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youandtom2 · 2 years

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Praise You Like I Should (CEO!Tom Holland) 18+

Summary: You were always a people-pleaser, desperate to do right by everybody no matter what they asked. Being an intern, your boss Jackson exploited your people-pleaser tendencies in a very unprofessional manner, and CEO Mr Holland wasn't happy about it... Themes: smut! little bit of fluff and angst, dom!tom and sub!reader, oral (m+f), major praise kink, sir kink, overstimulation, masturbation (alone) , slight jewelry kink w/c: 10k+

MASTERLIST

You look over the dimly lit hall before you, tables decorated to the nines with hand-folded serviettes, silver-ware suited for royalty, gleaming as they sit on a fresh white linen table cloth, surrounded by tall plum-coloured cushioned chairs. There’s about twelve tables dotted around the hall identical to one another, waiting to be filled by guests in about an hour or so. The room sparkles with the metallic colouring of birthday banners and balloons floating around the room, illuminated by the dancing, multicoloured disco lights.

The surprise birthday party you were instructed to organise is for Mr Holland’s business partner, Taylor. They’re each other's yin and yang, mixing together like oil on water but somehow they make it work. The informal Taylor bases his relationship with his employees on friendship and a sense of mutual equality, where the formal Mr Holland prefers professionalism and respect on top of trust. Nevertheless, both are equally respected as bosses and businessmen in their own right. It doesn’t necessarily mean you all prefer one over the other, but if you had to make a choice as to who you would rather hang out with, the answer is an obvious one.

As an intern, it isn’t exactly part of your remit to organise and host birthday events, but your boss, Jackson, ordered you to do it. Jackson’s notable within the workforce for several reasons; he’s outgoing, social, ambitious, confident, and is unofficially Taylor’s kiss ass. He appointed himself (ahem, you) with the responsibility of organising Taylor’s surprise party, not because he thinks he’s capable, but because he’s looking for recognition. What people don’t know is that he’s actually a lazy guy who has gotten himself drunk with the taste of superiority, abusing you as his own personal slave for favours both big (entirely consequential and out of your depth) and small (worthless and petty). Unfortunate to be his first intern, you’ve realised how gluttonous he’s become with you at his disposal how and whenever he pleases. However, being placed at the bottom of the pecking order, you’re not at liberty to say no.

Jackson’s not your favourite boss by any means, but by God he keeps you busy. It tooks weeks for you to organise the venue, the catering, the entertainment, the decorations, the invitations, most importantly the cake, and the little oddities that everyone forgets about like hand-written name tags and having straws at the bar. You’ve been working relentlessly and after weeks of stress, late and often sleepless nights, numerous phone calls and emails, cancellations and rebookings, tonight is the night that all of that can end. The curse of being a perfectionist and a people-pleaser can finally release its hold on you.

Just as you finish clarifying the itinerary with the hotel’s bar staff, you notice a dark figure walking through the entrance. Your eyes trail nervously from the black patent shoes to the white shirt peeking beneath the black suit of which belongs to Mr Holland. He has his tortoise shell glasses perched perfectly on his nose, reflecting the colours of the disco lights as he walks towards you, stoic and poised. A silent ‘fuck’ crosses your mind.

Being the CEO eight floors above you, Mr Holland’s face isn’t one that you see as consistently as Jackson’s. He’s at least 6 tiers above you in the pecking order, one of two to take superiority over a long line of directors, specialists, managers, supervisors and assistants before you. So you can hardly blame yourself when you start to feel nerves gathering in your chest, despite how well-respected he is amongst the workforce.

His eyes finally find yours and he clarifies your name. You can appreciate that he’s at least taken the time to learn your face. “You're Jackson’s intern, right?”

Wow. He knows you more than you thought. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I was just coming to take a look around. I’m normally part of organising the celebrations but this year I’ve been too busy.” He wordlessly waves a hand before weaving in and out the tables, reading each name tag as he passes by. You watch nervously as he inspects the room until finding himself in front of what you call The Shrine with folded arms, almost bursting at the seams. More simply, it’s a collage of photos of Taylor taken over the years pieced together in a mosaic standing on an easel, gathered and no less arranged by you, of course. Next to it stands an empty corkboard, waiting to be filled with pictures from tonight's celebration, provided by the pop-up photobooth beside it.

“Whose idea was this?” There’s a warm smile on Mr Holland’s face.

“Mine, sir.”

“And the handcrafted name tags?”

“Also me, sir.”

“I love it. It’s very creative.” You exhale loudly, relieved. The people-pleaser inside you starts to buzz, fluttering wildly at Mr Holland’s praise. “Did you…” His eyes squint narrowly, honing in on you. “Did you organise all of this?”

“Yes, I did. The venue and catering took some negotiating but once that was planned, the rest came with time.”

“Impressive.”

You’re about to thank him but you're interrupted by the obnoxious calling of your name in a voice that booms from the entrance of the hall. Jackson marches towards you and you stand a little straighter. He doesn’t notice Mr Holland standing in the corner of the room next to the shrine. Instead of Mr Holland announcing himself, which is what you expected him to do, he sinks his hands into his pockets and quietly observes from afar.

“I need a rundown--” Please, that would be great. “--and for the love of God where is the present I was supposed to get Taylor?” Thanks for getting me a present for him, I’ll pay you back.

Your answer is succinct and to the point. “I’ve left it in your hotel room; it’s a dinner reservation at Keens Steakhouse in New York. As for tonight, the bar will be open for guests when they arrive at 6:30pm, Taylor will arrive between 7:00pm and 7:15pm for his surprise, the buffet will open at 7:30pm and cake will be served at 8:30pm. Last orders are at 11:30pm and the curfew is midnight. Everyone has checked in and has their hotel room key, although Kelsey couldn’t make it tonight, so her room is spare.”

Jackson gives a gruff nod, mumbling something intelligible under his breath. He cautiously looks to the bar, then narrows his eyes at you with a pointed finger wavering in your face. “I need tonight to be perfect so I need you to be sober. No alcohol. Got it?” In other words, I can’t be bothered making sure everything goes smoothly so I need you to stay sober while I get shit-faced. You nod, pursing your lips angrily as he walks away from you without a final word.

