel. They drag, corporeally, and Benedict feels it like hands. His stomach tightens on instinct. He draws a breath and makes his chest broader, the old, ridiculous vanity rising to the surface. The more he tries to look like a man worth looking at, the wider your smile grows.

“You think it some kind of an assessment?” you ask, amused.

“Is it not?” Benedict says, and crosses to you. He offers his hands, palms up, and helps you to your feet. Positions you facing the mirror and settles behind you.

In the reflection he sees you shake your head. “No,” you say, eyes on the glass. On him, precisely. “Simply admiring my man.”

He hides his face in your hair at that, bashful and coy like he never is. Ahead of him is a task Benedict’s mind insists on making uncomfortably specific. His fingers go first to the small practical knots and hooks at your back that hold a woman together in public. He works them loose one by one. The gown slackens, the fabric giving up its shape with a faint sigh, and when he draws it down from your shoulders he catches the first glimpse of what has been pressed and held all evening: the fine creases in the top of your chemise where the bodice has hugged you. He gathers the gown at your waist and holds it up for you to step free of it, careful not to let it snag. Once you are out, he throws it over the nearest chair in a loose heap and turns back to the mirror.

You stand there, only looking. “That’s more naked than you’ve ever been with me,” Benedict says.

“In a way,” you tell him. “In a way you’ve seen all there is to me already.”

“That I will never believe,” Benedict says, and smooths his hands over your back.

Your face grows stern with each reveal, serious in the mirror, as if this is an examination you mean to pass on your own terms. The bonbon’s warmth begins to show itself too, not in theatrics but in small betrayals: your lids lowering, the line of your throat lengthening as you tip your head back and give him access without asking. Benedict leans in and breathes you in where your neck meets shoulder, and the scent of you hits him harder than it has any right to. Your hand finds his wrist and guides it, firm. The pressure of your fingers says closer, more, here.

He slides his hands to the drawstring of your short stays, finds the tie and loosens it slowly. The stays relax their hold. He’s grateful to Newton for putting a moniker to the force he has to thank: gravity. It agrees with you, and relentlessly. Makes a woman into a marvel he’ll get to weight in his own palm.

“So gorgeous she has every right to be wilful,” he murmurs.

The last thing to unlace is the chemise. It’s but a ribbon to pull on your sternum to make you almost bare. He opens it on your shoulders like one would a fig when nobody’s watching, and notices things he’s never had to name before, because he’s never been allowed to look this long. He realises he wants to be seen by you as much as he wants to see you. That with you there’s tenderness, always, under the filth.

Then, Benedict sinks. As he should, onto his knees. With the descent he takes final garments: your gloves roll down your arms, stockings gather at your ankles until you step out of them too. Thin skin reveals an even thinner one. His mouth is at your thighs, the backs of them, right where he sets his hands to hoist you onto a library ladder when the afternoon is particularly kind to him. 

You hum, a long throaty thing that rattles down your spine to his lips. He smiles. Turns you in his arms to face his favourite place. The circle becomes full, when Benedict husks, “Wilful creature,” and drowns himself in the hair at the apex of your thighs. “What is it in that head of yours that you want?”

Your belly rises against his face when you inhale. A hand finds purchase in the roots at his nape and tilts him so that he’s looking the goddess in the eye. “Touch me,” you say, and pull. Guide him up, up, until Benedict stands. Your fingers wrap around his girth, warm and merciless, and only now he realises how cruelly the bonbon is making him sweat.

He watches your pupils, all blown and wild. Lets you slot him between your thighs and tilt your body closer, so your chest flattens on his and your stomachs kiss. He’s surrounded by you, drowning and happy to not receive aid. You put flat palms to his temples, then stretch your fingers to his scalp. “Take me,” you say. “Show me us when we’re one.”

Brain slow, he blinks. “So the poppycock has taken hold, has it?”

“I cannot tell,” you say. Your tongue darts out to taste the sweat on him and make a small claim of it. “I’ve wanted you the same in the morning. And yesterday. And the day before that, and before that—ah!”

A squeal breaks out of you, high and helpless and outright sweet, when his arms close around you and lift you at the immediate, ugly death of Benedict’s patience. He can no longer bear you standing there, all teeth and want and trembling breath; and himself—a fool who’s promised to show you and guide you, while he feels like he’s the one who needs to follow.

He carries you the few steps to the bed and drops with you onto it, clumsy only in his haste. The landing is on his knees. He sits back on heels, legs spread to make room, to make a place for you to be pulled into. You end up seated in his lap, back to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. One arm bands your waist and holds you there, kept. His other slides up to your neck and sweeps your hair over your shoulder so he can have the line of it and put his mouth where he wants without swallowing loose strands. Into your ear, he rumbles, “You’ll end me and I’ll thank you. I hope you know how to wield such power.”

“And you’re not disgusted,” you say, eyes all fiery glitter, fingers digging into his thighs with claws.

“No,” Benedict says. “Bested. Enthralled.”

Free hand, generous hand, wedges itself between his belly and your back, then lower, finding where you leak as though your body has decided the matter without you. He drags a slow, testing touch through the testimony of it and has to bite down on a gasp. Searing heat, the amount of you, the blunt urge. “Mad and ruined by you,” he breathes, venturing past another threshold. 

Wet one. Hot one. It resists delicately and welcomes ardently. Your mouth gets torn by a salacious sound, head tips back onto his shoulder, and he gathers all the vigilance his mother tells him he possesses none of to still and whisper, “No. Watch.”

The chuckle you give he feels in his chest. “Look at you,” you say. “Commanding me.” Audacious in mouth as you are, you still snap your face back to where he wants it.

And good. Because there, reflected in silver, you can see. Him, for what he truly is: a beggar, pleading and ready to please, to be loved, to be taken and kept and slain if you so chose.

“No,” Benedict says. “I beseech you.”

Eyes meet in the mirror. The coil inside him grows close to snapping. Your hand reaches back to cup his cheek; a gesture so gentle it makes him feel new to his own skin. You smile at him with a softness that breaks and rebuilds.

“Benedict,” you say.

Your gaze drops in the glass, precisely to where he strains, and returns to his face with that same stern steadiness you wore through every layer he loosened. Your thumb strokes along his cheekbone.

“Have me,” you say, quiet as a blade. “I will witness every moment. Take me as your own. Properly, this time.”

“My darling,” he whispers, shattered. “Take me in kind.”

He watches your face, utterly spellbound, and empties you for just a breath. With a hand slickened and poised at his root, Benedict enters where only his fingers and tongue have been before. The very heart of you, narrow and throbbing like that of a rabbit. He pushes, preposterous enough to believe the gentleness is for you, whilst it is partly for him to not snap on the spot.

And you’re as ferocious there as everywhere else. You tease him, squeeze him, claim him for yourself. One second he thinks you might banish him, the next you’re pulling him deeper.

In the mirror your features bleed through expressions: focus first, then furrowed brow, then mouth a round moue and eyes rolled back before you remember to look. You take all of him, greedy and bold, breathe deeply and set your hand to your belly where he’s under the skin.

“There you are,” you say. “You feel—”

“Good, hopefully?” he offers, kissing your shoulder.

“Right,” you tell him. “You feel right.”

“It is you who feels right,” Benedict says. The tedium of stillness grows in his spine and spurs his hips to move. He rolls them once to see how you take it. “You make me feel right,” he says, holding you by the waist while his thighs do the honest work of emptying and filling you again.

To that, your body answers with tightening. Your palms find his forearm and grip. After a few thrusts you find it in yourself to bolden and offer your own rhythm: slow and heavy, with your buttocks pressing into his lower abdomen and thighs widening on his so he’s angled exactly how you want him. He witnesses you become a thing he doesn’t deserve and still dares to want. In the mirror he sees exactly what a boy you make out of him. A ruined boy.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Oh God, yes—”

It makes him lose himself with a grace so vulnerable it feels indecent in a room like this. He lets you use him. Lets you take what you want and set the tempo, and the shock of it is how little he resists. How quickly he grows back into a man built to be handled.

The reflection gives him the most unforgiving kindness he has ever been granted. It lays the truth before him of what it is to meet someone who hears ‘rake’ and does not recoil. Who sees past the slur and expects everything but a pretty nuisance or a moral lesson. Who has enough curiosity in them to unpeel the outer layer and rejoices at what’s found underneath: appetite, yes, and the restless need for it, but also a person who has been starving for someone to say, I like this. I like you.

The result should have been freedom. Instead it turns into a craving for its opposite. Benedict wants to be bound, suddenly and fiercely, by a thing he did not expect to want from anyone. To live right here, with you, in you, and find solace in a mind that clocked him, a body that speaks the same language, a heart that opens without asking him to become smaller.

“You beautiful, wicked thing, I—” he stammers. The pleasure climbs him like fever. His breath turns ragged around his teeth upon the rising heat. He tightens his hold on your stomach, restraint battling instinct, and he forces himself to slow. His free hand moves, deft despite the tremor, and finds your centre.

Your answer comes at once. “Good God—” you breathe. “Benedict—Lord—I—”

“Just like that,” he mutters. Times the circles he draws with his fingers with the stutter of your hips, until they set as a heavy dead weight on him. They grind ineptly, muscles rebelling, and he gets to experience you in all dimensions. In front of him, where you quake and coil and fall apart on the glass surface. Against him, where your shoulderblades sharpen on his chest. Around him, and that’s the hardest of tests: tightness, inexorable. Sucking the very soul out of him.

His name loses shape when you spit it. There, he gives himself a final moment of bliss inside you, before reason sinks its claws in his back and draws him out. The tension breaks, pouring out of him in egg white and it lands on your apple-shaped loins, while he mutters, “Yes, yes, take me, take me—”

“Benedict,” you murmur.

Spent, slicked, he gathers you at once and wipes the drops jewelling your lashes. Places his thumbs on your eyelids and soaks the moisture up with his skin. 

“Speak to me,” he says. “Anything at all. Are you well?”

Laughter bubbles out of you alongside the fresh downpour of tears. “I have surpassed ‘well’,” you tell him. “There is no word for how I feel, but it is nothing ill.”

“At a loss for words?” he says, soft. He brushes your lips, and adds, “This mouth? How very unbecoming.”

“Tell a soul and I will ruin you,” you say, grinning through hiccups.

You have, Benedict thinks.

He falls with you in his arms onto the plush maw of the mattress. Reaches to the bedside basin for a damp cloth and gently wipes what’s wasted on your back. “There,” he says. “Unscathed.”

You turn solemn. Say nothing. Your hands come up to his face and map him with your fingertips—brow, cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, as if you are keeping him in a way ink could never manage. He closes his eyes and drinks the small, stunned peace of it.

When he opens them again, it hits him, hard and plain.

“What if—” The most transgressive thought takes a seat on Benedict’s tongue. What if his search is concluded even before he’s put his mind into the pursuit? What if the contentment he feels underneath the euphoria is a way to live? What if, when he binds himself to one that has no intention in taming him, it is not gaol, but amnesty?

“What if I were yours, truly? Would you want me?” Benedict asks.

“Oh, Benedict,” you sigh, and wrap yourself around him. “You are mine. Do not ever let my lack of haste to marry and reluctance to produce offspring just yet, mislead you into thinking you are not spoken for.” You take his face between your palms and the seriousness of it turns his marrow cold with shame for ever doubting. “I am not giving you to anyone. Nor am I giving myself to anyone but you.”

His smile has nowhere to go between your hands, and still it tries. “Does this mean—?”

“I love you.” you tell him. “As plain as I can say it.”

Benedict knows it in the only places that matter: in his heart of hearts, in the pit of his stomach, in the tips of his fingers. It is no poppycock, no sweet-induced madness, no fevered invention of the moment. He has felt the same thing in the clear cruelty of morning light. Yesterday. The day before that, and before that, and before that, until it has become as constant as breath and twice as necessary.

“Thank God,” Benedict says. “Because I feared I had been loving you all on my lonesome.”

[nathanbatemanfucker]

In the Grass

summary: reed has a rough time slowing down.

pairing: reed richards x f!reader

contents: single father!reed richards, i love sue but she is dead here 🫶🏾, flirting, anxiety, kissing

wc: 1,196

an: first reed richards fic of many i hope, so go easy on me. i love him sooooo bad your honor <3

pedro pascal characters masterlist

Ben and Johnny had been encouraging Reed to get out, to see and live life for over a year.

He’s faced many things; black holes and time warps, and interdimensional collapse. Space monsters the size of skyscrapers, the loss of love, the weight of being a single father.

And now he’s facing you— or rather, the idea of pursuing you. The way you two met is something he’ll always have mixed feelings about.

One day Ben dropped him at a random coffee shop stating that he’d pick him up in a few hours. There was no discussion, no clarity or questions to be asked. Reed could’ve made his way home, stretching across the bustling city but he decided to give it a shot.

He doesn’t even like coffee, he much prefers tea but the moment he laid his eyes on you and felt your enthusiasm he knew something was shifting.

Coming to your coffee shop, hearing your passion about creativity, the unexpected and the unique has become a weekly routine. You listen to him too, ranting and working through ideas and worries with a soft gentle look on your face. No judgement, but with care despite your limited understanding.

And after about two months of ordering increasingly unnecessary beverages— your chili mocha had nearly sent him to a cardiac arrest— you made the first move, handing him a napkin with your number written in purple pen and a doodle of a caffeinated black hole.

“In case your research ever gets too lonely.”

Reed kept the napkin in his pocket for three days before texting. He spent another three designing the “perfect” date.

Now, as he so often does, he’s spiraling.

You’re already sitting on the blanket when he finally forces himself to breathe and stop triple-checking the air quality index. You’re in a flowy skirt, sunglasses perched on your nose, bare feet in the grass. Your curls are caught in the breeze, your skin sun-sparkled. You look like summer. You look happy.

