by the way coming back to tumblr to let u all know this blog is free palestine from the river to the sea and back again. ps do not try to argue because i simply do not care abt ur opinion:)
hello, hello!! here is my first kingdon fanfiction recommendation list (get comfy, it's a long one)!
quick note: if you know any of the missing tumblr users, please message me so i can tag them & if there's a fic you think should be on the list, let me know and i'll add it to the next one!
happy reading 🩷
legend: ongoing | completed | multiple works
breaking the surface by lonelychicago (@ferrarisma)
there's a car accident on mel's day off. she ends up at the pitt anyways
rating: mature
from the sidelines by griffenly (@cvldbones)
she gets this tingling in the back of her head, sometimes, when she can’t quite be sure what she knows, just that she knows something. she feels it as she watches mel show langdon the tablet; her hands are gesticulating wildly as she explains, pointing to the screen occasionally, but langdon’s eyes never leave her face. It is a wonder, dana thinks, the poor girl doesn’t just combust on the spot from the force of his gaze
rating: teen+
mel king and the art of touch by ironcharlie (@ironcharliee)
frank thinks mel doesn't do physical touch. or, mel doesn't realize they've been dating for nine months
rating: explicit
this is not the frank show by papermarrow
frank wakes up with no memory. but that's not the strange part. the strange part is the beautiful doctor at his bedside. and the way his chest aches when he sees the ring on her finger
rating: teen+
the whole world is sleeping (but my world is you) by fromiftowhen (@fromiftowhen)
over a series of late night talks, texts, facetimes, and maybe dates, langdon and mel fall in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once
rating: mature
228 oak hill drive by solitude_of_stars
the many encounters of frank langdon and melissa king as observed by esther cornell, who would like to make it abundantly clear that she isn't as nosy as this will make her seem
rating: teen+
what to do, now that i've found you? by prncesselene (@prncesselene)
mel can't stop stealing frank's clothes. it's becoming quite the problem
rating: teen+
saw the writing on the wall by soul_meets_body (@slightly-obssesed)
mel’s third-favorite scene in dirty dancing is only a second long. it’s when johnny jumps off the stage during the final dance and flips his head up right on cue with the singer crooning “hey, baby!” so it was very distracting that, for the rest of the day after her karaoke session with myrna, frank had been quietly singing those two words to her every time they ran into each other. a “hey baby!” when he slid into the chair next to her in the breakroom. another when they met in the middle both jogging to an ambulance. she couldn’t help but laugh every time he did it which, knowing frank, meant he’d probably do it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next
rating: teen+
not in the swing of things (yet) by melikaelena
frank finds out that mel doesn't have any birthday plans. he sets out to change that
rating: teen+
ruin the friendship by izzyitcool
all the times mel king and frank langdon healed each other
rating: teen+
you're a good man, frank langdon by avocadomoon
dr. frank langdon: steals drugs, gets divorced, cheats on his wife, goes to rehab, falls in love. not necessarily in that order, though if you ask him it's not really any of your fuckin' business
rating: explicit
where she belongs by flow
mel receives a letter and spends an entire shift discovering that the life she's been carefully navigating has already made room for her
rating: general
the parent trap by anonymous
mel wants to be a mom. frank offers to be her baby daddy. but when mel gets a taste of hooking up with frank, she starts taking birth control to prolong their intimate time together. it's a reverse baby-trapping
rating: explicit
all she has given, all i have taken by fathomless