With Jackson no longer in sight, the tension finally deflates and your shoulders relax. You hate that every interaction with Jackson is a test of your skill and knowledge, caught in a vicious cycle of having to prove yourself worthy time and time again.

As Mr Holland emerges from the corner of the room, it’s an observation he also confronts having finally witnessed Jackson’s true authoritarian nature. His eyes are fixated on the golden doors in a stare so firm it could burn holes through the metal, and just when he steps into the brighter lights of the bar, his overall demeanour changes.

His jaw ticks when he finally faces you. “Jackson’s keeping you on your toes tonight it seems.”

“He always does, sir.” You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, recounting the numerous occasions his brutal demands have worked you to the bone.

“I don’t think I appreciate the way he talks to you.”

“Oh I’m used to it by now.”

“So he talks to you like that all the time?” Shit. In truth, Jackson would never have spoken so harshly to you had he known anyone was in the room let alone Mr Holland, but that was his mistake. One you’re not sorry for. “Well, if he isn’t going to tell you what an amazing job you have done, I will. You should be proud of organising all of this by yourself, it’s not easy. Well done.”

Your chest swells with pride as Mr Holland pats a gentle hand against your upper arm. Finally, your first taste of positive reinforcement. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr Holland’s smirk quirks at the edges. His hands find themselves deep within his pockets once again as he coolly and oh-so-calmly exits through the doors.

~~~~

You are insomnia personified. As relieved as you are that the night is going exactly to plan, with the nervous anticipation over, you just cannot wait to get to your bed knowing that the stress is over. You have hours of sleep to catch up on, a stone of weight to put back on and friends and family to respond to, and without a single alcoholic drink to lift your spirits, you’re finding it harder and harder to keep the exhaustion at bay. Beyond the exhaustion, however, there’s a sadness hidden deep within your conscience and while you glance over the decorations you hung up as the melodic singing of ‘happy birthday’ rings in the air, it spreads. It’s clear that people are oblivious to what makes you so downcast on a celebratory night as they pass nothing more than a glance your way, but in all honesty, you much prefer it to be that way. You wouldn’t want anyone to see the tear building in the corner of your eye.

For now, you thrive on the compliments you’ve heard about the venue, the decorations, the drinks and the food, each and every one of them satisfying your perfectionist mindset. Okay, so what no-one knows you organised the party, and sure, you can oversee the fact that none of the compliments are directed to you in particular, because in the end, you’ve gained Mr Holland’s approval and that’s enough for you.

Well, it was enough until Taylor took to the stage for a speech.

“...and a special shout-out to Jackson for putting this all together for me. This is absolutely amazing, I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Your heart sinks in your chest and your ears instinctively drown out the clapping and cheering of the crowd around you, eyes set in stone as they watch Jackson accept the dedication so graciously that it makes you sick to your stomach. It takes every ounce of energy you have left in you to suppress the wobble in your lip at the sight of Jackson soaking up the glory like a sponge. Jackson taking the credit for your hard work was something you should’ve expected from him. After all, he is lazy and will never be willing to admit it, definitely not in front of Taylor. Still, the chase for recognition was always going to be a losing battle for you; you’re an intern for fuck’s sake, you are merely just a name and a face for most, unfulfiling of the protagonistic arc the people here want in their stories. Jackson, the kiss ass, makes much more sense being the hero than an underdog intern.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, accepting defeat.

You claim an empty seat at an empty table in a dark corner of the room, far from the crowd mingling on the dance floor and you remain there as the party continues into the night. The glass of tepid water looks pitiful in your hands, its lack of taste offering no respite from your sorrow.

With fifteen minutes until last orders, you begin counting down to the moment you can retire to your bed which you know won’t arrive until after you’ve cleaned up the hall. You’re jealous of some of the guests who have already decided to leave the party.

The chair to your right suddenly scrapes across the floor and you’re slightly taken aback when Mr Holland sits close beside you and abruptly rests an elbow upon the table, blocking your view of the crowd and demanding your attention. A cedarwood scent silently announces itself and you inhale it deeply, finding sanctuary in its presence despite how startled you are by it. Your breath is simply taken from you when he shuffles himself closer. He isn’t wearing his usual attire; something a little less formal, but likely to be just as expensive. With that expensive taste comes his expensive appearance: clean, styled, decorated admirably and booming with authority. A warmth starts to take a hold of you.

His movements are harsh and his body moves with brute intention, but behind those curls, his eyes hold sympathy, knowing what is upsetting you before it even spills from your lips. You try to fake a smile but he can see right through it.

“I thought it was you that organised the party,” he calmly states.

“I did. But because Jackson instructed me to plan a party means he takes responsibility for it.”

Mr Holland doesn’t waste a single second. “It isn’t right. It’s one thing to speak to you so rudely, but it’s another to take credit for your hard work, and I’m starting to believe that Jackson doesn’t value you as an intern as much as he values the superiority that comes with it, am I right?”

Anxiously, your eyes catch Jackson lazily hanging over the bar and demanding another drink. If Mr Holland were to know the truth, it would get Jackson in a lot of trouble and the people-pleaser inside you is screaming at you to just deny it all. Your skewed perception of professionalism means skipping over these things, something about snitching just seems so petty and childish, and that’s not the impression you want to give Mr Holland of all people.

Mr Holland’s stern voice brings you back. “You’re not answering to him now, you’re answering to me. Am. I. Right?”

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

“I intend to have a word with Jackson--”

“Mr Holland, it’s okay, really--” You try to protest but he quickly rests his hand on top of yours, his warmth enveloping it completely, and your mind halts. Your heart flutters the moment his fingers curl just the little bit tighter, a compassion that says more than words could. It’s genuine, caring, but firm in a way that’s supportive, pledging to do right by you.

“He will apologise to you and let everyone know the truth.”

“Please, I don’t want to cause a hassle or stir anything in the office, I just want to do well. And what would it change if people knew the truth? It doesn’t bother me that much, honestly. Besides, you know the truth. That’s all that matters to me.” Desperately and without thinking, you twist your hand and your fingers interlock, returning the squeeze with a soft smile. Mr Holland tries his best to return the sentiment but you can tell the whole ordeal still troubles him and sits discontented by your side, a regretful sigh heaving through his lips. Soon, after a silent plea to let it go, he eventually sits level with you with a brighter sparkle to his eyes and instantly, the mood is lifted. You notice how his hand doesn’t leave yours.

“You at least deserve a drink.”

“I shouldn’t, I’m closing up tonight and I’m working early tomorrow.”

He scowls for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, facing issue after issue the more you expose Jackson’s true nature. “It’s Saturday tomorrow, you should be having a day off.”

“It’s laughable you think I get a day off,” you chuckle. The sad thing is, he thinks you’re joking. Jackson often sends you his overdraft of reports to complete over the weekend and has the cheek to deem you lucky that he gives you so much wisdom and experience. You can’t imagine Mr Holland being aware of this…

“Don’t be silly darling, everyone is entitled to days off. Even Taylor took a day off today for his birthday.”

Again, your scathing laughter meets his ears and he tilts his head, that skewed eyebrow lifting high into his forehead. “No offence sir, but with his position, he can afford to. I don’t think interns have that same benefit--”