To with him or to be here? He swallows hard. Could he be like that for you?

You gaze over at him as if you can hear his gears turning. “You brought, let’s see how many, six kinds of cheese?” you laugh as he sets down the insulated tote like it’s carrying nuclear samples.

He blinks, talking slowly, “I wasn’t sure about dietary restrictions. I accounted for lactose tolerance, casein preference, vegan alternatives…”

You lean over the spread and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

His mouth opens and closes without a sound as he effectively short-circuits. You let him.

For a while, it goes well. You eat and talk in hushed voices, heads close together. You make fun of his perfectly color-coded snack containers. Reed even makes you laugh when he admits he used a drone to test for ant colonies before choosing this picnic spot.

Eventually, the quiet sets in. There is nothing but birdsong and breeze, and the ease between you. No background hum of lab equipment. No city traffic. No panels to check, no data to stream, no Franklin. Just stillness. But in creeps that urgency, that discomfort that Reed always operates from.

He tries his best to mask it, but you notice—of course you do. Despite your easy going nature you’ve done nothing but notice everything about Reed from the moment you met him.

His shoulders tighten. His fingers twitch. He drops his fork and hesitates to pick it up.

“Reed?”

“I’m—fine,” he says, voice brittle. “Just adjusting. I’m used to more… control.”

You crawl closer, easy and slow, until you’re on your knees beside him.

“May I?” you ask, tilting your head toward his lap.

His brows furrow. “May you—?”

You climb into his lap gently, straddling him without urgency. He stiffens at first, overwhelmed by your sweet smell and smile, but you press your palms flat against his chest and say, “Breathe with me.”

His hands hover awkwardly at your waist before he lets them rest on the curve of you.

You exhale slowly. Once and again, over and over until his breath catches the rhythm and his heart stops racing.

“You don’t have to be perfect, you know,” you murmur. “You don’t have to host a TED talk to impress me. You just have to be here.”

His lashes flutter. His mouth opens, but again nothing comes out.

You okay?” you ask.

His nod is tiny, eyes fixed on your face with wonder. “You’re…very close.”

“Mhm. I am.”

His hands tighten just slightly, not possessive, just grounding himself. “And this is really happening?”

“I sure hope so,” you tease softly. “I like you, Reed. Even when you’re fidgety and when you over-plan. But especially when you look at me like that.”

His head tilts. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me but haven’t decided if that’s statistically wise.”

He wants to—you can see it in the tension of his jaw, in the way his eyes flicker from your mouth to your eyes and back again. But he’s calculating something in his head, running variables, anticipating failure.

You wait a beat, letting him go through his moments, letting him be himself. But then you cup his cheek and whisper, “Let me do the math this time.”

The kiss starts slow and uncertain. Your lips press against his like a question, not wanting to scare him away. It’s him that shifts forward and catches your waist like you might vanish, opening his mouth to you.

In every sense of the word, he melts.

You could never prepare for the way his whole body slackens beneath you. How quiet and desperate the sound he makes is when your tongue slides against his. You pull back just enough to look at him.

“Reed?” you whisper.

He’s pink-cheeked and dazed, pupils blown, lips parted. “You scramble my brain more than a multiverse collapse,” he breathes.

Your smile is slow, reverent. “I’m pretty good then, hmm? Let’s see what else I can undo.”

You kiss him again, harder this time, and his grip on your waist tightens. When you rock forward he moans—soft, like he’s not used to the noise. His hands itch to roam, but eventually hover like he’s scared to touch too much. So scared to do the wrong thing. In his fear you guide him, sliding them just under your shirt to let him feel your skin. Feel how warm and raw and real this is.

The blanket beneath you rustles, the plates clatter and birds call. None of it matters because he feels lost in time with you.

You kiss him until he’s flushed and trembling beneath you, until he’s clinging to you like gravity had failed him. When you finally break away, he leans forward and buries his face in your neck.

“You okay?” you ask, combing your fingers through his silky hair.

He nods, quiet for a moment before saying, “You’re very…stimulating.”

You laugh. “Not a complaint, I hope.”

He shakes his head, lips brushing your collarbone. “No. Just… new input.”

You kiss the top of his head, holding him a little closer. “Plenty more where that came from.”

pedro characters taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @lowrisemiller, @ficsavin, @diedorleft, @meetmeatyourworst, @amyispxnk, @marc-spectorr, @luzhesrozes, @arsonhotchner, @ashmiller, @hotchshands, @sidkneeeee

[maximorphs]

REED RICHARDS // Wreckage (Part 1)

You were sickeningly in love with a man you could never hope to have; he burned too bright for you. Reed Richards was an entity unto himself, and you converted his mind long before your body had had a chance to catch up.

It was only natural that the aching want that followed was all-consuming.

A/N: Hello fellow gremlins! OK so as a lesbian I don't even go here but I've watched First Steps so many times and I had to write something for this man. Pedro nails Reed's character and I was already a huge FF fan before the film (since I was seven year old , I'm not even kidding when I was a kid my Mum and Dad got me Johnny Storm on a flaming bike as an action figure lol).

I hope you enjoy this, future chapters will be much steamier but I just felt like writing pain tbh lol. Just as a heads up I have no posting/writing schedule.

This will be a part of a mini series, no more than three parts. First the Ouch, then the SMUT! I've missed writing so much and I owe a HUGE thank you to my wonderful beta reader and wife @generic-band-blog (I love you and you inspire me everyday 😍) xx

I'll stop rambling, I hope you enjoy reading this first part as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The lovely scene divders are from @angeliicide x

Cross posted on my AO3 x

It had all started — regrettably — when you had knelt down to pick up a pen that he'd dropped.

A fucking pen.

Now, Doctor Reed Richards was not a man who often used crude language. Quite frankly, he believed there was no need — there were over one million (and four) words in the English language the last time he had counted. And he had counted.

Much in the same way, he frequently counted numbers.

Because, yes, Ben, counting numbers was a perfectly normal thing to do if one couldn't fall asleep. Or if one was in the middle of a highly unexpected and stressful social situation.

Like now, for instance.

In which Reed's normal million-miles-per-hour mind had just ground to a screeching halt.

There you stood, your hands wringing in that maddeningly endearing way they always did when you asked him to take tea after a particularly late evening in the lab, or soothed his worries over a beer while reflecting on your workload. Now, however, your arm was outstretched and gripping a brown folder, no doubt containing your resignation.

"You- you're leaving?" He said.

Reed took a mental step back, forcing himself to assess the situation rather than fixating on the upsetting downturn of your pretty lips.

Christ, your mouth.

God, how he'd kill to take all of his previous words back with his mouth, his teeth, his hands-

It was then that he noticed your lips were moving.

"Yes. My notice extends until the end of the week, and then there's an opening in a sector of the Future Foundation's astrophysics subdivision." You hesitated for a beat. "It's in Chicago."

He leaned back against his desk, not trusting his knees to support him.

Chicago?!

In hindsight, he should have seen this as a rational response to his rather complicated feelings. And the incident that had occurred between the two of you.

No, incident was the wrong word. It had been a fucking revelation.

You'd wanted him. You'd kissed him.

And being the fallible ass that he was, he’d kissed you back.

In all of the countless nights Reed had lain awake, disgusted with himself for wanting a woman who was at least eight years his junior, he could never have imagined that you would be the one to cross that fragile line between friendship and something oh so much more.

You had kissed him. He could scarcely believe it. Which, of course, was when the doubt set in.

You crashed into his perfectly ordinary and simple post-divorce life with the force of a million suns. You were radiant. As a man who prided himself on knowing exactly a million and four words, he simply had none to describe the depth of his affection for you.

Yes, you do, you coward, his traitorous brain supplied, she just deserves better than a selfish broken man who is far too old to be even looking in her direction.

She deserves better.

Better than you.

It also didn’t help matters that he was acquainted with many men who had much younger spouses, and while he did not doubt that some of those marriages were the result of genuine love and affection, he was under no illusion that many of the young women had, in fact, settled for stability with carbon copies of their fathers.

He would not be one of those men. He would not entrap you with his burdens or his anxieties. He would not endanger your life daily for his own comfort. He would not tarnish your future in hopes of holding onto a dying fantasy that was never even real.

He would not become his father.

But you were leaving.

He didn't deserve you; he knew that as well as he knew the sky was blue. He hadn't deserved Sue either.

The crux of it all was that he was weak. You had entered his life at the worst of times. After Sue had left and they had amicably settled the divorce proceedings, he was determined not to fall into the trap of love ever again.

He had loved Sue, yet it had taken them both years to realise that thinking you loved another person was entirely different from actually being in love with them.

And Reed Richards would always love Susan Storm.

They were just never in love with each other, and after so many years of strained silences at the dinner table, hectic schedules eating into their private lives and the life-changing disaster of that damn space mission that he alone was responsible for, love was not enough.

So no, Reed Richards did not deserve you, yet he still found himself selfishly grasping at a sweet familiarity he'd just barely gotten a taste of before it slipped away from him for good.

That's what Sue had said to him: Stop living in your head.

And it was the single thought of not seeing your face every day that broke him from his stupor. He was speaking before he even realised it.

"Chicago?! T-That's just over 1270 kilometres away. 1271.5 kilometres away, if I were to be more accurate. Although factoring in nautical mileage, it would-" He was rambling now, he knew that, but what else could he do - the Great Reed Richards - but try and talk himself out of yet another failure.

He had to at least try.

Your barely maintained composure was hanging on by a thread.

Your stomach was churning and your eyes burned; you couldn’t focus on whatever rational- no, whatever bullshit he spewed, trying to convince you to stay.

You heard Reed’s voice as if he were a million miles away.

You'd had a plan: Deliver the letter, don't look into his devastatingly gorgeous face and leave.

It was what was best for both of you, after the incident that he stubbornly refused to talk about.

My God, how could you ever forget?

You'd told yourself to forget about him, about Reed, about how the way his hands felt as they had gripped your sides, how they had branded your skin with his touch, even over your lab coat. About how wrecked he'd looked, lips parted with the eyes of a man who was starved.

Forcing your mind back into the present, gazing up at Reed now, he was broken. Mouth agape, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. And his eyes.

The idiot who had said that the eyes were the window to one's soul had clearly never met a man like Reed Richards.

It had taken weeks — no months to decipher him. He'd been an enigma of the most ludicrous kind. The generosity and selflessness he kept buried beneath a mountain of needless guilt and shame was like unearthing a treasure you never knew had existed.

Reed himself was so achingly precious to you that, somewhere in between memorising your birthday, your go-to lunch order and the many other inane details that he could fit into his big, beautiful brain, he had silently crept into your heart.

Well, that, and there was putting his own life in danger to save countless others regularly, his quiet kindness was unrivalled.

You were sickeningly in love with a man you could never hope to have; he burned too bright for you. Reed Richards was an entity unto himself, and you converted his mind long before your body had had a chance to catch up.

It was only natural that the aching want that followed was all-consuming.

Yet you’d fooled yourself into thinking that your feelings were a temporary inconvenience.

Just a stupid girl with an inappropriate crush on her boss.

Until-

Eyes on me, doll. I want you to watch while I take you apart.

Reed had kissed you back.

No, not kissed, he’d devoured you.

Oh, your feelings were definitely returned, and then he’d just stopped.

He did the one thing you never thought Reed was capable of: he ran away.

Since that evening, you hadn’t traded a word to do with anything other than your work or the FF’s occasional day trip to save whoever needed saving.

Hell, even Sue had begged you to talk to him. Despite their divorce, they remained fast friends and, after a few awkward false starts at letting bygones be bygones,  found that their teamwork had greatly improved without the two of them fighting for a marriage they could no longer save.

That charged tension that had lingered in every small smile, every searching gaze, and every brush of his fingers on your lower back was snuffed out by his own cowardice.

Those eyes that were often so expressive were currently shuttered.

Blinking up at him now, he was a man drowning on dry land.

Drowning in what you couldn't possibly determine.

Mortification?

Embarrassment?

But you knew the most likely answer: regret.

You were a significant deal younger than Reed — not by too many years, in your mind, but certainly enough that some eyebrows would be raised if the nature of your very unprofessional behaviour were to escape the lab. Factoring in that he was your boss, one of the most recognisable men on the face of the Earth, and a literal goddamned superhero made it so that his reputation as a scientist and a public figure would be decimated if your mistake (mistake, that still stung) were to be revealed to the public.

After all, it was your fault you'd both had to stay behind in the lab that evening two months ago. Up until that moment, you'd been adamant on keeping your relationship strictly professional. Ignoring the burning need to let this brilliant, infuriating and beautiful man take up any more space in your heart. 

The weight on your chest was crushing. The more Reed rambled, the more your self-control slipped.

If that were even possible.

“We carry on as if it never happened-”

Wait.

“What did you just say to me?” You whispered, hating how your throat throbbed with the effort of keeping the tears at bay.

Reed blanched, eyes wide, wincing as he caught his poor choice of words. 

Your voice had cut off the momentum of his speech, and at some point, he’d come close enough so that you could smell his cologne, the heady blend of sweet spice and sandalwood making your head swim and your body throb with need.

Awareness pulls you back to the present, slamming into you and screaming to just leave already.

“I just meant that you don’t have to quit- it’s” he struggled for the right word, “drastic.”

He was frowning down at you, the same way he frowned at the children he taught when they weren’t paying attention in class.

Your eyes mapped the planes of his face, wanting more than anything to reach out and soothe that ever-present frown between his brows with your fingertips.

You try to inch backwards, away from the anguish in his gaze, but it’s no use. You only manage to press further into the cool wood of your desk, but there is no escape from that piercing gaze.