"oh my god," mel breathes, turning to look at frank. "that's a baby." a weird, blob-like shape resembling a baby that will be a baby, at least. their baby. "wow," he says from where he stands at her shoulder, but his voice is thick, and she looks up to find his eyes wet, glistening against the light from the screen. "holy shit, mel, that's our baby." mel grapples with her impending motherhood amidst caring for her sister, a fellowship program, and missing her own mom. frank is the support she needs
rating: mature
evie by debutante_gurl (@tvgremlin)
mel and langdon's one month old daughter spikes a fever and they head to the pitt for help
rating: mix of general and teen+
i'd get away with your heart (and make it look easy) by takemehome21 (@thelightreflects)
it takes three weeks for him to cross the line he set for himself when he drove her home after that fourth of july shift and ask her if he can stay the night at her place. he knows they can be friendly at work, though he can’t actually be friends with her, not when he’s dealing with recovery and a trial separation and the desire to make everything better for her. but he forgets all of that after just one night. and then it becomes a habit
rating: explicit
emergency contact by 1carusfalling (@1-carusfalling)
mel doesn't have an emergency contact. frank changes that
rating: mature
together in a real way by maplemaplemaple (@miracle-and-wonder)
five times when no one had any idea frank and mel were together, and one time when it was plainly obvious
rating: teen+
it's dr. mel king, mrs. langdon if you're nasty by shedelulululu (@shedelulululu)
it's season 1 of the pitt bu i asked the brave question of what if mel was abby the whole time
rating: teen+
in this autumn town by coffeealwayshelps (@coffeealwayshelps)
frank and mel fall in love the autumn after frank returs to ptmc
rating: explicit
work/life partners by smokingthemoutbasements (@smokingthemoutbasement)
langdon and mel have gotten close since her first day. carpooling, watching movies with becca, and then kissing. they don't talk about their relationship until after a shift goes very bad
rating: mix of general, teen+ and explicit
guess who? by billspaid
when santos ends up at mel's place, she finds a few things out of the ordinary, including a crate of redbull, a pack of cigarettes, and a guy sleeping in mel's bed
rating: general
about you (do you think i've forgotten?) by poppykatherine
frank keeps an ongoing list of all of mel's quirks, needs, and likes on his notes app. except mel doesn't know and she will never know... right?
rating: mature
from your point of view by talktothesky (@thatkingdon)
five times someone sees a picture of mel on frank's phone + one time someone sees a picture of frank on mel's phone
rating: teen+
hiya, barbie! hi, ken! by bloodofangrymen
frank picks up an injured mel from the hospital and takes her home, because they're friends, best friends... really close best friends, emergency contact best friends, sleeping in the same bed best friends, call each other baby best friends, you know, regular best friends
rating: mix of general and explicit
love you like i mean it by instrumentals
frank and mel pretend to date. somewhere along the way, the lines get a little blurred.
rating: explicit
countdown by lirazel
langdon's emotional support human is on leave and he's going to make that everyone else's problem
rating: teen+
laidover by avocadomoon
"you want me to be the bad guy, fine," he said
rating: explicit
everybody knows it but you by fathomless (@soulmaetes)
frank tries to hint that he's getting divorced. mel doesn't quite get the memo
rating: explicit
in the land of god's cathedrals... by phoenixtalon
lord frank langdon is desperate. after his wife's unexpected passing, he is completely unable to mange his young children, who have successfully chased off eight potential nannies. overwhelmed by grief and recovering from his own demons, he places an advertisement for a governess... which catches the eye of a certain miss mel king...