“Of course you do, it’s company policy that everyone is entitled to a day off on their birthday.” Before you get a word in, he’s already pulling out his phone from his suit pocket. “Tell me when your birthday is so I can make sure you get it off, and I know when to get you a birthday present. Taylor too--”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“We do it for all our employees, regardless if you’re an intern or not.” His calendar flashes to life before his eyes. “So when is it? June? July?”

Your mouth suddenly goes dry and it gawps like a fish, not a usual response to such an easy question. Your fingers knead together on your lap as the sadness once again materialises and Mr Holland quickly senses something is amiss.

“It’s…it’s today. My birthday is…was today.”

Mr Holland’s eyes widen with horror. It’s no less than a minute later that he finally replies. “And Jackson has you working?”

“Since 7am this morning. I had asked for my birthday off two months ago because I did actually read the company policies, but he said interns can’t request holidays because they’re not permanent. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“What?! For fuck’s sake…” Mr Holland twists his chair violently, its legs colliding with the table as he tries to face you more directly and leans forward, your knees slotting into the space between his. The wave of his anger has rolled back even higher in its tide and now, unlike before, there’s a vein popping at his temple. “Let me just make this clear, okay? Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re telling me that Jackson has knowingly denied you of your birthday holiday entitlement and instead had you plan someone else’s birthday just so that he can take credit for it, make you work through it and clean up after it as well?”

God. In his words it sounds so desperately sad. Up until this point, you were able to distract yourself from getting caught up in the tragedy of it all, but now there’s nothing stopping the gates from opening and wallowing in self-pity. Although your blurring eyes tell of your true emotions, the forced smile on your lips does everything it can to convince both you and Mr Holland that you’re not bothered by it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Mr Holland’s heart inevitably sinks. In that moment, he thinks of the cruelty behind Jackson ordering you to buy and wrap his present for Taylor when you have none to open. He thinks of you, alone, buying the candles of the birthday cake you wouldn’t be blowing out. He thinks of you, just hours ago as the crowd sings happy birthday to another person, blissfully ignorant of your sorrow. He thinks of the hours you spent working when you should have been with your friends and family. It’s all of the things you truly deserve, but have been robbed from you.

He reaches once again for your hand, now resting on your lap, and the tips of his fingers graze your thigh. You would be a fool to miss it. “Darling,” he sincerely murmurs, almost as quiet as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The fake smile takes lead and the rebel tear is wiped away. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault--”

“But it’s not okay. You…you didn’t even get to have a drink.” Damnit, your cheeks are wet again. “Did you at least get a break today?” Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO.

In fact, you spend so much time failing to not cry that Mr Holland assumes the worst. He takes in a long, deep breath and lures you into his embrace with a hand creeping up to the back of your head, and the second your forehead hits his shoulder, the dams break.

“I’m just so tired,” you sniff.

“You’ve been overworked, darling, that’s why.” His hand passes over your hair, gently cupping the curve of your head as he takes in every hiccup. His breath flows past your ears smoothly, broken up every few seconds with whispers of comfort. You feel horribly embarrassed, crying into the expensive suit of your CEO at the party you organised on your birthday: definitely not the definition of professionalism you are chasing.

“I’m sorry. I promise I’m not usually like this.” You retreat from his shoulder but the hand cupping the back of your head prevents you from travelling too far and you’re stuck, just inches from Mr Holland’s pitying eyes. He keeps you concealed from the crowd, but it’s not enough to hide from the burning glare of Jackson, his eyes drawing daggers at you from over Mr Holland’s shoulder. He’s somewhat frozen in a stupor, scarily steady for a man who was flailing over the bar minutes ago, but anger is a quick cure for intoxication.

Mr Holland’s voice sidles quietly into your ear. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Get yourself up to bed, I’ll deal with Jackson.”

“But--”

“I will not take no for an answer. Now go.” You shiver at the stern tone, appearing only as he turns to lock eyes with Jackson who’s faring a guilty look upon his face. As Mr Holland brings you both to a stand, he gently encourages you towards the golden doors and although you should be indulging in the relief of finally being let off, you can’t pull your focus away from Mr Holland’s cold stare that refuses to stray from Jackson. In the few seconds that it takes to walk from your chair to the doors, a clear, obvious shift in mood transpires, one that is felt by the entire room because now it isn’t just you that notices Mr Holland’s sudden decline in temperament. Evidently, everyone is quick to sense the tension. The crowd’s lively dancing now settles into an awkward shuffle and the singing dulls into hushed whispers because they know to never underestimate the seriousness of Mr Holland’s anger. It’s uncomfortable and intimidating, even more so if you’re the reason for his vexation and if that’s the case, you should be on your knees begging for his forgiveness. It’s the one power Mr Holland holds that Taylor, his business partner, his equal, doesn't possess. This is your first time seeing him exercise this power and it’s incredibly daunting.

The beat of your heels clicking their way up the staircase is a quick one, not daring to hang around the unease any longer. The fresh smell of washed cotton that greets you in your room winds you down and you don’t spare a second of reflection before you strip yourself of your stiff dress, blister-inducing heels, thick make-up and the heavy stress. You slip right between the sheets, ready to drift asleep.

The lights are switched off, your eyes are closed and your body properly relaxes. Yet inexplicably you can’t settle into your bed no matter how much you toss and turn. Rationale convinces you that it’s because you’re in a bed different from your own, that the mattress doesn’t have the mould of your body imprinted on it, and although it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, your inner conscience is telling you something else…

Flashes of memories made just half an hour prior spring to the surface and suddenly you’re watching yourself converse with Mr Holland again. But it isn’t exactly how you remember it.

For example, his hand is on your lap, gripping the curve of your thigh with his heat scorching through your skin when you know that, in reality, it was nothing more than a soft sweep. And when you both stood, you know he guided you with a gentlemanly hand, yet your dream sees his hand curving down the slope of your ass and squeezing the flesh. You have to refuse the idea of you shivering with arousal from hearing Mr Holland’s stern growl because truthfully, it was nerves.

Or…was it both?

You try to ignore it, but the seed has already been planted. Now all you can visualise is his fleeting touches, his soft voice praising you and calling you darling, the twinkle in his eyes as he sympathised for you, the caress of his hand through your hair as he comforted you, the way he cared for you, and fucking hell, the exhilaration of seeing him protect you so defensively when no one else did. His taut jaw, his clenched fists, his dark eyes, the pulsing vein at his temple, his eminence that commanded the room, the list is endless.

“F-fuck,” you stutter, succumbing to the pleasure of your own fingers toying with your clit. You don’t quite remember the exact moment your hand slipped beneath your underwear, too caught up in your fantasy of Mr Holland to realise. Regardless, the movie in your mind continues to play out and by now, none of it reflects any real events from tonight - it’s all purely fictional.

His hand slides up between your thighs. He dons a devilish grin because he knows there’s a whole crowd blissfully unaware behind him. An innocent gasp slips from your lips and it lures his eyes to your mouth, panting as he traces the letters of his name over your covered cunt as a sign as to who it belongs to. Overrun with anticipation, you bite your lip, feeling the pad of his finger slip beneath your thong and…

“Oh my god! Shit!” Your body seizes, curling into itself as your fingers dull to a small twitch between your clenched thighs. There’s a blissful moment where you ravish the hot rush of blood pulsing at your pussy, letting it bubble until it slows to a simmer, and only when you come down from your high minutes later do you fully realise what has just happened. Eyes split wide open, you rise from your bed.

You just masturbated fantasising over your CEO.

What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?