Your palms raise of their own volition, meaning to gently guide him away from your desk so you can at least pack up your belongings with some dignity intact, but as soon as your fingers brush his sweater, all logical thought melts away.

There is nothing but Reed, the sound of your breaths mingling in tandem, the firmness of his chest brushing against your nipples through your bra, and his hands fisting the edges of your desk as if the wood will splinter under his grip.

Craining your neck up, you can’t look away from the flush in his neck, from that mouth - those lips that are always so composed, so careful - parted as he breathes deeply through his nose.

It’s like he’s straining against his better judgment, his self-control is taught, and you can feel how much he wants you. The evidence is pressed up against your leg through his trousers.

“Reed…” Your voice sounds breathier than you remember it being, and when his fingers brush your cheek, a shudder wracks through both of you. His fingers are sure to leave idents that you’ll never want to leave.

If you could meld every part of your body with his, it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Please,” he whimpers, and you lean forward ever so slightly, the tickle of his beard lighting up the nerves all over your body.

Your body is a live wire that is about to implode, and you doubt your mind or heart will survive. 

This was a mistake.

Those were his words.

And then it’s like a cold shower has drenched you.

The burning need is replaced with nausea.

You turn your head at the last second as Reed’s lips touch your cheek.

This has to stop. Now.

"Reed, please. Just- just don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Reed stilled, eyes darting around the room, flicking back and forth between the door and your face, all the while still twirling that damn pen between his long fingers.

You don't know how long you both stood there suspended in the silence.

Out of all the questions and thoughts racing through his mind, only one slipped out:

"Why?"

Your stomach dropped as you found it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact with the man who, just weeks earlier, you would have done anything for him to gaze at you as he was now: open, raw, like his whole being was being flayed out before you.

Just a silly girl with a stupid crush, you reminded yourself, frustration sparking into anger.

It had been Reed who had doused both of your passions before they could consume you both whole. The sound of his breathy whines, the heavy press of his cock against the place you needed him most.

It didn't make the memory of his hands on your skin any less painful — or arousing — but it was better than whatever the fuck this mess was.

The silence was still too much.

You had reduced the smartest man on the planet to speechlessness.

"For God's sake, Reed," you whispered, not trusting your voice to hold steady. "Say something. Do you even-"

Care?

Want me?

… love me?

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, but the pain is not enough to distract you from the maelstrom of conflict on his face.

You normally relish in the challenge of deciphering his thoughts, but just this once, you’d give anything to be able to read his mind.

"I'm sorry, truly. I can't-" he fights to find the word,s and as he does, his breath ghosts across your lips and for a moment you can recall the way he tasted on the tip of your tongue.

He’d tasted like too-sweet coffee and hunger.

"After Sue-" Reed doesn't finish what he was going to say.

He doesn't need to.

After Sue.

And there it was.

How could you be so fucking stupid?!

Of course, it was Sue. It would always be Sue.

Humiliation burns a hole in your gut.

"Sue." You echoed, numb.

Reed hesitated, and you could see the gears of his mind turning.

"I just meant that-"

"No." You whispered. "I understand."

Reed says nothing as he drops his gaze and swallows thickly. He simply stares resolutely at the floor, motionless.

He steps back, arms protectively curled around himself, and for one wild moment, you want to take back your hasty decision to find work elsewhere, but the truth was that this wasn't a hasty decision at all. You had spent weeks agonising over whether or not to leave your role at the Future Foundation. This was your job, this was your life. You had found a home among the strange and the mundane goings on of day-to-day life within the Baxter Building.

You had found a home with Reed. The fond way he'd listen to you ramble for hours about your latest theories, the ease of bantering back and forth with him over late night take-out, the way his touches slowly grew more tactile over time, the way his face had softened with precious tenderness you've ever seen the first time you'd accidentally called him 'Reed' instead of 'Doctor Richards'.

He had even opened up about his father, for crying out loud.

All of those cherished, almost intimate moments now felt like they were from another life, and the scant mere meters between you felt like miles.

You wait a few seconds for something more to be said, but the man who had outsmarted evil geniuses and talked down monsters was stoically silent.

Your chest feels like it's cracking open, your insides and deepest emotions laid bare in words left unsaid.

Reed turns sharply, the squeak of his shoes the only sound in the room, as he crosses over to his own desk. He unfolds his arms and places one palm flat on the surface, the other hand in a white-knuckled grip around the pen. With his back to you now, he appears as an impenetrable wall of indifference.

"Well," he says coolly, "if that's what you want, I can always find a replacement to fulfil your role here."

Your stomach lurches. You don’t remember moving, only that your hands are shakily packing up your belongings, your mind reeling.

Every time you glance at Reed in your peripheral vision, he is still clutching that pen like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the desk.

You do not look back at Reed as you walk to the exit, but something makes you pause before you step into the corridor.

You’ve always had a stubbornness about you that has served you well in your career, doubly so as Reed Richard’s lab partner.

Partner, you think bitterly.

It is that same stubbornness that causes you to say:

"Reed, you said that you can't do whatever this was supposed to be, but you face the impossible every day. So when did Mr Fantastic become such a coward?"

You do not wait for him to answer, striding down the corridor as the tears finally break free.

If you had waited, you would have heard Reed whisper:

"Please stay."

[milky-wayzs]

The Artist & The Author | 01

Benedict Bridgerton x female reader

Summary: after a harsh ultimatum by your father, you are sent to Mayfair for the social season to be hosted by your aunt. There, you find yourself surrounded by the shallow gentlemen of the Ton, until you bump into a gentleman who seems to be actually more sensible than the rest—Benedict Bridgerton.

Word count: 2.5k words

Contents: fluff, me trying to attempt bridgerton-esque english, takes place during season one, y/n's last name is Aldridge for convenience, angst, mentions of abuse, period typical sexism, reader likes to writes, marquess aldridge is a bad bad man, might not follow season one in exact, reader is in her 3rd year on the marriage mart, eventual smut

Warnings: not that I'm aware of for this chapter, but I probably glossed over it

A/N: please let me know if you want another part!

Mayfair, London, England

A town that you've only heard of through the letters that your aunt wrote to you as a young girl. It was much more lively than what she described in the letters. You were on your third year on the marriage mart and have already put yourself on the spinster shelf after a disastrous first season. Being an only child to marquess—and to be a girl, you know that you'd be comfortable for the rest of your life. All while your eldest male cousin will take over the title. You thought that this was going to be your future.

You were wrong.

It was a few months ago when you realized. The social season was on the rising and your mother has subtly ask if you're ready to head back to the marriage mart, but you refused—already comfortable with your single life.

"Are you sure, my dear? I have no problems getting you new dresses for it" your mother, Marchioness Aldridge, asks with hope in her voice as she sat down her tea cup on her saucer. "I heard that an-"

"Enough mother," you sighed, setting down your book to look at her. "I'm perfectly fine. Alone."

Your mother bite her lip in frustrated—which you later figured out was more distressed, as she picked up her tea once again and took a small sip of the earthy liquid. "I'm just asking because-"

"Y/N!" Your father, Marquess Aldridge, spoke as he entered the drawing room. Whenever your father entered a room, he demanded power and control—something that he always got. It didn't help that he was tall and had a menacing stance, which you still question the stories your mother tells you about him being her season's incomparable and how she and the staff always shrink in themselves every time he's near. You quickly sat down your book on the table in front of you and quickly stood up, smoothing out your dress—something your father conditioned from when you were young. "Yes, father."

"You know how the next social season is coming up?" He asks with his voice steady, a tactic he uses to confuse you in what mood he's currently in.

"Yes I do and do not plan on-"

"You are. You're going back on the marriage mart at once!" He commanded, giving you a hardened stare.

You stared at him is disbelief. Marquess Aldridge always seemed tense around the social season and always looks at you expectant to change your mind. But you didn't know what he had plan—until now.

"I-I will not, father! I've decided and it's my choice!" You argued, causing the maids and your mother to shrink even more in their bodies, not knowing how this is going to end up.

"Yes you will! You're either going to enter the marriage mart or marry my good friend, Earl James Ashburn!"

Your mother looked at him stunned as she gasps, "Not James Ashburn. Dearest, you have to be jesting! Right?"

Earl James Ashburn is one of your father's eldest friends. You met him a handful of times and those meetings weren't pleasing. His reputation is not that great with him going into brothel's almost every night and left his ailing wife in her last moments, alone, for that places as well.

"I am not," he speaks turning towards your mother, "he desires an heir that his useless wife couldn't bring to him, so what not a better choice than our darling daughter?"

Your chest started to heave and the room felt more warm than ever, your nails dug into your palm as you looked up at him. "No! I won't do it and you cannot make me!"

"It's either you enter the marriage mart and find yourself a husband, or hasten the whole process and go ahead and marry Ashburn. Or, be cut off from the family for good and I'll make sure to spread to word to your cousin—since he'll take over once I'm gone" he threatened, gripping your arm tightly as his gaze hardened at he stared at you.

You were trapped. Even if you don't find a husband, you're still force to marry that man. You wanted to cry, scream, and throw something at the same time. You glared at him and forced yourself out of his grip and ran up to your room.

You had to get out of there—and fast!

Luckily, you had an aunt on your mother's side you can go to. Last time something like this happened, you ended up writing to one of your father's sisters asking to stay with them for a bit. In the end, they always ended up writing your father about it and you were always afraid of the consequences that were to happen once he found out.

"My Lady, we're here" one of the footman tells you as he opens up the carriage. You took his hand with a smile and gave him a polite smile. "Thank you."

You walked inside your aunt's home. It felt much warmer than your home. Maybe because it doesn't have the lulling presence of your father in the air. "Lady Aldridge has arrived, my lady."

Your aunt jumped up and engulfed you in a hug with a smile. It was a tight, yet warm hug and smelt of lilies and honey. She held you at the arms and overtook you. "You have blossomed, Y/N. A true lady indeed.'

You smiled with a light falter at her compliment. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

She noticed your slight falter in your smile and how you shifted nervously. She knew your visit to Mayfair was all but friendly and catching up. "What has happened? Has your mother fallen ill again? Your father?"

She was hoping for the latter, but she was surely going to be disappointed and more enraged when she learns the real reason of your visit. "What's going on, Y/N?"

"My father wants me to marry Earl James Ashburn, but I refused. So he gave me the choice to either find myself a husband before the end of the season or just go ahead and marry him. But the former is not a choice because even if I don't find myself a husband, I will still be forced to marry him!"

You cried—you actually cried. Your aunt looked at you in worry and took you into her embrace. She wiped the tears from your face and gave you a gentle smile. "No need. You will find your husband. I'll have one of the maids show you to your room for the season and you can rest up before the first ball of the season."

A smile graced your face. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

-

She held your arm as the two of you entered Lady Danbury's ball. You have learnt she usually hosts the first ball of the season and is a great friend to your aunt as well. You were dressed in a beautiful pale pink ball gown that sparkled underneath the lights—your aunt specially picked out for you. She felt your nerves through your gloves and gave you a reassuring pat on your hand. "Don't worry, you got this."

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

You danced with two gentlemen, but they weren't as expected. The first mostly talked about himself and seem not to want to get to know you, while the other wasn't over his last engagement falling apart and you ended up having to comfort him for the rest of the dance, earning some stares from others. After the dance, you walked towards your aunt who gave you an empathetic smile. "Maybe they weren't the type for you. But I want you to meet Lady Danbury. She's a great friend of mine."

She grabbed your arm and walked you towards a woman in a dark red dress talking to some other people—siblings, you guessed as you two got closer, earning her attention. "Ah, Lady Lennox, wasn't expecting to see you here after your children successful triumphs last season."

"Yes, Cecilia, is doing well as a Baroness and I've been told that she is with child, and Andrew shall be returning back to Mayfair shortly with his wife" your aunt says with a graceful smile and then gives you a gentle push. "Lady Danbury, I want you to meet my niece, Lady Y/N Aldridge. She's joining me for the season."

"Pleased to meet you," you acknowledge to older woman with a curtsey as you tilted your head up, you didn't make eye contact with Lady Danbury's dark brown ones—blue ones instead met your gaze. You strengthened your posture, presenting a gentle smile. "I am enjoying your ball. It is quite lovely."

Lady Danbury had a thoughtful look on her face before she smiled at you. "Thank you, my dear. You wouldn't be Marquess Aldridge daughter? He was quite the cold one."

"I-I am," you replied hesitantly nervously, not noticing someone had notice your hesitance when replying.

"Well, he and your mama were their seasons incomparable and they left Mayfair shortly after you were born" she replied before peering over her shoulder, where the four people she was previously talking to were still standing, "ah, where are my manners? Lady Aldridge please meet Daphne, Benedict, Colin, and Viscount Anthony Bridgerton."

Benedict—you finally put a name towards the blue-eyed gentleman. You smiled politely at the four of them. "Pleased to meet you all truly."

"Same as well! I hope we can become great friends" Daphne says with a smile as she gently grab your hands with a polite smile.

You returned the smile and slowly retracted your hands as your aunt guides you away towards the refreshment table. Benedict stood there watching you walk away. Lady Danbury noticed and slightly leaned into him. "She comes from good standing from both sides of her family and that father of hers is quite a man—and that's not a compliment."

You held a glass of lemonade in your glove clothed hand as you watch your aunt be warped into conversations by other ladies and misses. Maybe she wouldn't notice if you left for a moment. The terrace welcomed you with cool air—different from the stuffy air of the ball. Your hand slightly grazed the railing as you looked up at the sky—stars scattered along.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" A voice asked behind you. You turned your body towards the voice and saw Benedict walking towards you with a small smile on his face. "Much to think about with a sky this beautiful."