rating: explicit
fresh out the slammer by jillybean414
frank langdon is falling apart. he's a recovering drug addict, recently divorced, guilt-ridden doctor who misses his partner in crime dr. robby. he's always had a soft spot for dr. mel king. but when she starts to be his grounding when his world feels like its constantly spinning, he starts to wonder if maybe there's more to it. mel king is sunshine personified, but no one else seems to realize. all mel wants is to fit. for someone to have her back as she constantly has others. the only person at the ptmc who feels like they're in her corner is her attending, dr. frank langdon. as their relationship grows, mel realizes she might want langdon as more that a co-worker, more than a friend
rating: not rated
three's a crowd by fathomless (@soulmaetes)
becca likes dr. langdon when she meets him during her emergency room visit. it’s later, when he's introduced to her as mel's friend frank, that she decides she isn't so sure
rating: teen+
confidence game by avocadomoon
"everything's fucking falling apart," abby croaked, her voice thick with snot. "and you're - of course you're like this, you're fucking nice. oh my god." "i'm not that nice!" mel said frantically. i stole your husband, she thought. for example
rating: explicit
watch it go 'round and 'round by nnebulae (@nnebulae)
mel's pregnancy through the eyes of her (sometimes incredibly oblivious) coworkers
rating: general
twenty stitches in a hospital room by rowenamacleod
the paramedic opens the back door, jumping down into the snow with a soft crunch. she looks over at them, brows furrowing. "figured there'd be more of you," she said, and mel frowns. "didn't they tell you over the radio? Pretty sure this guy works here." the world goes quiet in mel's ears as the two paramedics get the stretcher down to the ground, and the patient's face comes into view- as frank's face comes into view, bloodied and bruised where it was secured in a neck brace. she freezes, unable to move; watches in slow motion as mohan leans over frank, assessing his injuries, while dana takes report from the paramedics
rating: teen+
jigsaw falling into place by pansiesandposies
frank has never really bought into the whole soulmate thing
rating: teen+
all along there was some invisible string tying you to me? by nicknamebolters
mel and frank go through moments of connection and separation, guided by invisible strings, until they finally find each other
rating: mature
they'll hang us in the louvre by cealesti
soulmateism made literal
rating: mature
little pieces of light by dmh23
five times other people clocked mel and langdon having feelings for each other, and one time langdon did
rating: mature
on fire for you by griffenly (@cvldbones)
the chest tube was set up, donnie standing by with the balloon. garcia glanced over the head lac and burns. "or 2 is open, send her up. oh, and langdon," she called over her shoulder, hovering in the doorway. "king is next door"
rating: mature
langdon's (not so secret) family by icouldnttellya
there were three things to know about dr. frank langdon. one: he was a great. two: he was an extremely private person. three: and he loved his wife and kids
rating: general
you're my baby (say it to me) by aphrsditea (@aphrsditea)
mel king has never cum from sex with another human human being and frank bets he can change that
rating: mature
the feeling flows both ways by aphrsditea (@aphrsditea)
au in which frank and mel meet in undergrad, fall in love and follow each other to the ends of the earth
rating: mature
melanoma by great_shark_lamia
mel moves to night shift. frank comes back. trinity santos needs to learn that nicknames hurt
rating: mature
heard the risk is drowning, but i'm gonna take it by itshvnnvh (@gansey-jackson)
mel king loves frank langdon. frank langdon loves mel king. neither of them will say it
rating: not rated
is it wrong if i see him this weekend by pansiesandposies
mel meets her roomates older brother
rating: explicit
a good wife, a greater woman by griffenly (@cvldbones)
so, call it narcissism or naïveté or plain old delusion, but abby is certain their marriage is going to survive this, one way or another. that is, of course, until she meets melissa king
rating: teen+
breathing clean air by novared
frank forgot to turn his location off and abby can't remember the last time she thought about frank this much
rating: general
how not to impress an attending by caelavik
"i did meet the new intern, by the way. heard she and frank got a long very well today." princess loved her job: she got to save people and have her daily dose of chismis (gossip)
rating: general
five times by aud_diane (@auddy-95)
dr. king and dr. langdon successfully hide their relationship five times. then, there's the time they don't
rating: explicit
✨yearners✨ by neverlandjisoo
the obligatory group chat fic (multi-ship - mel/langdon, samira/abbot, dennis/robby, santos/garcia)
I’ve never seen a single episode of the pitt but I do think that kind autistic woman should fuck the twitchy drug guy who has the eyes of an abandoned shelter dog
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!