~~~~

The morning comes surprisingly quickly and the hotel's thin curtains don't fully shield you from the sun's glare. It’s bright, directly in your face and if you didn’t know any better, you would think that it’s spotlighting you because it knows what you did last night. As if you forgot…

The guilt still ruins your conscience and you feel nothing but regret; fantasising and sexualising Mr Holland’s kindness is just the pinnacle of everything you disagree with and it doesn’t exactly define the sort of professionalism you strive for.

Shaking it off as best you can, you refresh yourself with a shower and a harsh splash of cold water to your face, and by the time you open your laptop it’s 9am. There hasn’t been any emails from Jackson so far which you’re not too sure if you’re shocked by. It’s typical on a Saturday morning for Jackson to send you multiple reports with deliberately vague instructions that you would somehow have to decode and translate for yourself. But regarding last night’s events, perhaps he’s heeded Mr Holland’s words and decided to honour your weekend entitlements.

The white screen stares back at you, watching you nervously bite your nails as if you’re expecting a red notification to pop up, attached to an email from Jackson with hungover words. A minute or two passes by and alas, nothing. Not a word. In all honesty, you don’t have an issue with it, not at all, but it means that your routine is completely disrupted and you’re struggling to decide what to do with yourself. And without work, you have nothing to distract you from last night’s sin while it plagues your mind.

A new sweat arises and your cheeks flush with embarrassment. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, and that’s the part you think is the worst. Why did it feel so fucking good?

What brings you out of your self-loathing is three quick, quiet knocks echoing from your door in quick succession. Curious, you open the door and when you see who stands there in all his formal glory, you wish you hadn’t. Your heart immediately jumps to your mouth.

“Oh, Mr Holland--hi. I wasn’t expecting you…” Your words fade into a soft whisper when your eyes spot a small pink bag, its ribbon handles hooked daintily onto his fingers. Surely that can’t be what you think it is…?

He’s painfully quiet, a small smile painting his lips at what he sees; he’s never seen you dress so casually before and he wants to take a good long look at you, unsure of when he’ll see such a sight again. The weight of his stare burns holes through you, heating you from within.

Not a second later, he holds out the pink bag towards you and you forget to breathe.

“Happy belated birthday,” he gently voices. Your fingertips graze each other as you take it from him. For such a small, delicate bag, it’s certainly weighty and your stomach drops thinking about how much money he’s stupidly wasted on you…

“Thank you sir, really. You didn’t have to do that.” A nervous chuckle escapes your dry mouth. “How…how did you get this so quickly? It’s barely past 9 in the morning.”

“I have a few contacts who owe me a few favours. And I just felt so guilty about you missing your birthday. Sorry you couldn’t celebrate it like you should’ve.”

“Like I said, it’s okay--”

He shakes his head disapprovingly but surely, a taunting smirk begins to form. “Am I going to have to give you the same ‘talking to’ I gave Jackson last night to make you realise that it is definitely not okay?”

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes. “No, no, of course not. Sorry, I suppose that’s just the people-pleaser in me.”

Mr Holland stands stoic before you, his head slightly tilted and his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes are watching you endearingly, drawing you into him, but everything else about him oozes something that makes you want to swallow a little harder. His confidence in himself is mildly intimidating and you wish you could feel the same. Just his being here creates a dizzying effect on you that you just can’t shake.

“You can think of this as a congratulations of sorts too.”

You tilt your head. “Congratulations?”

“Mh-hm,” his eyes flit over your confusion, a devilish, haunting smirk gracing his wet lips. “Congratulations on becoming a permanent member of Taylor and I’s company.”

Mr Holland admiring you be damned, you find yourself taking a step back in shock. “Are you…are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious, do you think I would lie to you?”

“Not at all, I just, I thought it was going to be Jackson’s decision. I am his intern.”

You aren’t a fool to miss the way his jaw ticks at the mention of Jackson’s name and all too quickly, a ferocious fire consumes his eyes. A small shiver cuts through your skin. “You don’t work for Jackson anymore because Jackson no longer works for me.”

“What?!”