"Many verses that I am thinking about. Yet, I don't have my quill or a book in my hands," you spoke gently, slightly leaning on the rail.

"So, you dabble in a bit of writing?"

"I wouldn't say dabble," you replied with a small laugh. "I quite enjoy it and many of the art forms. I'm guessing that a gentleman such as yourself also enjoy the arts. Am I right, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"Enough with the formalities, Benedict is just fine," he replied, joining you on leaning on the terrace. "And you're right, I also do enjoy the arts as I do paint from time to time."

"So you're an artist?"

"I wouldn't say that" he says with a little doubt in his voice.

You noticed the shift in his tone and stance. You can tell how unconfident he was when talking about his artwork, as same to you whenever it comes to your poetry. "Nonsense, Benedict. You're still consider an artist, no matter how small it is. My first piece of writing was about my favorite flower—lilies. Whenever you managed to get the courage to finally show it, may I be the first?"

"Of course, my lady," he replies with a smile gracing his face, sincerity laced in his voice.. "As long as I get to read your first novel as well."

"That's a promise," you replied, mirroring his smile. There was a beat of silence between the two of you, aside from the noise that was coming from the ball. You leaned off the railings as you sighed. "As much fun I had talking about art. It is really scandalous of us to be alone and unchaperoned. I shall take my leave."

Benedict stayed outside for a few more moments. Even with your presence gone, it was like you were still there with him. He stared at the area where you once stood and smiled.

Maybe calling hours won't be boring tomorrow.

-

It was the crack of dawn when your aunt woke you up for calling hours. You were deep in sleep, until she had one of the lady's maid open the curtains for you—waking you up in the process. "What time is it?"

"It's time for you to get up dear. I'm sure there are callers excited to meet you," she said to you with a smile before turning towards the lady's maid. "Can you please pick out that light green dress with the white roses embroidered in them? Lady Y/N will look exceptionally beautiful in it!"

Before you could even process clearly, you were already in the drawing room with a teacup in your hands. Calling hour went as you expected—boring. Every gentlemen tried to win you over with bragging about their wealth, land, or possessions they had, but it never stuck out to you. It just felt disingenuous. You slouched on the couch as the last gentleman left. You heard your aunt chuckle as she took the seat in front of you. "Tired?"

"Yes of course!" You replied, sitting up properly. "None of them stood out to me! At this rate, I might have to marry that Earl."

"My ladies, there's actually one more caller that has just arrived" the footman spoke once he entered the rooms, holding his hands behind his back looking between you two. "Should I let him in or dismiss him?"

Your aunt turned to you and gave you a reassuring smile. "We can turn him away or let him in. It's up to your decision."

"Fine" you sighed, now looking at the footman. "He can come in."

He nodded and disappeared to let the gentleman in. You mentally prepared yourself to hear another monologue about things that the gentleman might want you to hear, but your thoughts stopped once you actually saw him.

It was Benedict Bridgerton, with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. You couldn't believe that he remembered your favorite flower, something that you have mentioned offhandedly. "Sorry for my delay. I'm not late, am I?"

"Not at all Mr. Bridgerton!" Your aunt says in a chipper tone as she stood up. "If you two shall excuse me, I'll be partaking embroidery over there."

He smiled at your aunt before turning towards you and handed you the flowers. "Here. I hope these will make your mood a little better. I've seen how tiresome calling hours can be."

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton," you smiled as you gently rubbed your fingers between the petals of the flowers.

"Benedict is just fine, my lady, just like last night," he assured again as he took a seat beside you with a smile. "I'm perfectly fine with you calling me by my first name."

"Right, only if you call me Y/N" you replied before staring back down at the flowers.

"Of course, Y/N."

As you gently rubbed the petals of the flowers, a small smile graced your face. Maybe finding a husband would be as bad as you thought. You probably won't have to marry Ashburn after all—maybe the tides are in your favor.

[velvet-milk]

♡ 𖥻 THE MAID ──── anthony bridgerton x fem!reader x benedict brigderton.

♡ 𖥻 SUMMARY: ❛❛𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 where female innocence and chastity were the rule, you learned to weaponize the one advantage you had: your beauty. As a simple maid in the Bridgerton household, it didn’t take long for you to notice that men, whether as humble as the footman John or as powerful as Viscount Bridgerton and Mr Bridgerton, were unable to resist your carefully calculated charm.❞

♡ 𖥻 WARNINGS: heavy sexual content. NSFW. love triangle. reader is a manipulative bitch, but a hot one. you love playing with rich men and with footman john sometimes. maid!reader. fem!reader. social climber!reader. no explicit physical description is given, but the reader is considered extremely beautiful. PART 1. read on ao3. anthony & benedict are so sexy.

CHAPTER 1 ──── QUEENTEX, LATEX, I'M YOUR WONDER MAID!

The first time you understood that beauty could alter the course of a life, you were only five years old. Your mother served as a maid in the grand countryside estate of a powerful Duke, a house so vast and opulent that, to your childish eyes, it seemed less like a home and more like a world unto itself. Its halls stretched endlessly, lined with tall windows and polished floors that reflected the golden light of the chandeliers above. Every room held something magnificent, portraits in gilded frames, delicate porcelain, velvet drapes that brushed the floor like flowing water.

Your place within that world was, by all rights, insignificant.

You were merely a servant’s child, expected to remain quiet and out of the way while your mother carried out her duties. Most days you followed close behind her, clutching the edge of her apron as she moved from room to room, watching silently as the machinery of a noble household unfolded around you.

It was during one of those quiet afternoons that the Duchess first noticed you.

Your mother had been dusting in the drawing room while the lady of the house entertained guests. You had been seated quietly by the door, exactly where your mother had instructed you to stay.

But children, even obedient ones, are difficult to overlook.

The Duchess’ gaze drifted toward you during conversation, and when it did, she paused.

“Well,” she said suddenly, her voice warm with amusement, “what a lovely little creature we have here.”

The room’s attention shifted to you at once. Your mother froze. You remember the moment vividly, the way the Duchess beckoned you closer with a gentle motion of her hand, the soft murmur of the ladies as they examined you with open curiosity.

“Come here, child.”

You obeyed, small shoes tapping softly against the floor as you approached her chair. The Duchess studied you as though you were something delicate and rare, tilting your chin lightly upward with gloved fingers so she could better observe your face.

“Look at those eyes,” she said to the others with a pleased smile. “And that hair… She is far too pretty to belong in the servants’ hall.”

The women laughed softly.

“Like a little angel,” someone remarked.

The Duchess seemed delighted by the comparison. From that day forward, you became a small and peculiar fixture within her social gatherings. Whenever she hosted visitors, she would call for you to be brought into the drawing room. Your hair would be brushed until it shone, ribbons tied carefully into its strands. Sometimes the Duchess herself selected bits of fine fabric, scraps left over from gowns or discarded accessories, and arranged them around you with obvious satisfaction.

She dressed you the way a child might dress a doll. You were made to stand beside her chair or sit quietly on a stool while she admired her handiwork, occasionally turning your face toward the light for the benefit of her guests.

“Is she not the sweetest little thing?” she would say, pride evident in her voice.

The ladies would lean closer, smiling, commenting on your features as though you were some charming ornament she had acquired. You were not truly part of the conversation. You were the subject of it.

To the Duchess, you were something between a curiosity and a possession, a living decoration she could present to others for their admiration. A pretty little creature to amuse herself with during long afternoons. A glorified pet, though no one would have used such crude language and, at five years old, you did not yet understand the strange nature of that attention.

But you understood something else. Whenever the Duchess was pleased with you, life became easier. Your mother received fewer scoldings. Small mistakes were overlooked. There were extra scraps of food in the kitchen, old ribbons placed gently into your hands, sometimes even a pair of worn but beautiful shoes.

All because the Duchess liked to look at you. Even at that young age, a quiet awareness began to take shape in your mind. Beauty had value. And value, you would one day learn, could be traded.

For years, the arrangement continued much the same. You grew within the walls of that estate under the Duchess’ indulgent gaze, a decorative presence she occasionally summoned when she desired. But childhood is fleeting. And beauty does not remain the same as it matures. By the time you approached your thirteenth year, it had become clear that you could no longer spend your days idly trailing after your mother. The household had no use for idle children, no matter how pleasing they might appear.

You were given a servant’s uniform.

Your hair was tied back simply. The ribbons disappeared.

You became, officially, a maid.

At first, the Duchess seemed almost indifferent to the change. The small doll she had once paraded before her guests was now merely another servant moving through her household, carrying trays and polishing silver. But something else had changed as well.

You were no longer a charming child admired for her delicate prettiness. You were becoming a beautiful young girl. And someone else in the house had begun to notice.

The Duke.

At first, the signs were subtle. A glance that lingered a moment too long when you entered the room with a tray. A question directed at you rather than the older servants who stood nearby. A certain stillness in his posture when you passed. You felt it before you fully understood it, the strange weight of attention that followed you across rooms. His gaze was not the same as the Duchess’.

It did not carry playful amusement. It carried interest and you did your best to ignore it.

But the Duchess did not.

She noticed the way her husband’s eyes followed you. She noticed the sudden quiet that fell over the room whenever you appeared nearby. And just as quickly as her fondness had appeared years ago, it vanished. You were no longer the charming child she had once delighted in presenting to her guests. Now you were something far more dangerous, a young girl with a beauty that drew the wrong kind of attention.

And it did not take much longer for misfortune to find you.

Your mother had never been a strong woman. Years of labor within great houses, rising before dawn, carrying heavy linens, breathing in dust from carpets and coal smoke from fireplaces, had slowly worn her body down. By the time you were seventeen, the cough that had troubled her for months had grown worse. What began as a persistent chill in the winter settled deep in her chest, turning into a wasting illness the physician called a consumption of the lungs.

There was little anyone could do.

In great houses, sick servants were not uncommon, and physicians were rarely summoned for them unless the illness threatened the rest of the household. Your mother worked for as long as she could, though each passing week left her weaker. The cough stole her breath, her strength, until even walking the length of the servants’ corridor became an effort.

One cold morning, she simply did not rise from her bed.

She passed quietly before the day was fully begun.

You buried her with the small kindness of a few servants who had known her for years. No family attended the service. Your father had never been part of your life, you did not even know his name, and beyond your mother, you had no one in the world.

You were seventeen years old and entirely alone.

Still, you believed, perhaps foolishly, that the Duchess might show you mercy.

After all, she had once adored you. Surely she would not turn you out. All you required was a place to work. A bed in the servants’ quarters and food enough to survive.

For a short time, it seemed possible. Your duties continued much as before, the household absorbed you into its routine, another quiet maid moving through the halls with lowered eyes. But the Duke’s attention had not disappeared. If anything, it had grown more noticeable. Now his gaze lingered upon you in a way that made your skin prickle with unease. The other maids noticed, of course, servants always noticed such things.

The end came on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. You had been instructed to bring the Duke his luncheon in his private study, a task that should have been entirely unremarkable. You carried the tray through the quiet corridor, knocked softly upon the door, and entered when he called for you to do so.

The room smelled faintly of tobacco and polished wood. Papers were spread across his desk. You set the tray down carefully beside him.

“Your luncheon, Your Grace,” you said, keeping your gaze lowered as proper etiquette demanded.

But when you straightened, he was looking at you with an expression you had come to recognize.

Not curiosity. Something far less comfortable.

“Stay a moment,” he said.

Your hands tightened slightly around the edge of the tray.

“My lord?”

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Before you could step back, his hand reached out, catching lightly at your wrist. The gesture might have seemed harmless to an observer, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.

“You’ve grown into quite a beauty,” he murmured.

You froze. And then he leaned toward you.

Instinct took over before fear could fully settle in your chest. You pulled your arm free and stepped back quickly, the movement so sudden that the chair behind you scraped loudly against the floor.

“My lord, I—”

You did not finish the sentence. Because the door opened and the Duchess stood there.

For a single suspended moment, no one spoke. Her eyes moved from her husband, standing far too close to a young maid, to you, flushed, startled, clearly attempting to put distance between yourself and him. Whatever explanation might have existed died unspoken.

The Duchess’ expression hardened into something cold and you knew immediately what would happen. By evening, the housekeeper had informed you that your services were no longer required. No argument was offered and no explanation given.

You were simply dismissed. Just like that, the grand estate that had once been your entire world closed its doors to you. And once again, you were alone. But as you stepped beyond the gates with the small bundle that held all your possessions, one thought lingered clearly in your mind. The world had already taught you several valuable lessons. It had shown you how easily affection could sour into suspicion. How quickly kindness vanished the moment it became inconvenient. And how little protection existed for a girl of your station when the powerful decided she had become troublesome.

But it had shown you something else as well. You possessed something that made people look twice, a kind of beauty that drew attention whether you wished for it or not.

Features delicate enough to invite admiration, striking enough to be remembered. Even when dressed in a servant’s plain uniform, even when standing quietly at the edge of a room, people noticed you. Men looked and women assessed.

Heads turned.

For brief moments, people even seemed to forget what you truly were, nothing more than a lowborn servant with no fortune and no family name to protect her. It was a dangerous gift, but it was still a gift.

And this time, you intended to use it.

Your journey eventually brought you to London. More specifically, to Mayfair, where the grand houses of the nobility lined the streets in elegant rows of polished stone and iron gates. The district was unlike anything you had seen before, carriages rolling endlessly along the roads, finely dressed ladies stepping into glittering townhouses, footmen standing stiffly beside tall doors.

If one wished to find work in a great household, this was the place.

You quickly learned that large families were often in need of new servants, particularly at the beginning of the social season when houses filled with guests, dinners, and endless activity. And the name Bridgerton appeared more than once during your search. It was said to be a lively household, filled with children and constant visitors. A place where the staff was kept busy, but not mistreated.