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.
even if it's the bare minimum in a normal and optimal society, in our current world it's such a breath of fresh air to see a queer couple being out and proud together with no shame, especially a couple that's two cis gay men being so open about trans rights and so respectful and genuinely loving towards women and their bodies and rights. dan and phil you have no idea the kind of hope you give to young queer people every day, you are so important, not just as creators but as activists and proud queer adults.
I fear nobody will ever be able to match the dead stare standard criston has managed to set this season. gwayne accused him of fucking his sister and he said alicent is the Virgin Mary i keep trying to kill myself and she won’t let me. btw i hope we both die. and then he looked at him like this
Helaena's prophecies: *Usually vague and hard to interpret*
Helaena's prophecy about Aemond: Aemond Targaryen will die in the Gods Eye on August 30th, 2024 at 6:33 p.m. Central Standard Time. It will be cloudy that day, with a 60% chance of rain.
eddie ‘monstercock’ munson, who is painfully unaware of the sheer size of his dick.
tw: sexual content 18+ minors dni, size kink, oral m receiving, piv sex, praise kink, dirty talk, general debauchery. for my love @raccoonboywrites
and, listen, you’re not a size queen at all. don’t care much for how big or small a cock is so long as whoever it’s attached to knows how to use it. but you gasp out loud once you get your fingers dig under eddie’s waistband, pulling the offending material down to let his length spring out.
it’s enough to shock you back into the room, watching as the thick weight of it slaps against eddie’s tummy, the way it curves into his navel. he’s wet, leaking at the head and matting down the pretty swirls of black hair that lead a trail down, down, down.
he’s rumpled against your bed frame, slumped down with his shirt rucked up his tummy. the prettiest pink flush spreading across his cheeks, tinging his ears and dipping as low as his collar. you’re willing to bet his chest is blotched with the lovely rosy colour, too. he grips aimlessly at your comforter, wide eyes watching your every move; tracing every hitch of your breath.
you wrap your hand around the base — purposely ignoring the pathetic little whine eddie makes, because jesus now isn’t the time to think too much about that — and you moan despite yourself when your hand doesn’t even wrap fully around the girth of it, dwarfing your fingers and palm.
“you— you’re so big, oh my god,” your voice catches at the end, desperate and dampened by your own desire for it. you lean forward, hot breath ghosting over him, tugging his foreskin back just enough for the head to pop out, shiny and reddening with need, “you could’ve at least warned me you were packing a python down there, fuck.”
“oh shit, really? i thought it was aver— holy fuck, you don’t have to—“ he’s bug eyed, eyebrows shooting under his fringe as you mouth at the head, determined and eager to get a taste of him. uncut, heavy on your tongue, the heady splash of precum blurting out to coat your tastebuds.
eddie’s knees kick up a little as you mouth greedily at his tip, pointing your tongue to run in circles around the glans on the underside. you smirk despite yourself, getting a kick out of it when eddie goes a little cross eyed, burying a ringed hand into your hair.
you indulge yourself, feeling the weight of him in your mouth as you sink lower, just far back enough as to not trigger your gag reflex. your lips wrapping around his hot flesh, suckling softly, reveling in each blurt of pearlescent release that drips onto your tongue.
“baby, sweetheart — fuck,” eddie gasps, breath shuddery, lightly pulling at your tresses to test the water. his mouth falling open into a quiet moan when your eyes flutter at the feeling, “y’can- y’can take more, right? s’not… s’not that big.”
your jaw cracks under what of him you’ve fit in, which truthfully isn’t much. despite your efforts, there’s still a good three inches of eddie’s cock left untouched by hand or mouth, and you really have to wonder if he’s that clueless of his size. you pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva keeping you connected to him as you stare up with wet orbs.