“What did you think when I said I was going to deal with Jackson? That he was going to continue working for me even after finding out he was treating you badly? Or finding out that he orders you to do his work over the weekends? Or even when he blackmails you into doing jobs beyond your remit? How could you possibly think that I would let that sleazy bastard feed off my pay when I know he isn’t capable of the job? You’re far more deserving of the position than he is, far more deserving of the appreciation and beyond capable.”

“Sir, I…I can’t thank you enough. I’m very grateful. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know you won’t. Although I do sometimes wish you would’ve told me or Taylor about Jackson’s behaviour sooner. I don’t tolerate that kind of exploitation, not even for a second and you shouldn’t have either.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was just so caught up in wanting to do well that I would’ve done anything to please the company.”

“Maybe you should stop spending your time trying to please other people, and focus on pleasing yourself.” His face gravitates just a hairsbreadth towards yours and in quieter, darker words, he whispers… “You were certainly capable of pleasing yourself last night.”

You take a timid step back, mouth agape. You can’t think of anything to say, not when the ringing in your ears starts to resonate louder and louder. Shame swells like a disease and you can feel the bile rising in your throat. You are almost certain you didn’t hear anyone outside your room last night, how could he have possibly known?

“I…um…I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

He smoothly leans against the door frame, his wicked grin tells you that he doesn’t believe a word you say. Nevertheless, he explains, not to worsen how mortified he knows you already feel, but to reminisce of the surge of adrenaline and lust that coursed through him last night.

“I came by late last night to drop off your present. I didn’t think you would still be awake so I planned on leaving it at your door, and just as I bent down to place it there, I heard just the softest of moans—“

“I think you must be mistaken—“ An uneasy chuckle barely covers your tracks, leaving you just as compromised as before.

“I thought you might’ve been with someone, but I then didn’t hear any other voices, so I assumed you were by yourself.”

“Sir,” you squeak, intending to finish your sentence but you just don’t have the words nor the confidence to deny him of what he already knows. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, exposed and vulnerable without the faintest idea of how to get yourself out of his commanding presence.

A million and one emotions rage through you and drown you in a fluster. Your feet shuffle nervously beneath you, slowly inching your way back into your hotel room as you sense yourself losing control over the conversation. With a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, there’s not much else you can do or say to avoid falling victim to both Mr Holland’s taunting and your own taunting; last night’s images playing out before you more vividly now that he resurrects them.

The subject finally diverges, but it doesn’t mean you're any more comfortable with it. “Do you know you’re the only one that addresses me as ‘sir’?”

You shake your head, eyes inevitably averted. You didn’t know that, you just thought it was professional.

“You never corrected me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked hearing it. Just as much as I liked what I heard last night. But I need to know,” he takes a step to cross the threshold of your hotel room. “Was there anything…anyone in particular crossing your mind?”

“There was…” His jaw ticks furiously and you instantly get the notion that denying him is simply not a choice here.

“Who?” He demands in that stern voice you’ve heard only once before.

One word sits on your tongue and you know that as soon as it breaks the silence, the professionalism you worked so hard to build up will crumble before you. But the risk is entirely worth it.

“You.”

Mr Holland’s lips part and releases a snicker as if he knew, and the curl of his smirk becomes dangerous. He lets the singular word ring out into the air, and the tension envelopes you both in a suffocating bubble until he finally speaks. “You…what?”

“You, sir.”

His chest rumbles with approval and you even feel its vibrations fluttering low in your stomach. Desire consumes you; a desire to know what he’s thinking, to know what he’s planning to do with that compromising information, to figure out whether he’ll respond to it in a way that satiates your more promiscuous desires like the ones that distracted you last night. You would give anything to see what’s going on inside his head.

Inexplicably, he nods towards your pink bag, easily brushing over your last conversation like it was nothing to him and it completely throws you off. “You should open it.”

It takes a second to drag your eyes away from him. You actually forgot you’re still holding it in your hands. The tissue paper rustles loudly as you reach in-- “Inside.” Mr Holland urges. With a short nod, you lead the way, allowing him to slowly close the door behind you with a gut-wrenching squeak and a thunderous boom.

The second the door shuts, the air becomes taut, strained and harder to breathe and you dedicate all your efforts into ignoring your last conversation just as easily as he had, but he’s standing right behind you and the warmth of his breath skates past your ear and it’s all you can think about. Even without disclosing what he now knows, the presence of Mr Holland alone would bring about such unnerving effects, so you don’t find yourself at fault for struggling to keep it together.

From the pink bag you pull out a small white and gold box, wrapped with yet another ribbon. Inside is a silver chain, light and dainty, but the pendant it carries is nothing alike. The reflection of the sun hits the circular-cut diamond, becoming iridescent as it hits your eyes. The stone is slightly on the larger side, bigger than any other necklace you own, but it sits perfectly in the balance of being flashy yet classy. Expensive yet tasteful. It’s a piece that you can’t price and that exact thought scares you.

“It’s beautiful,” you softly murmur. The chain cascades elegantly across your fingers, almost mesmerising to watch.

Your eyes catch his movement in the mirror in front of you and steals your attention away from the necklace. He holds out his hand by your side, soft but firm.

“May I?” You almost flinch as his words hit your ear, the ripple of your shiver continues for long after. As the chain pools in his hand, he is equally gentle, handling it with expertise while he lifts it carefully over head and rests the pendant tenderly in the dip between your clavicles. Its icy cold touch seers your skin, heat radiating with each grazing touch of his fingers as they clasp the chain together behind your neck. Once secure, you admire the way it shines brightly against your skin tone, eyes momentarily lost in your image until you realise that yours are the only pair looking back at you. Mr Holland remains engrossed with the curve of your neck, his proximity close enough to be counting the beats of your pulse as it thumps beneath your skin and for all you know, it’s elevating, thrashing harder and harder while you watch with wide eyes as Mr Holland presses his lips against it.

The second his lips meet your skin, his hands find your hips, holding you steady to prevent you from buckling. A numbing tingle shoots through your nervous system at the feeling of Mr Holland swiping his tongue across the reddening bruise he’s leaving behind. Every kiss is with purpose, targeting each and every sweet spot as if he had a map to each of their location: the peak of your neck that connects to your jaw, the sensitive spot just millimetres below your ear, the slight curve of your shoulder that sits beneath the chain. He instantly claims you, and you show no sign of resistance when you find yourself voluntarily tilting your neck, begging for more.