That alone was reason enough to try your luck.

You presented yourself at the servants’ entrance one gray morning, your posture straight despite the nervousness coiled quietly in your stomach. Your clothes were simple and worn from travel, but you had done what you could to appear neat and respectable.

After a short wait, the housekeeper arrived to assess you. She studied you carefully, her gaze moving from your face to your posture, then to your hands.

And then her brows lifted slightly.

“You have quite a striking appearance for a maid,” she remarked, clearly surprised. You lowered your gaze politely.

“Thank you, madam.”

A short conversation followed, questions about your experience, your previous position, your duties. You answered carefully, leaving out the more unpleasant details of your dismissal. The housekeeper listened with interest, though her thoughtful expression suggested she was considering something beyond your words.

“Wait here,” she said at last.

To your surprise, she did not return alone. Moments later, another woman entered the room. Graceful, elegant, dressed in soft but expensive fabrics, she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone entirely accustomed to being obeyed.

Lady Violet Bridgerton. The lady of the house. Her gaze settled on you immediately and, for a brief moment, she said nothing at all. And you recognized that look instantly, the same quiet moment of surprise you had seen many times before when someone first realized just how striking your appearance was.

But unlike the Duchess all those years ago, Violet Bridgerton’s expression held no amusement, no sense of ownership. Only pure curiosity.

“My housekeeper tells me you are seeking a position,” she said gently.

“Yes, my lady.”

She studied you a moment longer.

“You have worked in noble households before?”

“Yes, my lady.”

A pause followed. Then, almost to herself, she murmured thoughtfully, “You will certainly be noticed in this house.”

Your heart skipped slightly at that, but Violet Bridgerton did not sound disapproving. If anything, she sounded intrigued.

At last she smiled.

“Well,” she said warmly, “we are never without need of capable young maids here.”

And just like that, the doors of another grand house opened before you. This time, however, you stepped inside with far clearer understanding of the game the world expected you to play.

Your first days in the Bridgerton household passed in a blur of activity. Unlike the quiet countryside estate of the duke, the Bridgerton residence in Mayfair seemed perpetually alive. Doors opened and closed at all hours, visitors arrived with little warning, and laughter, particularly that of the younger Bridgertons, often echoed through the corridors.

It was a lively house. And lively houses were excellent places to observe.

You quickly learned the rhythm of the household: when the family gathered for breakfast, which corridors the younger children preferred to race through, which doors the servants used most often, and where conversations tended to linger just a little longer than they should.

Servants, you discovered, were the veins through which information flowed in a noble house. Footmen carried messages between rooms. Maids overheard conversations while cleaning. Valets knew their masters’ habits better than anyone.

A clever person could learn a great deal simply by listening. So you listened. And you watched.

Most people assumed that servants were too insignificant to matter. Invisible hands moving trays, sweeping floors, tending fires. That assumption suited you perfectly.

You performed your duties diligently, speaking when spoken to, keeping your posture modest, your tone respectful. To anyone observing, you were nothing more than a well-behaved young maid grateful for steady work.

But beneath that quiet exterior, your mind moved constantly.

A misplaced letter here. A delayed message there. A suggestion whispered at just the right moment.

Perfect small things, barely noticeable things. Yet even small adjustments could change the direction of an entire household’s day. You had learned long ago that influence did not always require authority. Sometimes it required only patience.

And the right pieces.

It was on your third morning in the house that you met the first of them. You were carrying a basket of freshly pressed linens down one of the servants’ corridors when someone nearly collided with you at the corner.

“Oh—beg pardon!”

The young man stopped abruptly, nearly dropping the stack of polished silver trays in his arms. He was tall. His uniform marked him clearly as one of the house’s footmen. You steadied the basket in your arms.

“It’s quite alright,” you replied softly.

He looked relieved.

“Nearly made a mess of that,” he muttered, glancing down at the trays before looking back up at you. And then he froze. You recognized the moment immediately.

The sudden stillness. The brief widening of the eyes. Men often had that reaction the first time they truly looked at you.

“Oh,” he said faintly, as if the word had escaped before he could stop it.

You lowered your gaze politely, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“I’m new here,” you explained. “I hope I haven’t gotten in the way.”

“No—no, not at all,” he said quickly.

He shifted the trays awkwardly in his hands.

“I’m John. Footman John.”

Of course he was. You had already heard the other servants mention him during your first day. Handsome and good-natured. Womanizer. Not particularly clever.

You adjusted the basket in your arms.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, John.”

He seemed oddly pleased by that simple statement.

“And you are…?”

You hesitated just long enough to make the moment feel natural. You gave him your name. John repeated your name quietly, as though committing it to memory.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you gave him a small, grateful smile.

“I’m still learning my way around the house,” you said gently. “It’s much larger than the places I’ve worked before.”

His posture immediately straightened.

“Well—if you ever need help finding something, I know the halls well enough.”

Of course you thought. You would.

“That would be very kind of you.”

Your fingers brushed lightly against his sleeve as you shifted the basket again, a movement so subtle it could easily be mistaken for accident. John turned slightly red.

Perfect.

A pawn, you decided almost instantly. But pawns were useful pieces. They moved easily through the board. They carried messages, opened doors, heard conversations others did not.

And most importantly, they were often eager to please the person who made them feel important. You passed him in the corridor, continuing on your way. Behind you, John stood for a moment longer than necessary before finally remembering he had somewhere to be. By the time you reached the end of the hallway, your mind was already working several moves ahead.

Your first true encounter with Anthony Bridgerton did not happen in a grand drawing room or during some carefully arranged introduction. It happened in a corridor. By then, you had already been in the Bridgerton household for nearly a week. Long enough to learn the rhythms of the house, the personalities within it, and the small invisible currents that moved beneath polite society.

Daphne Bridgerton’s first season had begun, which meant the household was in constant motion. Invitations arrived every morning. Gowns were fitted, altered, and fitted again. Visitors appeared at all hours, eager to call upon the newest diamond of the season.

And presiding over all of it, often with visible frustration, was the head of the family. The Viscount. You had heard the servants speak of him often enough.

He worked relentlessly. Barely slept. Left the house at strange hours and returned even stranger ones. Some whispered that he carried the weight of the entire family on his shoulders, particularly with his sister now navigating the marriage mart. Others whispered about a woman.

A singer from the opera. Siena Rosso. Servants always knew more than they were meant to.

But until that afternoon, you had only seen the Viscount from a distance, moving quickly through the house, speaking with his mother, disappearing into his study. That day, however, you nearly collided with him. You were carrying a small tray of correspondence from the study to the front hall, moving carefully along one of the quieter passages.

And then the door to the study opened suddenly. Anthony Bridgerton stepped out.

He was clearly distracted, coat half buttoned, cravat slightly loosened, dark brows drawn together in the expression of a man already thinking about three problems at once.

He stopped just short of walking directly into you. You instinctively stepped back, lowering your gaze at once.

“My lord—”

But the apology died halfway through your sentence. Because he had stopped moving and you could feel his eyes on you. That same moment of stillness you had seen so many times before. But unlike John’s flustered admiration, the Viscount’s gaze was sharp.

As if he were trying to place something he had not expected to see.

“You’re new,” he said.

His voice was calm, though there was a tension beneath it, the tone of someone who lived perpetually under pressure.

“Yes, my lord.”

He studied your face another moment, you could almost see the realization forming. Not recognition exactly, but surprise.

Servants were meant to blur into the background of a noble household. Faces easily forgotten. Yours, unfortunately, or fortunately, did not blur easily. Anthony’s gaze lingered slightly longer than propriety required.

Then he seemed to catch himself.

“What is your name?” he asked.

You give him your name. He nodded once, committing it to memory, though his expression remained thoughtful. Behind him, somewhere deeper in the house, voices drifted faintly through the hall, preparations for yet another social event, no doubt.

His jaw tightened briefly, the responsibilities of a viscount did not pause simply because he wished them to.

“Very well,” he said at last, stepping aside to allow you passage.

But as you moved past him, something curious happened. His attention followed you, not openly or obviously. Yet you felt it, the faint shift in the air that came when someone continued watching after you had already passed.

You kept your expression composed, your pace steady. Only when you turned the corner at the end of the hall did you allow the smallest flicker of a smile to appear.

Because in that brief encounter, you had learned something important. Anthony Bridgerton was a man stretched thin by duty, burdened by responsibility, and distracted by a hundred competing concerns.

A man like that rarely noticed the small things happening around him.

Yet somehow he had noticed you. And the moment the Viscount of Bridgerton noticed something, it had a way of becoming significant. The board, it seemed, had just gained its most powerful piece.

a/n: yes reader is a bitch. i love when reader is one. but what does she wants in that house? uh?

[goat-limbs]

Touched

contents (nsfw): Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader, teasing, yearning, impropriety, era-appropriate age gap (between 7 and 10 years—Reader is in her early 20s, Benedict is 30), masturbation, voyeurism, gentle fem-dom, power play, dirty talk.

synopsis: As Eloise's friend you've found yourself a distraction and an outlet in writing letters for lovers who want to impress each other. Benedict catches you mid-writing one and commissions you.

word count: 5,3K

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @pixopix! Read part two here.

There is little to be had in a world that cherishes propriety, and brands anything that sets the blood running as improper. Simple things, such as racing along the lane; plunging into water on a whim; screaming at the top of the lungs; skimming stones across the surface just to see what startles. Smoking and bitter ale are for men, confirmed spinsters, and tavern-crawlers—never for someone who means to be thought respectable—not to mention the other pursuits you are convinced, in your heart of hearts, humanity was made for.

Still, you have your small mercies. In place of selfish freedoms that would sully your family’s name and see you packed off to some dreary convent, you have found a kindred spirit. A confidant. Someone who dodges the unattractive prospect of shrinking to fit the title of wife by disappearing into books, trading jests which, spoken aloud, would be called cruel, and sharing cakes dusted with so much sugar your lips stick when you press them together.

Eloise.

She has the same kind of contained anger you do: held in behind the ribs, kept in check by manners that demand smiling compliance. When you are together, it stops circling and becomes a thing with purpose. You read to each other when nobody is watching; you try out speeches you will never be invited to deliver; you write pages meant for one pair of eyes and no other. A small club, and one women are not allowed. And secrets, precisely, are what can be had there. You are certain Eloise keeps hers. By the sheer act of never pressing, she makes room for you to keep yours.

As with anything that feels faintly revolutionary, your own secret is born in the places where people are permitted to be human. It happens because your lady’s maid has a simple yearning of the heart towards another, and no safe way to speak it. She has the feeling, and the fear, and a hand that will not steady enough to set it down. You see an opening where she sees a wall. You write the letter on her behalf, fold it, seal it, and slip it under the bedchamber door. After that, the requests begin to come—never plainly, always in small signals: a ribbon tied a particular way, a scrap of paper left where only you will find it, a glance held half a second too long. You discover, quietly, what power the pen has when the heart dictates and the mind merely makes it neat.

It is only fitting that your thirtieth letter should be written in the Bridgertons’ drawing room. Eloise is reading Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, neatly wrapped in an inconspicuous—and entirely out-of-character—copy of James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, when Lady Bridgerton calls for her.

“It seems I must abandon the Sermons in order to pick lace,” she says, putting an extra measure of loathing on lace.

You smile. “Choose one that tears easily.”

Eloise nods, conspiratorial. “Do not go anywhere. I shall be back.”

The door opens and does not close. You sit with your back to it, and it would be difficult to tell who has entered intending to take Eloise’s place, were it not for the stench.

“I can smell all of last night’s endeavours on you, Benedict,” you mutter, nose still to the parchment. “You reek.”

Ah. A significant downside of spending your time at the Bridgertons’ establishment is Benedict.

Not because you have any real disdain for him—on the contrary. He has been lodged at the edge of your thoughts, in that periphery where notions are allowed to wander into forbidden country, ever since such thoughts first began to sprout in you. A fool with unrealistic dreams in the eyes of his mother, a buffoon to some, he somehow manages to make up for promiscuity and a contentious pursuit of all things hedonistic with something disarmingly plain: kindness.

He does not boast. He keeps most of his escapades confined to rumours he never troubles to exaggerate. He keeps his lovers’ names anonymous, as though their privacy is part of the pleasure, and not an inconvenience. There is an honesty in it that you cannot help but admire.

And admiration is a dangerous thing, when it turns its face towards wanting. Because what Benedict has, you want, too—the ease, the appetite, the liberty. With him, preferably.

Mind slipping into places you would rather it did not, you fail to notice that he does not dignify your remark with any answering sally. Benedict simply threads his way across the room and leans over your shoulder.

“That is quite a language you are using here,” he says, his mouth near enough to your ear that the words feel breathed rather than spoken.

Your head snaps to the side. “Oh, dear Lord,” you manage, the protest landing into Benedict’s cheek. “This is not—”

“Who is it for?” he asks, sliding the paper from beneath your fingers and beginning, quite shamelessly, to read. “I was certain that, much like Eloise, you were beyond earthly delights.”

You turn in the chair, swinging one arm over its back as though it might serve for a barricade. “If you mean slobbering, drunken men at balls as the full array of earthly delights I am permitted to choose from, then you are perfectly right,” you say, keeping your voice flat even as you reach for the page. “I am beyond them. Hand over the letter.”

Benedict does not look at you. There is a pause in which you could swear the tips of his ears go pink. “And yet you are writing quite… graphic filth,” he says at last. “About a man, I presume.”

“It is not about anyone I know,” you say, and at that you earn his glance. Heat crawls up your throat. “Oh—Lord help me. I, um—” You hide your face in your hands and speak through the spread of your fingers. “I may have found… a certain joy in setting down what others cannot say to their lovers.”