“eddie, you’re huge.” your voice is wrecked, butterflies swirling in your tummy as you make eye contact with him once again. you flush under his debauched gaze, "i— shit. nobody's ever told you before?"
eddie shrugs, considers for a moment. you don't think he's aware of the fact he's holding you in place with his hand, gripping your hair just enough to keep you still, hovering over his dick just close enough that if he wanted to, he could push you back down, get your mouth back on him.
though, that’s clearly not what he wants. because, he’s slipping the hand from your hair, doing this kind of awkward dance as he lays you out where he wants you.
you end up on your back, thighs spread wide as eddie slots between them, mouthing hotly at your neck. his fingers graze along your flushed skin, dance on your hipbone, across your pelvis. dips those godforsaken fingers into your panties, carelessly fumbling over your sopping wet pussy.
“this is okay, right?”
“it’s all okay, eddie. anything you want.”
"not— not even touched you yet and you're already this wet?" eddie's voice is a low timbre against your skin, has you arching up into his touch with a soft little moan. he sounds shocked, no heat or teasing in his words.
"can't help it," you gasp, exhaling shakily when eddie swipes two fingers over your clit deftly, unable to hide his smile at how receptive you are, "feeling the size of you in my hand — my mouth, god. would've let you choke me with it, would've thanked you."
eddie buries his face into your cleavage, poorly concealing a choked whine. he's skillful with his fingers, working you over fast despite how much your words are clearly affecting him.
your hips rock in short little circles, fingers sinking into eddie's hair, tugging lightly at the nape of his neck. you whine, body set alight with the feeling of calloused fingers grazing the small bundle of nerves.
he's biting you, brandishing you with little blooming bruises, and with the noise he makes against your damp skin you'd think it was him getting touched like this, him hurtling towards the edge.
you're so wet that the slick noises of eddie's fingers on your pussy are deafening in your ears, causing your back to prickle with heat, tummy winding tight.
the hot, heavy flesh of his cock presses against your inner thigh, shocking loud moans from you both at the same time. you arch up into his touch, ears ringing as pleasure takes over your body.
"i— you're making me cum," you gasp breathily, a static feeling warming your body, eyes rolling into the back of your head. you grapple for eddie's hair once more, tugging with a ferocity as your release washes over you.
it's. something. you feel like you're fucking floating, and eddie keeps swirling his fingers perfectly, whispering little shocked praises and keening into your rough pulling as he wrings you out.
once eddie's sure you're done with the aftershocks of your orgasm, he hazards pushing two fingers into your soaked cunt, and you're practically shooting away with overstimulation. crying out, somehow swivelling your hips and pushing down onto his fingers further once the shock wears off.
"you're a shit," you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, "god, might've known your dick was gonna be big, fuckin' size of your fingers."
"was— was that good for you? can i, shit can i?" eddie's desperate, rutting the thick outline of his cock against your thigh. he's never stopped fucking leaking, soaking your leg in milky precum and allowing the slip and slide to feel good.
you nod, shaky hands tilting his head up so you can finally, finally, get your mouth on his. eddie's whole body presses flush against yours, his hand coming out to stabilise himself so he doesn't crush you, and fuck.
it's so charged, like he can't stilt his emotions as he snakes his tongue into your mouth, lapping at your own wetly. it's probably disgusting, doesn't feel like it though — you'd swallow his spit happily, whenever he wanted, if it meant he kept making you feel like this.
eddie's shaky hand fumbles for the base of his cock as you continue kissing, positioning himself so that he's nestled prettily between your legs. the kisses turn languid, and he almost sounds pained when he next speaks, "s-sorry. if it, if it hurts."
"let it hurt, i want it to," your demeanor falters a little, turning doe eyed and pleading as eddie slides the ruddy head of his cock up and down the seam of your cunt, flirts with the idea of pushing the tip in just to watch you gasp and keen.