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror, realising how cavernous his blown-out pupils are; that if you search too far you’ll become trapped. “This…” he whispers, planting another kiss to your ear, his hands beckoning to the chain, “is the only thing I’ll allow you to wear while I fuck you.”

A shameless, breathless mewl whines from your throat and a rampage of endorphins consumes you. As the first piece of insight to his mind, you don’t get nearly enough time to let it process in your head before his clawing hands are tugging at the drawstrings of your joggers.

The small nip to your neck is a wake-up call. This is real and this isn’t a fantasy of yours, only that it will be a recreation of what had you orgasming last night.

“You know, I can be a people pleaser too.” His hand slips beneath your joggers, but refrains from slipping beneath your underwear. “I can please you in so many ways.” As a testimony to his words, his fingers trace over the silk of your underwear, catching your bud in its travels and a silent gasp bursts from your lips. “But not without earning it. Do as you’re told, and I’ll do exactly that.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, words vacant, eyes rolling.

“Are you listening to me?” The hand on your hip squeezes harshly and you jerk in his arms. You have never agreed to something quicker in your life.

“Yes, sir! Oh—”

“Good. Then you can start by closing those curtains over there.”

His hand slips fluidly out of your joggers when you force yourself away from the subtle torment. The light dims a little, however you think it’s more for privacy than for light. When your back turns once again, Mr Holland sits himself on the edge of the bed, legs spread and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Whatever it is about him in that single second triggers something in you; attraction, lust, sex appeal, or all of the above. Whatever it is, it compels you to give yourself in to him.

A messy mixture of want, need and unrelenting desire brings you to your knees before him. His eyes sweep over your face, examining, analysing, translating every desperate twitch. He can even see your lips parting where he spots the remnants of teeth marks from when you had nervously bitten them in hidden moments. Smoothly, the pad of his thumb brushes over your lip, tugging it into a pout because that’s what he wants to see; you, desperate, pouting, begging for him. It soon pops back into place, his hand now curling around your chin and pulling you closer. His own lips are nothing more than a breath away from yours and you think he’s going to finally kiss you, but annoyingly, he only allows you to feel the shape of the words as he whispers them to you.

“So what is it about me then, hm? What do I do that turns you on?”

“It’s…it’s stupid.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Let me rephrase.” The grip on your chin tightens and your noses collide. “Tell me what it is about me that turns you on.”

“Last night at the party, you were the only one that…cared. You made me feel like I wasn’t invisible.”

“What else?”

“You stood up to Jackson for me - you just looked so determined like you were unstoppable.”

He tilts his head in the other direction now, leaning in just as close, your breaths mingling together. You’re so desperate to feel his lips on yours. “And?”

“When…when you touched my thigh--”

“You were burning.”

“I was nervous--”

“Because of me.”

“Of course because of you. I was scared of disappointing you.”

A small snicker escapes him and leaves behind a wicked smirk. Two hands now firmly cradle your jawline and you think the moment has finally come. Why else would your heart be thumping in your chest?

“Not possible. I always knew you were a good girl. And I think you like being told that, don’t you? You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it. I saw that coy little look on your face the first time I told you how impressed I was. It was obvious that no one else had praised you like I did - you couldn’t keep yourself together. And I bet if I kept telling you how fucking sweet you are, and how much of an perfect angel I know you are for me, the second I slip my fingers into your tight little pussy, you’d be an absolute mess.”

Well, he’s not wrong. You’re already soaked.

“Please, sir,” you whimper. “Please just kiss me.”

Finally, finally, he pulls you in for a long, languid kiss, his tongue takes lead to taste every part of your bitten lips as they slot perfectly in between his, lingering longer with each time he captures them. The blood rushes so quickly through your veins you think you might implode, overwhelmed by just how good it feels that your hands suddenly grapple onto the cuffs of his shirt.

A satisfied hum buzzes against your lips, twisting your own into a small grin that unbeknown to you, Mr Holland could actually feel.

“Let me see you,” he demands, his hands plucking at the hem of your sweatshirt. When you don’t do it right away, a tight grip coils around your neck and stops the gasp leaving your mouth. “Do. As. You’re. Told.”

You’re baring your all for him (all except a diamond necklace) in a matter of seconds, standing before him as he leisurely leans back against the bed, resting on his elbows. Those predatory eyes roam your body, mapping out the shape and details, and imprinting them to memory.

“So fucking pretty…” He deliberately watches for your reaction and you crumble under the praise resulting in a mirthful laughter to shake his chest. His arms reach for your waist, luring you in with the tight grab of your hips until his lips sit just below your ribs. The heat from his breath hitting your skin makes you involuntarily wriggle, but he doesn’t allow for any movement from you, not unless he permits it. You feel his lips suddenly, trailing across your ribs and up your chest. “Do you know what good girls like you do for me?”

“What?” You breathlessly murmur.

“They get on their knees,” Mr Holland pauses to let you act on it. Now you’re looking up at him as his knuckle ghosts over your cheeks and he mingles closer. “They look at me right in the eyes and they beg me to give them a taste, to let them suck me off because they’ll do anything for a reward, even if it is just a few words of praise. So let’s hear you, pretty girl. I want to hear you beg me with that sweet, innocent voice of yours.”

You take a cautious breath. “I want to taste you so badly, sir. Please. Will you let me?”

“Hmm.” He purses his lips. Shit. It isn’t good enough for him and he spots the panic in your eyes. All of a sudden, you begin pleading in such a desperate, childish tone you didn’t know you were capable of. Even your lip begins pouting as the need to please him becomes so overwhelming that, unexpectedly, your eyes water, like you’re facing life or death. And he is the decider.

“Wait, wait, no, please, I want to make you feel so good, so, so, so good. I can do it, I promise, and I can be good for you if you let me. Please sir, I really need it. I’ll do anything.”

Mr Holland smiles and gently kisses you with approval, just the shortest of pecks of reassurance before he leans back and nods towards the zipper of his suit trousers, tented with the erection that’s pleading to be satisfied. You waste no time in unbuttoning, unzipping and pulling free his hard cock that almost dwarfs your hand and you stare at him with such bewilderment, a stare that is returned by a certain smugness, a confidence that has you licking your lips.