Your hands return to your lap. Your head dips; eyes fix themselves on the floor in hopes to find some mercy within it. “So I do it for them,” you add. “For a small price.”

Benedict mutters your name, his expression binding impishness and boyish bewilderment in unholy matrimony.

You stand abruptly, still reaching for the parchment, but Benedict simply lifts it higher—just beyond your grasp. “Please do not tell Eloise. Or anyone… for that matter.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, and his smile shows that crooked canine you have, regrettably, thought about in scenarios that have nothing to do with food. “For a small price.”

“Extortion?” you huff. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Not extortion. I am no brute,” Benedict replies. “A favour.” A pause, intentful enough to be annoying. “Write one for me.”

You eye him, then fold your arms across your chest. Your foot nudges at nothing on the tiles, a small, useless rebellion, and then—against your better judgement—you relent. “Which of the ladies is so fortunate as to have you commissioning a letter for her?”

Benedict keeps smiling. Testing. “Not a lady,” he says. “A man.”

You bark a laugh, sharp and entirely unladylike. “A rather versatile rake, are you not?”

“You wound me.” His hand goes to his chest in something that aims for tragedy and lands, at best, in theatre. You roll your eyes. “Your judgement is inequitable. The only difference between you and me is that I perform the actions you only write of. The thoughts, however—” He steps closer. Offers the letter back, and when you reach for it, he keeps hold of it for one heartbeat longer, leaning in so his mouth finds your ear. “—we seem to share.”

Then he releases the paper.

“What would you like me to write?” you ask, quieter than you mean to, your face still near his.

“Do it as you would,” Benedict says, easy. “I shall tell you if I like it.”

The nerve of him pricks you, quick and clean. Anger, full stop. “I fear corrections are not included in my services,” you spit.

“I think a smart provider would reconsider, if the price is suitable,” he murmurs into your ear. It is not a threat. It is a challenge. “Like the silence of someone with many contacts.”

“Brute,” you say, because it is the only dignified response to being cornered by charm. “Fine. So be it. I shall remember this, Benedict.”

“I would hope so.” He looks pleased with himself, which only worsens the urge to bite. “I think it is the first time you and I are entangled in a scheme.”

“I have a feeling there will come a time when you will require my silence,” you say. “I hope you know it changes the way I shall provide it, and if—”

Something flickers across his face: interest, admiration, a quick, juvenile flash of joy at being met where he stands rather than indulged. “I like this,” he says, head tipping to the side. “Menacing agrees with you.”

“You are entirely insufferable.”

“You have three days,” Benedict tells you. He looks at you one last time before retreating towards the door and carries that image out with himself, alongside the words that he still cannot believe left your pen.

Excerpts, like: If you ever touched my mouth with your thumb, I think I would swallow it like communion. Nobody is as hungry as I am for you, compel Benedict to wish his memory were better than his imagination. A few lines on the page are enough to send his mind straight towards the images: open mouths with thumbs in them, then other parts of him.

Normally, he would stop himself, because normally, you are his sister’s friend. Today he is wrung out and defenceless. More and more moments happen when Benedict’s weak memory renders him forgetful even of that simple fact—when he stops seeing a girl and begins to see a woman, and not just any woman. Someone whose eyes reflect his own insatiability and lust for life. A kindred spirit, only far more miserable, because she is trapped in a body even more constricted than his own.

One line stays with him when he stumbles into bed with your face behind his eyelids: If there is a God for the wild parts of a person, He keeps no parlours. He lives in the hedge and the ditch and the mouth of the wood, where things do not apologise for wanting. Benedict thinks himself converted to do the bidding of that God. He falls asleep wondering whether that God grants people who want the same thing a bond that can outlast them.

As promised, three days later, an envelope arrives at his bachelor lodging. It bears a sigil of orchid pressed into white wax. Hands traitors, he takes it shakily from the valet and closes the door of his bedchambers. Impatient to see if indeed, you’ve written it as you would, if you were allowed to be yourself.

Lover of Mine,

There is a tendon at your neck that tightens when you swallow, when you laugh, when you lie. I think of it at the most improper hours. I think of my tongue laid there, greedy and patient, learning the pulse of you the way a creature learns a trail.

I think of your mouth, too; how easily it can be made to open, how it would look with my fingers at the corners, widening you as though I mean to see the whole of you at once. I would take the brine I draw from you and use it like holy water, as though it might keep me from sinning further, when it would only teach me the shape of my next offence.

Where your heart beats, I want my nails to leave their blunt testament, so that, later, when you dress and step back into the world, it knows you have been touched by something that lives on desiring you. I want you marked, not for shame, but for recognition. Between your legs lies the root I want to taste and take; I want to learn it until my mouth aches with it, until you have no choice but for your lungs to remember me. Let me cling to you like damp to stone, long after you have tried to be good.

Yours, to the last drop of my blood.

There’s a space underneath for him to sign. It looks particularly offensive without your name bled into parchment. You’ve written it oblique enough for any man to fit, and what Benedict should feel is that it is thoughtful and clever of you. What his hunger supplies is entirely different: he can insert himself into every paragraph and picture your fingers and tongue doing what your pen promises.

An ornate box with a trap that mauls prying limbs opens for him. The surface of its maw holds the pain of shouldn’t Benedict struggles to conquer his entire life. Once he trespasses deep enough, it dissolves into pleasure of pressure, familiar and new, where he tries his best to make himself believe his hands are not calloused from brushes, and are actually yours.

When he meets you again he’s weighted down by guilt of what he’s done with your image in his head and awful feeling of hollowed bones. Another rich family’s ball that cannot compete entertainment-wise to anything Benedict can have at Granville’s salon, yet he chooses this. To seek you out. To ask for more.

He finds you flanked by Eloise, seeping brandy and tucking your dance card into your cleavage having scouted a suitor approaching you.

“My favourite brother, in his least favourite place,” Eloise announces as Benedict comes up behind you, bright enough to earn a glance or two from nearby clusters.

He takes your hand anyway, because etiquette is a shield he knows how to wear. When his lips brush your knuckles, you murmur, low and sweet, “Violet’s tendrils reach even the fiercest fighters, I see.”

Benedict arranges his most innocent face. “Here I was, prepared to rescue you from that snotty gentleman who has had his eyes on you for the better part of an hour, and I find you far more interested in crushing me with my sister.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” you say, and when he starts to retreat you catch his sleeve, quick and sure. “Now you are my favourite brother as well.”

“That is what I thought.” He turns to Eloise. “Eloise, you are next on my list of damsels.”

Eloise gives him a look of someone who’s long accepted their fate. “I am quite alright.” She reaches for the drinks table, already moving away. “I shall drown the sorrow of this double betrayal in another glass and go and find Pen.”

Benedict offers you his hand again. You take it, and he leads you to the floor before your suitor can collect himself.

His palm settles at your back. Fingers find the line where cloth gives way, bare skin just above the seam, and the contact draws a traitorous breath from between your lips that Benedict both hears and feels. He is not proud of how quickly his own lungs answer. The music begins; the room loosens around the rhythm.

“I sense a secret intention beneath this act of chivalry,” you say, voice pitched for him alone. “Was the letter not to your lover’s liking?”

“Oh, it was to his liking,” Benedict says. On the next turn he brings his mouth near your ear, close enough that the heat of him lands there and holds. “So much so that I find myself in need of another.”

“Benedict,” you warn.

“I will pay you, if that is what you require,” he answers, unbothered. “With money. Or with a favour.”

“Interesting.” Your eyes narrow. You take a deeper breath, and it presses you a fraction closer in the hold. Benedict’s gaze strays once, then he drags it back to your face like a man correcting himself. “I shall ponder the favour I will require of you,” you say. A beat. Then, a shy, soft sweetness. “Have you read it?”

He nods, slow. Releases you for the turn and catches you again, your back briefly to his chest, his hand heavy on your waist. “Who did you write it for?”

“For your lover,” you say.

Another turn brings you face to face again, close enough that he can see the discomfort gathering before it shows. “And who did you think of?” he asks.

“What is this to you?” you return, honestly bewildered.

“I am curious,” Benedict says, and the steps pull you in again so he can put the words at your temple, private. “How a lady who keeps appearances so well writes about learning pulses and tasting roots.”

The distance returns with the next figure, and he meets your look full on. “I meant no offence,” he says, quieter. “It was magnificent. Inspiring.”

“What did it inspire?” you ask.

Benedict’s mouth curves, the same insolent little tilt he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand. “What is this to you?”

“Inspiration for further work,” you say, mid-turn. “Ouroboros of filth.”

“I will tell you,” he says, and when the pattern brings you back together your chests meet with the smallest, indecent jolt, “if you write me another.”

“That’s settled, then,” you answer, and the calm of it hits him harder than any raised voice.

The dance ends with both of you bowing. He steals one more glance at the place your features betray a fluster, and cherishes it. It helps him survive the evening. It helps him keep his forearms relaxed when other women touch them, and his smile steady when they offer their bland jokes.

He receives the next letter as before—days later, with the same wax and the same stamp. It speaks of bathing in waters that have nothing to do with rivers, lakes, or seas. Of the tempest that plagues people who cannot crawl inside their beloveds and live there. This time, your hand has got ahead of you: it is signed with a crooked B you have managed to conjure from the first letter of your name. Just as before, it is witty and melancholic in a way that leaves his loins aflame and his lungs feeling shallow.

To keep his part of the agreement, he uses an afternoon tea at Anthony’s, where the men are preoccupied with politics and the women entirely engrossed in children. He gives you a prolonged glance, then retreats to the library—unnoticed, and as clever as ever in the art of social disappearance.

Your excuse from the table earns you absent-minded nods and smiles, the sort granted to anyone who looks like they are doing something sensible. The library is a wild guess. Where else does one go, if one intends to speak of literature with any seriousness?

When you reach it, the door is ajar. Benedict is inside with his back to it, fingers skimming the spines as if he is searching for a particular title and cannot quite decide what it ought to be.

“You wanted to see me?” you ask, palms entwined behind your back.

“I dislike having debts,” he says, without turning. “And I believe I owe you a story.”

“And is it a story fit for an afternoon tea with approximately ten children running about the house?”

“Most of them are toddlers. I do not know much about children, but I do know toddlers do not run very fast.” He turns then, and props himself against the shelves with an ease that feels practiced. “It is also safest in the lion’s maw.”

“I think it an unfortunate figure of speech.”

“Always so clever.” His mouth twitches. “Come.”

He beckons you closer with two fingers, casual. The thrill hits you in a way you resent. Daylight. A respectable house. People within shouting distance. This is the sort of small trespass you are meant to outgrow, and yet it feels like learning. Acquiring, in bright hours, knowledge you suspect would still be denied you even if you did the proper thing and capitulated to a husband.

So you go. Benedict’s finger points closer still. You walk until you are beside him, nose near enough to the books that you can smell old paper and leather. Then he slides behind you. One hand comes up to the shelf beside your head, palm flat to the wood, boxing you in without touching.

“We should be quiet in the library,” he explains, voice lowered.

“A noble motive,” you murmur. “How clever of you.”

“What would you like to know?” he asks, and his breath stirs the hair arranged at your temple. “Keep looking at the books.”

“Everything,” you say. “Everything that sprouted from what I wrote in your name.”

He hums, as if considering where to begin, and then gives you a name as though it has always existed. “Call him Thomas,” Benedict says. “Thomas has a way of listening that makes a man forget himself. He read your letter and did not laugh once. He did not mock it, either. He took it seriously. He wrote back. He said he had never been spoken to with such… hunger. He said he could feel it on his skin.”

Benedict’s voice stays even as he lays it out, placing details like pieces on a board. A room, a door, a hand at a throat. A kiss stolen in a corridor. He speaks of a meeting that required caution, of risk, of wanting to be marked and kept. He makes it sound plausible enough to pass at a distance.

Up close, it gives him away.

He is too smooth. Too quick. The story moves as if he has already decided what each part should do, and now it is only a matter of saying it aloud. He does not stumble. He does not swallow. His breathing does not change. Nothing in him catches, as if focus were overriding the passion. If this were true, if these moments belonged to him, he ought to have some tell. A hitch, a heat, a crack in the polish.

The story of Thomas does not stir anything in you. Something else works though. What you feel with your whole being is his hand, a hairsbreadth from yours when you shift your fingers on a spine. His chest suspended at your back, not touching, and still crowding your breath. The warmth of him, the smell of him—spirits and soap, something stale that suggests too little sleep. The fact of his mouth near your neck, and the ease with which he could choose to use it. The fact of his palms, and where they could settle if he so wished. How simple it would be, in the space between one careful step and the next, to turn this from talk into something else entirely, to grabbing your waist, hoisting your skirts, to—

His voice carries on behind you, steady, persuasive in the way a man persuades himself.

You turn your head only a fraction, enough to let your words reach him without being heard by anyone else. “You lie to me,” you say. “Was your lover not satisfied?”

Now—the hitch in his breath arrives. He folds it into a scoff, then an incredulous little laugh, the kind meant to put you back in place by making you smaller. You turn in the tight space, face stern. Benedict sees the hurt in your eyes and still clings to hope.

“Which part of what I have told you sounded untrue?” he asks.

“Everything,” you tell him. “I am beginning to think either your lover was left entirely unimpressed, or that such a person as Thomas does not exist. Which is it?” Your chin lifts, defiant. “Am I bland, or is it simply impossible to entertain spectres?”

“You are not bland,” Benedict says under his breath. “But if I tell you the whole truth, you will hate me.”

You blink. Then smile, and your quiet laugh is your turn to test him. “Have you made someone miserable? Made a fool of me? Betrayed me?” you ask. “If not, I cannot hate you.”