"would never," eddie promises, finally — fucking, finally — pushing the first few inches into the sopping wet heat of your pussy. he cries out when you clench around him unwittingly, and you mumble out a small sorry as you adjust.
it's. not good. it's not bad, either, but fuck. you feel like you're being split from the inside, the thick tip pushing you wider than you anticipated. your fingers grapple for eddie's biceps, nails digging in tightly, "so fucking big, oh my god, you're gonna split me in half."
you're breathless and eddie catches on, panics a little, "you're okay? you're okay, right? i can sto—"
"if you stop, i swear to god," you seethe, looking at eddie with a fierce spark in your eyes, "keep going. fuck. keep going."
before long and with a little bit of resistance, eddie's buried deep inside of you. your bodies roll against one anothers, shallow, slow breaths
it starts slow, the catch and drag of eddie's cock shocking you both into silence. but, before long, your pussy catches up with the programme, gushing wet and allowing eddie to push in further with each thrust.
it's intimate, erotic.
"you're so tight," eddie all-out whimpers, head falling and shoulders shaking as he fucks you at a lazy pace, clearly trying his best to hold out for as long as he can.
"fuck, you’re so gentle,” you try, knees squeezing eddie’s narrow waist, thighs encapsulating him, “you can go quicker. not gonna break me.”
eddie shakes his head, almost like he’s bewildered. looks at you all fucking soft, clearly can’t help the rut of his hips as he buries in deep, biting his inner lips to muffle his noises.
you grasp a hold of eddie's hand with nimble fingers, guide his hand over the softness of your tummy, let him push down where his cock is buried deep inside of you. his whole body shudders, and you can feel where he kicks up.
"practically in my guts," you wheeze, unable to shake the full feeling despite how your pussy gushes for him, so full you swear you feel him in your throat with every deep thrust he can muster, "you're s-so big, eddie."
"oh— jesus, can't do shit like that. can't say shit like that," eddie grunts desperately, rutting into you and gripping for your waist tightly, other hand still pushed down on the pudge of your belly, "gonna make me cum so, so quick."
"can feel every ridge of you, you're splitting me apart," you keen, "i can't— god, you've ruined me f-for anyone else. yours, yours, m'yours."
eddie's forehead slumps against your own, and you're panting into each others mouths more than anything else, lips barely brushing, "mine, you're mine." he agrees, though he sounds pained and submissive as he says it.
your hand snakes around eddie's neck, holding him in place as he fucks you so desperately, so rough you're rattling the stupid bedframe, and you don't think you've ever felt anything like this before. it's all-consuming, the tug between sore and soul-crushingly sensual.
your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, the constant press against your spot causing a quicker build up than you could've anticipated. you both make eye contact as you come with a muted gasp, nails scraping harshly at the soft skin on eddie's neck as you rock it out.
"didn't think you could get any tighter, god," eddie whimpers, eyes squeezing shut, finger-shaped bruises sure to be left on your hips as he fucks you in some sort of reckless abandon, "fuck, i'm so close. i'm so sorry, fuck, fuck."
you nod, understanding, the wet clap of skin on skin deafening as your release allows an even smoother glide. he's fucking ethereal above you, covered in a light sheen of sweat, mouth open in a constant stream of steady moans.
you reach between where both of your bodies meet, where the final few inches don't quite fit, spreading your fingers either side of his cock to allow friction as he fucks in and out rapidly, chasing his high.
eddie looks at you with a wild expression, eyebrows shooting up into his fringe. he grunts like a fucking animal, eyes drifting down to where your hand is, "you— you— i'm cumming, holy fuck—!"
he's loud when he comes, full body wracked with it. you feel his cock pulse and kick inside of you, painting your insides deep. the moan you let out at the feeling is hardly voluntary, so pathetic you flush hot when you realise just how loud you are.
"thank you, thank you," eddie's mumbling against your skin, kissing the side of your neck softly as he comes down, "god, you're perfect. so perfect."
you shudder, overcome with this sappy fucking fond feeling, allowing eddie to collapse on top of you once he's done. it's soft, domestic, even.
you both end up in some sort of gross, body fluid covered cuddle as you calm down. blissed out in the post-orgasmic haze, and fuck.
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