There’s a surge of instinct coursing through you and your brain convinces you that there’s nothing else you should be doing, that your whole purpose at this very moment is to do as you promise; to please him, to make him feel good, so when you hear his moans the second you wrap your lips around him, your heart flutters with fulfilment. It’s a sensation you keep chasing, growing stronger the longer you bob your head up and down his cock, every time his praise seeps from his lips, and you just about lose it when his fingers comb through your hair. You offer every trick in the book; swirling around your tongue around the head of his cock, sweeping it across the small slit to collect the small bead of cum, teasing him before taking him down your throat and gagging on him. Not too little, not too much. Consistency is key.

You’re not sure how much of an idea he has about just how dedicated you are in your mission to prove yourself to him, that you’re desperate to show how capable you are by what you’re willing to do; perhaps a horrible side-effect of having to constantly prove yourself to Jackson with each conversation, but with Mr Holland, there’s an element of belief and confidence: a contradiction between Jackson’s ‘I don’t believe you until you prove it’ versus Mr Holland’s ‘do it because I know you can’.

Mr Holland’s head falls back, his eyes closed, and falls into an eerie silence. If it wasn’t for his hand still combing through your roots, you would’ve thought he wasn’t satisfied with you. Still, you keep going, running your lips and tongue down his shaft and returning slowly back up again where you get a teaser of the bitter-sweet taste you’re vying for. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you’re undecided of whether you’re doing so well that he’s speechless, or you’re not doing enough that’s worthy of his praise. It’s hard to tell with his head tilted back, and you begin to lose faith. You’ve become so drawn into his voice and words that you feel lost without them.

‘You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it.’

“Sir,” you meekly voice, leaving a beat to suck on the head of his cock. “Am I making you feel good?”

The depth of his growl sends a spike of arousal straight to your clit. He spits out his words in a manner that’s uncontrollable. “Fucking incredible.”

His head finally lifts and his eyes pin on you, fully blown and dilated. “Look at you - oh fuck - taking me so well. Knew you’d be a good girl but f-fuck, I don’t know if I can hold it in any longer.”

You reply with a wanton mewl, your dopey, tear-stained eyes saying the words your mouth can’t. You need to do something that would push him over the edge, do something that would completely shatter his world, never to be forgotten. He’s already so close, and you're already dripping onto the carpet, and with one last final trick up your sleeve, you catch his eyes, sink yourself onto him until your nose bashes against skin, and fight through the gag. Teeth baring, you slowly, lightly, graze your teeth up his cock, ghosting over every vein that pulses, leaving behind the soothing aftercare of your soft lips. By your side, his thighs twitch and by the time you reach the head of his cock, an explosion happens.

Mr Holland swings forward, grappling onto your head as you drink down everything he gives you. His entire body tenses, trapping you into a headlock and just only for a couple of seconds do you feel yourself losing breath. It's slightly tense and panic-inducing but it doesn’t matter, because above you he’s panting heavily, enclosing his thighs around your head and holding onto you for dear life. It’s all the signs you need to know that you’ve done what you promised, you have proved yourself.

“Fucking hell,” Mr Holland pants. His grip loosens around you and your lips release him with a pop. The instant your lips are free, he claims them, humming into them with adoration. “That was…” A soft, tender kiss. “The best goddamn…” Then another. “Blow job I’ve ever had.” He kisses you for a final time with a smile laced through it, and rests his forehead on yours to give himself some time to catch his breath. “So good…” he breathes. “So, so, so good. Sweet angel. My sweet angel.”

There isn’t anything to describe the burst of achievement that swarms your chest when you hear those words and your cheeks inevitably heat under his hands. You’re smiling, obviously smiling and no matter how hard you bite your lips to hide it, the pull is too strong. You make yourself far too goddamn easy to read so when Mr Holland catches a glimpse of your reaction, he smirks, clearly amused, and simultaneously reaches down the length of your body until his hand finds sanctum between your thighs.

“Hmm, you’re soaked, darling. Don’t you think we should do something about it? After all, you’re earned your reward, and I’m dying for a taste of that messy, little pussy of yours.”

You release a shaky breath when his fingers start exploring. “Yes, oh god, yes.”

“Yes…what?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Better. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now--” In a vice-like grip, Mr Holland encircles your waist and your body burns against the rough cashmere of his suit. It’s surprisingly stimulating as he casually hauls you off your feet, but you would much rather the heat of his skin. Nevertheless, your back soon meets the soft cotton of your sheets as he lays you to rest on the bed, remaining shadowing above you basking in the sight of your naked, wanting body. The diamond that nestles deep into the base of your throat twinkles obnoxiously in his eyes and he almost grows jealous of the way it hugs your neck. However, it's a jealousy he can overlook as his eyes wander over the peak of your breasts and your glistening cunt, because he knows that they are all for him.

Mr Holland promptly sinks to his knees, placing his head in between your thighs, his eyes never straying from your cunt. There isn’t a moment of hesitation when he swings his arms to cross over your hips, dragging your legs effortlessly over his shoulders and diving, tongue first, into your cunt. It’s a complete invasion of his touch, his tongue immediately swirling around your clit with a careful, consistent pressure that deep down, you know will end you in minutes. The gasp is telling of your struggle to keep composed, gradually crescendoing into a moan as that amorous tongue descends down your slit, licking you up in long, fat strips. An urge in your hips begs for attention, wanting to raise higher to ease the tension building deep in your stomach, but you're trapped, locked in place with no routes of escape and you have to tell yourself that you just have to tough it out.

But it’s harder said than done when he begins slotting his tongue into your hole, tasting and caressing every inch of you he’s capable of reaching. Digging deeper and deeper, his mouth consumes the entirety of your cunt, humming into it to push you further over the edge. He knows you’re hanging on by a thread, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to slow down. And just then, an evil, malicious thought spawns in his mind which he voices immediately.

“You’re not cumming until I say so. Understood?”

The feeling of you clenching to stop the impending orgasm has him chuckling. He knew you were close.