He closes in. His jaw rasps against your cheek as he speaks, too close for sense. “I have been… touched… by your words, and by—” A swallow; you feel the motion like an echo in your own throat. “By myself. Wishing for you.”

You stay very still, nails biting into the wood behind you. “So there was no recipient,” you murmur.

“I was him. I am him.” His mouth finds your ear and sets the words into it. Warm lips, wet, licked over again and again. “Are you disgusted?”

You take a second, properly. Not disgusted. Never that. Not by Benedict, not by sincerity offered this plainly. The feeling is hotter, sharper, and it makes you careful. “If I said I was,” you mutter, low and wolfish, “would my silence be considered a favour?”

“Willful creature,” Benedict rasps, pushing his nose into the line of your hair. “What is it in that head of yours that you want?”

“The arrangement has changed.” You put your hand to his chest and shove, palm flat, feeling the quick flutter of his heart answer the beat in your wrist. “Show me,” you say, and by some miracle, your voice remains even, “how touched you were.”

“And if I say no?”

You pause. It would be unbecoming. And besides, it would be a blow aimed at yourself. Worse, it would betray the freedom you have been trying to reach.

“Then we will speak of this no more,” you tell him, solemn. “This is not the way I wish to be cruel.”

Benedict holds your eyes. “Do you wish to be cruel?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But sweetly. Desirably.”

His hands find you like you’ve pictured it countless times. Your waist, fingers digging into meat, back pushed into wood. “Be cruel to me,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

Your palms rest on his forearms. All willpower gets sent there, so they won’t tremble. Breath saws through your nose when you speak. “Touch yourself.”

Benedict’s eyes go deliciously wide. His fingers twitch where they hold you, then, by some mercy of the God of wild parts of a person, they drift to his shirt. He drags it free, untucks it, and palms himself through his slacks as if waiting to be told what to do next. Even now, impertinence clings to him.

“Properly,” you chide. “As you did during your reading sessions.”

“I need your wicked tongue for that,” he says, and works at the fastening.

You nearly miss it, too busy staring at the swell between his legs, at the dark scatter of hair at his navel, the straining root, when—your eyes meet briefly, and you keep your gaze there. Below his lashes where he’s under your spell and begging. “Talk to me,” Benedict says.

Your hands slip from his arms. One goes to his cheek, tender. “Do you seek praise?”

He nods, mouth agape.

“That is… oddly endearing.” A real, girlish laugh escapes you. “I thought of you too. Of your mouth. This mouth—” Your thumb swipes his lips, slips inside, and tests its weight on his tongue. “On different parts of me. Here—” Your other hand gestures to your neck, then lower, between your breasts. “And here.”

A sound leaves him. Breathy and wonderful, and yours, entirely. He draws himself out, bare in his hand, and his strokes are strained, fist unforgivingly tense. The head of him is darkened, weeping at the tip, teasing your own tongue to slip out and your knees to buck. “Is that how you did it?” you ask.

“Yes,” he breathes. His words keep trying to run ahead of him. “With your mouth in my head.” Firm hand clasps your shoulder, drawing you in until his forehead’s flat meets yours, breath all over your face. “On me. With your knees scruffed, ah—”

“I would,” you tell him. Hold him by the neck and keep the tension in his tendons until when you get to write about it. “I’d kneel for you. Learn you. Your shape inside me, when you’re rigid and after,” you say. “When you soften… and leak from me.”

“How are you real?” Benedict says, his mouth flattened against yours. His fist bumps your hip when it moves. Looking down, you see his slacks fallen to his knees and you take in every small gesture that brings him close: the thumb pressing the head, gathering the slick; the way he pulls himself away from his stomach; the twist of his wrist when it comes up, then the sharp descent that nearly has him punching his own abdomen. “Kiss me,” you feel him say into your lips.

“No,” you pout. “I need my mouth free, don’t I?”

“Beautifully cruel,” he says, shakes his head. “What else would you do? Where would you want me?”

“I want,” you bite your lip, “the shape of this tooth—” Your thumb hooks on his crooked canine and presses until his head cocks back a notch. “On my inner thigh. Only for me to see. Bruise me,” you say, spurring him on. “Take me. Show me what it’s like to be unafraid.”

Your calves burn from keeping you both upright. Between your legs there is a violent tug that spreads to your belly and pulses, wet and salacious, and it makes you say too much. “When you come back smelling of gin and bodies it makes my gut twist.”

“You say I reek,” Benedict mumbles, lost now, in the little space under your ear.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you tangled with others when I am here, painfully untouched,” you tell him. You catch his cheeks and rub your face on his. “I want you to reek of me. I want to reek of you.”

“By God, darling,” he groans, “I am—” It breaks into a choked gasp. “Where do you want me?”

“Here.” You lift your skirt and guide him to the naked sliver of skin in the crease of your thigh, where you mean to keep him. Your other hand finds his mouth, too bold for his own good, and holds. Your fingers muzzle him, and you smile, wicked. “And quiet.”

The tip grazes where you want it. His breath comes in short, tormented bursts over your palm, like he is blowing up a broken balloon. He presses himself fully and thrusts against you, close to where you dream of having him, and then warmth floods, stains the material of your undergarments and sticks to skin, wanted, cherished, won. His whole body tenses, holds that precipice for stretched out seconds, and then everything goes at once. His jaw under your touch relaxes. His shoulders slacken, the entirety of him becoming smaller. Fit to hold. To cradle.

A man who softens immediately becomes your favourite kind.

“How beautiful you are now,” you say, astonished—the last words you manage before Benedict’s lips find yours in an off-centre, hound-like kiss. Grateful and generous and wanting all the same. He holds your face firmly, stretches the skin of your cheeks, and tilts you so his tongue can find the deepest parts of your mouth.

“You are—” he mutters. “A miracle from the God who lives in hedges.”

Your laugh is relieved. Satiated, for now. “Are you converted?”

“He can have me if I can have you,” Benedict says.

He can have you, you decide.

When everything hushes down, when he tucks himself back into his clothing and makes himself look as though you have indeed been merely browsing books, you feel something you thought impossible: deeper breathing, a focus unlike anything you ever mustered over piano or embroidery. An opened door, and on the other side a landscape howling, dangerous, endlessly exciting.

You’ve touched freedom. And it tastes of Benedict.

[midnightssea]

[midnightssea]

btw “actual feminism” is trans inclusive and op of this tweet agrees :)

[s1xseasonsandamov1e]

becoming the oppressor is not liberation!!!!!

[angel-fruitcake]

i can handle one (1) Event™ per day. whether it be a phone call, an appointment, trip to the grocery store, play date with a friend, etc. only one, that's it. any more than that and i am Stressed

[54nboo]

"table for two." bucky barnes.

summary: with a schedule as busy as yours and a boss as grueling as sam wilson, dating becomes an afterthought; so when the day comes where you actually manage to score a date, you let yourself hope— only for it all to fall apart. the last thing you expect is for your boss’ friend to slip into the seat in front of you and order a whiskey, but it’s certainly not the worst thing to happen to you that night.

pairing: tfatws!bucky x fem!military!reader

word count: 4.4k

content contains: fluff and angst!!! probably a little more angst than was needed, saved from a no-show date, coworkers(?) to lovers, tfatws era, reader is a little self conscious and critical of herself, bucky cares for reader probably a little too much, reader is a little tipsy,

dt: for @indigo-jungle! jungle i hope you enjoy this and that my endless nagging actually created something you might enjoy :D i enjoyed writing this and i really hope you enjoy taking bucky home with you. happy reading and happy (late) valentines!!!!

authors note: this is for @salty-tang’s valentine’s day swap collab!! i just wanted to say thank you salty for organising this collab :P it was so well done and everything was so creative and organised and i’m sorry for being late. also went on my first ever date the other day and it was horrible. the concept of writing a failed date after having the worst date of my life. NEVER AGAIN

your disappearance hadnt gone unnoticed in the compound.

you were never one to just vanish without a word. you always told sam or joaquin what you were doing and when you'd be back, even if it was a quick trip to the store or a late night walk when you couldn't sleep. it was habit, an unspoken rule the three of you had agreed on when you'd first decided to work together.

if anything, you never really went anywhere. you usually didn't have much of a reason to leave the base unless it was for a mission, mandatory training, or when sam had pulled you out for 'fresh air and human interaction'.

but the one time it had happened, it had sent your team into a frenzy.

joaquin is the first one to notice anything is off, though it doesn't cause immediate panic. he'd checked your room found and that it was empty, not in a concerning way— just quiet. your bed is made and your boots sits neatly by your desk like you hadn't been in there all day. he checks the gym second, figuring you might've wanted to squeeze in an extra workout before you headed to dinner, but you're not there either.

he checks the hangar, he checks the training deck, and he even calls out your name right outside of the women's bathroom. he calls several times, and it always ends up going to voicemail. when you're not in any of those places and you don't answer, he assumes you're with sam.

joaquin walks down the hall and enters the bases common area. he finds sam standing in the kitchen while something spins in the microwave, the low hum filling the room. across the room, bucky sits on the sofa, staring blankly at the news on the television. it's on, but it's obvious he's not completely focused on it.

joaquin's footsteps against the wood floor catches sam's attention. he turns around just as the microwave beeps, glancing towards joaquin before he turns back and pulls his meal from the machine.

"have you guys seen her?" joaquin crosses his arms against his chest, brows furrowing the slightest bit.

sam glances over his shoulder, "who's her?'

joaquin gives sam a look. "there's only one her that would make me walk all the way down here."

from the sofa, bucky shifts, his head turning slightly towards the conversation at the mention of you. he doesnt say anything, but the faint tightening in his eyes shows he's paying attention.

"her rooms empty, and she's not in the gym. i don't know where else she would be." joaquin continues. "has she messaged you or told you she was leaving the base?"

sam raises a brow, his fork pausing in the midst of his stirring. "she hasn't. you sure you checked everywhere?"

"yeah, and i called." joaquin sighs, "i'm just worried because she's been a little restless lately. thought it was just because of the new york mission, but you know her— she never stresses about missions."

and although this would be a minor inconvenience for most people, the flicker of concern that flares in sam and joaquin is hard to ignore. you, of all people, vanishing without a trace? it's more than a cause for concern.

sam leaves the kitchen and walks over to the sofa where bucky is sitting. joaquin follows behind him as sam pulls his laptop out and opens it, fingers flying across the keyboard as he logs in and types something that bucky doesn't quite understand when he peers over and steals a glance.

"what are you doing?" joaquin asks.

"going through her phone." sam replies.

and for the first time in the conversation, bucky speaks up, his lip curled and his voice flat. "don't you think hacking her phone is an invasion of privacy?"

sam barely gives bucky a glance, eyes focused on pinpointing your exact location. "it's not hacking. i'm just trying to find a location. you sign consent waivers for this kind of stuff when you join."

"security measures." joaquin adds with a small shrug as if it'll help bucky understand and it'll snooze his unease.

there's a small moment of silence as joaquin and bucky watch sam type away at his laptop, the soft clacking of his fingers on the keys mingling with the soft hum of the news anchor on the television.

"found her." sam shimmies his laptop over so that joaquin and bucky can see the screen. "it pinged at some place in the city called the white lotus about ten minutes ago."

joaquin leans in, eyes narrowing and his brows knitting together as he scans the screen. "that's that fancy restaurant on where all of the lawyers and businessmen go to eat overpriced steak and wine. whats she doing there?"

"doesn't matter. something must be up if she left without telling us." sam shuts his screen and places it back onto the coffee table.

joaquin straightens. "you wanna roll out?"

"she's not answering her phone and she's been gone all day." sam points out. "we'll just do a check and see if everything's alright."

maybe it was because he was the only one in the room not looking at this through a tactical lens, but bucky felt as though he already knew exactly what you were doing— fancy resturaunt in the city, leaving without telling anyone, and not answering any calls. it was obvious. you probably could've written it in blood on the living room walls and sam and joaquin still wouldn't be able to tell what you were doing.

bucky shifts in his seat, tossing the remote across the couch and pulling his jacket onto his arms.

"i'll go." he tells them, firm and certain like there's no other option.

sam and joaquin turn to bucky, confusion written all over their faces. bucky never usually wants to get up, let alone leave the base, and now he's offering to go and find you in the middle of the city?

"you'll go?" sam echoes, suspicion tight in his voice. "you guys barely

"there's a reason why someone who tells you guys everything didnt tell you she was going out tonight. the last thing she needs is one of you complaine in her ear about her leaving without telling you— so i'll go." he says evenly, shrugging once. "needed a drink anyways."

sam watches bucky for a long moment, weighting the options in his head. on one hand, he trusts bucky and knows he wouldn't ruin things. on the other, the two of you don't really talk outside of work, and he couldn't possibly imagine what bucky would say that could bring you back.

but he gives in. he exhales. "fine. go."

bucky gives sam a short nod, already turning towards the door.

the drive to the city is quiet. bucky doesnt turn on the radio, nor does he reach for his phone. the only sound in the car is the rumble of the engine and the faint rush of wind funnelling in through the barely cracked window. traffic thickens the closer he gets to the city, headlights stretching ahead of him in long red lines, but he doesn't really notice. his mind isn't on the road as much as it's on you— on the image he's already built in his head.

you're probably sitting in that restaurant all dolled-up and sharing a bottle of red wine with someone just as put together and polished as you are. after all, you deserve someone who'll take you to fancy places and treat you well. you deserve more than that.

he exhales slightly, jaw twitching as he physically shakes the image out of his head. it's none of his business. he pulls out of the traffic and into a parking garage, paying the fee and stepping out into the cold.

the walk is fine. its not too far, but the weather and the foot traffic makes it feel like it takes hours. the city feels different at night, a different kind of bustling compared to the mornings. his feet scuff against the pavement as he dodges people and the breeze tussles his hair as he walks.

the white lotus isn't hard to find at all. it stands out immediately, a large building with windows for walls and warm lights that stand out against the grey of the city. golden lettering is etched neatly across the glass, and well dressed customers walk in and out like it's the finest establishment in the country.

bucky weaves in between cars and crosses the street, his hands stuffed in his pockets. he slows just enough to glance through the windows. he ignores the judgmental looks from a couple dining by the glass, his eyes narrowed as he focuses— and then he sees you.

you're sitting in the back corner, candlelight flickering against your tired face. the candle is already burned halfway down, and the bottle of wine you'd ordered is surely nearly empty. your finger traces the rim of your wine glass, and bucky notices that the table is set for two— two glasses, two menus, two plates— but you're totally and utterly alone.

theres no laughter drifting across the table, no delicious meals sitting on your plate, and certainly no polished date sitting across from you. its just you.

bucky watches as the bell above the door rings and a couple walks in. your head turns, hope flickering across your face until your shoulders drop once you realise it isn't who you'd been waiting for. you look down quickly after that like you don't want anyone to notice.

something in his chest sinks.

he'd expected to see you happy. to see you smiling at someone else like they'd hung the stars and the moon. to see that small shine in your eyes as they tell you a joke. he thought he'd see you with someone else who was better suited to your world than he could ever be, and guilt twists low in his stomach.

but instead, you're alone, and you have been for a long time.

bucky doesn't let himself linger outside anymore.

he pushes the door open, the small bell chiming overhead. the warmth of the restaurant swallows him whole, light piano music and cutlery against ceramic wrapping around him immediately, but the only thing he can focus on is you.

you dont look over anymore, probably tired of waiting, eyes set on the maroon liquid in your glass as you swirl it around and bring it to your mouth before taking a long sip.

a waiter dressed in a clean uniform steps forwards with a practiced smile. "good evening, sir. do you have a reservation?"

bucky shifts his weight. he doesn't, but you sure do.

he nods towards you, _____. "my date's already here."

the waiter follows bucky's gaze before he spots you in the back. recognition crossed his face and a sympathetic smile grows on his face.

"oh, the lady in the corner." he says gently, almost like you might hear him. "she's been waiting an awful long time for you, sir."

and the words land heavier than any punch could.

bucky's jaw tightens just slightly, but his expression doesn't change. he nods, "i know."

the waiter gives bucky a tightlipped smile before gesturing towards you and your table. "enjoy your dinner, sir."

bucky steps past him, weaving in between tables with practiced steady strides. a few heads turn— because he doesn't belong there like the other men do— but he ignores them all, his focus set entirely on you.

he stops at the edge of the table.

you don't notice him at first. you're staring down at your glass like the answer is somewhere in your wine, your thoughts clearly miles away. your posture is still composed, but there's a slight looseness to you now, sitting in the quiet haze of someone who's had just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to forget why you're here.

"this seat taken?" he asks, voice low and almost hesitant.

your head snaps up. for a split second, confusion clouds your features. you're sure it would've been your date, but the voice is familiar, something you've heard a million times before. your eyes focus properly, the haze lifting just enough for you to recognise him.

"bucky?"

surprise flickers across your face, quickly followed by something else— embarrassment, maybe. heat crawls up your neck as you blink, but then you curl into yourself like you dont want him to see you like this. something in his chest tightens.

up close, bucky can see you better— the faint smudge of your eyeliner like you'd rubbed at your waterline, the fading of your lipstick from the constant sips of wine, the crease in your foundation from all of the times you'd raised your brows when someone entered the resturaunt in hopeful expectation.

you tried to look perfect for someone who never showed up.

"what are you— what are you doing here?" you blink, still catching up, before your eyes drift towards the empty seat in front of you— the one that's been taunting you all night. you gesture towards it, still a little dazed. "sorry, you can— uh, you can sit down."

bucky doesn't hesitate. he tugs his jacket off of his arms and pulls the chair out just enough to slip in, his broad shoulders filling the area that'd remained empty for hours. the candlelight catches in his hair, the warm glow bathing him in light that softens all of the harsh lines of his face and the soft scars that sit on his skin. he looks so out of place in the restaurant, and yet he's the only thing that makes sense to you.

the waiter approached carefully once bucky's settled in, the same polished smile fixed onto his face. "can i bring you anything else this evening? perhaps you'd like dinner now?"

"no, i'm fine, thank you." you shake your head a little too quickly, jaw shifting as you glance towards bucky and then towards the shameful bottle of wine you'd been drowning your sorrows in. your voice is steady, but bucky can hear the exhaustion in it.

the waiter turns to him. "and for you, sir?"

"just a whiskey, thanks." bucky says without looking away from you. "and i'll take the check too."

"of course." the waiter nods. he gathers the unopened menus from in the table and disappears into the crowd of diners.

silence settles again, softer this time. the resturaunt moves around you— words and laughs are exchanged, a cork from a champagne bottle pops, and expensive perfume and cologne swirls through the air— but your table feels seperate from all of the noise.

your shoulders are drawn in like you're bracing for whatever bucky might throw at you. you're sure he's going to give you some kind of lecture on leaving the base without letting anyone know, because at the end of the day, he's sam's friend, and anyone who stands that close to sam wilson usually shares the same rule book.

you expect the sigh, the disappointed look, and the you should know better than this talk—but it never comes.

bucky doesn't lean back in his chair. he doesn't cross his arms. he doesnt give you that judgmental up-and-down that all of the other diners had given you all evening. he doesn't even look annoyed. he simply watches you, tired eyes scanning every single detail on your face. his metal fingers tap against the tablecloth a few times before stilling like he's trying to come up with something to say.

"how long have you been sitting here?" is what he settles on. the question sits heavy in his mind, and although he thinks he already knows the answer, he wants to hear it from you.

"longer than i'd like to admit." you say with a small smile, although it's anything but happy. your smile falters, your nail tapping at the stem of your glass. "how'd you find me?"

"sam and joaquin were worried about you. something about hacking your phone and finding your location?" he says.

you huff out a small breath through your nose, your hand flat against your forehead. "right, that. i forgot about that."

the waiter arrives with a glass of whiskey and places it in front of bucky with a smile before leaving. bucky takes the glass and swirls it around a few times before bringing it to his mouth.

across from him, you look small.

the sharp confidence you usually carry around the base is gone. your shoulder slope inwards. your makeup— done so carefully hours ago— creases and faded at the edges. your eyes are glossy like you've been fighting back tears all evening.

bucky lowers his glass gently, the base making a dull thud against the table, something heavy settling deep in his chest. he'd seen you bruised and bleeding, but this feels so much worse.

although the candlelight spills onto bucky like heavenly lighting, to you, it's exposing.

"why didnt you let anyone know you were leaving the base?" he asks quietly, like the question might cause you to retreat. "joaquin searched the whole building for you and almost had an aneurysm when he couldn't find you."

guilt rushes cold through your body.

"i know i should've, but..." your lips press together. "i don't know. maybe i was embarrassed.

his brow furrows. "what's there to be embarrassed about?"

you give him a humourless laugh. "everything. i dont go on dates, bucky. i didnt want to hear all of the teasing, or the jokes, or just— any of it. and then if it didn't work out..."

you vaguely gesture at the table you'd been calling home for the past few hours. it almost feels pathetic when you think about it— how you'd been waiting on someone who would never show up.

"i didn't want them to see that." you murmur.

across the resturaunt, another couple is being seated. the man pulls out a chair for a woman in a silk dress, a wide smile on her face as he pushes her in and plants a kiss to her cheek.

the sight makes your stomach twist.

bucky follows your line of sight. he watches the easy act of intimacy for a second before his eyes shift back to you.

"who was it?" he asks softly. "your date, i mean."

you let out a breath that's almost a scoff. "i don't even know. just some guy i met at the grocery store. he asked for my number, we texted for a while, and then he asked me out." you blink. "he had a nine-to-five. he always talked about football and his dog. his life sounded easy. normal."

the way your hands curl into themselves is telling.

"and you wanted that." bucky says.

"i wanted to see if i could have it." you hesitate. "it was a nice feeling knowing that someone wanted to have dinner with me because they liked me and were excited to see me. i'm tired of feeling like i have to bleed for everything good that happens to me."

and then, quieter and fragile in a way that catches bucky off guard, you ask— "why are you really here, bucky?"

his name sounds different when you say it like that. it doesn't roll of your tongue like it usually does when you're teasing him or calling out his name on missions. it almost sounds accusing, like maybe he might be here just to get on sam's good side by looking out for his friend.

bucky's tongue finds the inside of his cheek, metal fingers tapping the side of his glass a few times before wrapping around it entirely.

"i came because i knew what you were doing." he admits. "fancy restaurant, leaving without telling anyone, not answering your phone. didn't take a genius to figure it out."

"and?" you press gently.

"and..." his jaw flexes slightly. "i didn't like the thought of you sitting alone. i didnt like the idea of you waiting, or that if that asshole didn't show up, you'd start thinking you were the problem."

the honesty in his words is quiet, but it digs its way into your heart. warm tears brim at your waterline, and you hope that he can't see it in the dim lighting of this overpriced restaurant and that the candle that sits between you warps the shine in your eyes into something less obvious.

but bucky noticed anyways. he always does.

"some people just don't know what they've got until it's gone, and some people are stupid enough to lose it before they ever really had it." his eyes drag over you then, not in a way that makes you feel exposed, but in a way that makes you feel appreciated. "and you look good. anyone who makes you sit alone for hours when you look like this doesn't deserve to see you."

heat rises up your neck despite the tears that threaten to fall.

you shake your head, "you don't have to say that—"

"i'm not saying it to make you feel better. i'm saying it because it's true." the candlelight catches his eyes, turning then into something softer than you could ever imagine.

a tear slips from your eye and onto your cheek before you can stop it. you laugh quietly, a little embarrassed, swiping at it with the side of your hand and then pressing the tear to your dress.

his hand twitches slightly like he's considering reaching across the table and taking yours in his, wanting to show you that you don't have to hide your sadness. he doesnt, but the impulse is there.

"god, this is pathetic." you murmur. "crying over some guy i barely know."

"it's not." he says, certain and firm. "you showed up and he didn't. that already makes you a better person in my books, because at least you tried."

and the way he says it makes it feel like it's the simplest thing in the world. there's no pity in his expression, nor is there any hesitation, and you're sure he'd defend that statement in a courtroom if he had to.

your throat tightens again as you nod, but it's different this time— warmer.

bucky studies you for a moment longer before his eyes drop to the bottle of wine sitting idly on the table. "how much have you had to drink?"

you glance at the almost empty bottle and then at the barely-there smear of wine in your glass. "not nearly as much as i feel like i need."

the corners of his mouth lift— not quite into a smile, but something just as soft. "yeah, i get that."

you look tired now. you're sluggish, your blinks a little slower, and your posture is a little less guarded now. bucky can't tell if it's because you're sad, if you've just had a bit too much to drink, or if you're finally comfortable enough to let go now that he's here.

it's probably all three.

he lifts his glass to his mouth and throws back whatever whiskey remains in his glass in one smooth motion before setting it back down onto the table. the burn barely registers as it slides down his throat. he shifts towards the edge of his seat, big arms resting on the table as he leans towards you.

"how about we head back to the base, get you settled, and then you can watch however much shitty reality tv you want." he suggests, his voice low. "and if sam or joaquin wanna ask about where you were, then they'll have to go through me."

your brows raise as you blink a few times. you didnt think anyone actually realised you liked watching that stupid stuff. "how do you know i love watching shitty reality tv?"

"i pay attention." he shrugs a shoulder, almost a little embarrassed to admit it. "you pretend like you hate it, but you talk to the screen like they can hear you."

your cheeks warm. "i do not."

"you do." he doubles down with a soft nod, "you sit on the edge of the couch during the eliminations, and you get real mad when they send the wrong person home."

you stare at him. the restaurant swells around you again, the noise rushing in like waves to the shore, and for the first time in a while, the tightness in your chest has nothing to do with the wine or the vacant chair you'd stared at for hours beforehand, but has everything to do with the man sitting in front of you.

bucky shifts in his seat like he knows he's said more than he'd meant to before he reaches for his jacket he'd draped over his chair, pulling it over his arm in one swift motion.

"we should probably get going before they kick us out for not ordering anything with a shit ton of those orange balls on them." he says as he stands up, his chair making an obnoxious squealing noise against the ground that has the both of you stifling laughs.

"you mean caviar?" you grin.

"yeah, sure, whatever its called."

he steps around the table, offering his hand, and you take it, letting him help you up from your chair. your feet are a little unbalanced from the alcohol and the lack of blood flow, but you know that bucky is there to catch you if you ever fell.

"thanks, bucky." you swallow. "i really do appreciate it."

he pauses at that as he steadies you. the humour fades from his expression, replaced by something more earnest.

"you don't have to thank me." he says. "you would've done the same thing for me."

there's no hesitation or doubt in his voice, because you both know that it's true. you would've done it.

and as the two of you step outside into the cold, bucky drapes his jacket over your shoulders. the leather is still warm from his skin, and you sink into it as he pulls you close enough to steal your warmth from you.

that action alone lets you know that this was never really about sam or joaquin, or about following some stupid location protocol, or making sure you made it back to base safely because it was the responsible thing to do— it's because he cares.

so you pull his jacket a little tighter around your arms, breathing in the scent that leaks from the fabric as you let him guide you through the city streets like keeping you close is second nature.

the date might not have ended how you'd thought it might, but this is better than anything you could've hoped for.

i like to think that they didnt pay

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