“Such a sweet, little angel. So obedient too, right?” He blows a gentle breeze onto your clit and you simply whimper in response. “Right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Mr Holland has your cunt in his mouth again, salivating over its taste as he suckles on your clit, your folds, your skin, anything to lure out what he knows he’s going to get eventually, but it makes it twice as appetising when he knows your orgasm is only at his command.

Meanwhile, your heart stammers in your chest with each tug of his lips. Whatever sanity you have left to cling onto, you claw at it with desperate hands, fighting to hold up the wall that blocks the blood rushing to your cunt, holding your breath to stop the bubble from bursting, because fuck, you are ready to snap. You can’t help but notice how he’s taken a page from your book, pleasuring you at a steady consistent pace, not too much but not too little. Unsurprisingly, the result is the same but the conditions are far worse.

“Oh my god, please let me cum, I can’t hold it anymore.”

His grip only tightens, his tongue moves faster and his mouth gets hotter.

Your hands, of a mind of their own, decide to condemn your obedience and push at his arms around your hips in an attempt to get away. Despite his obvious strength, you somehow manage to get a microsecond of respite, but his mouth only sucks you back in again, murmuring only one word that runs laps around your head.

“Obedience.”

“I can’t, sir, please, I can’t h-hold on. Fuck!”

“Oh dear.”

“NO! No, no, no, no, okay, okay, I’ll do it, I can hold on. Just…please go slower.”

His dark cavernous eyes meet yours from behind his arms, unmoving even as he relishes the taste of your slick, challenging you for only a second before he thankfully listens to your wishes. Weakened, your head flops back onto the bed with a small bounce, eyes drifting shut as the feeling in your stomach calms and a small relief hugs your heart. It’s a small price to pay to lose the feeling of euphoria that was going to course through you…only if Mr Holland had let it or if your people-pleasing traits had failed you, none of which had actually happened.

The feeling deflates but the pleasure still lingers.

“You taste so delicious, darling. I could eat you all day.” Arousal jumps to your clit like a flash of electricity. “And you’re doing so well for me, how could I ever stop?” This time, it’s his tongue, soft and caressing. “And this pussy; so pretty, so fucking pretty, I could just play with it for days.” His finger begins circling your clit not too long after he spits into it. By now, you realise what he’s doing. He’s feeding into your need for praise that, along with the small touches and sweeping licks, builds you up just as quickly and suddenly as before, and once again you’re struggling to cope. “I know you can be such a good girl for me, I know you can do as I say, and you have no idea how much it turns me on when you do.”

“Sir…” You warn. He instantly recognises the desperation.

“I’ve got one last instruction for you, angel.” He sucks on your clit for just a couple of seconds, just to get you closer and closer to falling apart. “Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck!” You scream as an endless stream of euphoria consumes you, hitting you in a sudden white wash of heat that riddles your entire body top to toe. You can feel your cunt clenching erratically, between homing an orgasm and suffering under Mr Holland's continuous lashings, it can't, not for one second, rest until either relent. You feel your own slick, hot and bothered, trickling down your ass but before it gets the chance to meet with the white sheets beneath you, Mr Holland sweeps it up expertly with his tongue, partnered with a primal growl of pleasure.

By the time Mr Holland has finished cleaning up every inch of your cunt and ass with his tongue, he proceeds to kiss his way gently up your body, not forgetting to leave your tits untouched and pinches your buds between his lips. You have just enough energy to cradle his head, allowing yourself the pleasure to run your fingers through his hair, moving with him while he leaves sharp kisses to your chest, your collar bone, your neck, ear and jaw, until once again, those hungry lips claim yours.

Still somewhat recovering, you purr quietly, content with the overall sense of pleasure, both of your sexual and people-pleasing needs.

Your lips slowly part. The kiss ceases but your noses brush off one another gently, still basking in the blissful, intimate aftermath of what's just happened. Your CEO above you remains, hovering over you with admiration in his eyes, running over your features as if it is the first time he's seeing them, adoring them all over again.

There's two words sitting on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind a smirk because he knows what he'll see when he speaks them.

"You're beautiful."

Of course, his prediction comes true. Your cheeks redden, your eyes roll away and your teeth sink into your swollen lips, muttering incoherently about it not being true but thanks him incessantly, but Mr Holland is too caught up in your coy modesty to rebuttal. It's just like the first time he complimented you, and he realises then and there that he's addicted to being the person that makes you shy, blushed, diffident.

Being a CEO, he does indeed posses significant power in the palm of his hand, obtained by hard work, dedication, commitment and sacrifice, but for him, there isn't a power stronger than the one he has over you and all it takes is a few, simple, praising words.

"We still have another three hours until check out."

Your eyes and ears perk up. "Sir?"

Cautiously, he shuffles above you, innocent until you feel his cock sliding into you and he relishes the catch in the back of your throat at the sudden pressure forcing its way fluidly into you. You're simply speechless, questioning if it'll ever end as he pushes every inch of him inside you, breaching and stretching the boundaries of your walls. Mr Holland snags your bottom lip between his teeth, harshly biting as a relief for the tight grip that surrounds his cock.

When your ass eventually meet his hips, you both release a groan in unison, breaths mixing and mingling until Mr Holland breaks the silence.

"You're gonna look even more beautiful when you're all fucked out and dumb for my cock, all with a diamond wrapped round your neck."

His hips snap back at a frighteningly fast pace and thrusts in even more aggressively. The pain is immeasurably exhilarating. Your thighs squeeze his waist, mouth agape without a single breath escaping.

"Think of this as a second birthday gift." Like before, he draws back and slams into you without mercy. "Do as you're told and you'll get your third on Monday in my office."

Somehow, your gut tells you that you won't have a problem with that. Not at all.

#dom!tom holland #ceo!tom holland #soft!dom!tom holland #sub!reader #tom holland smut #tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #smut #angst #peter parker smut #one shot #peter parker #tom holland one shot #tom holland fanfic #praise you like i should

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marshmallow-phd · 2 months

Text

Genre: Regency Gothic AU

Pairing: EXO x Reader

Summary: A stormy night brought you to the manor in the middle of the woods. Nine strange men occupied its halls. They won't let you leave. A dangerous secret haunts this estate. Learning it might either be your saving grace or it could lead to the last breath you ever take.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4

Lightning lit up the thin curtains covering the two small windows on either side of the carriage. Thunder rumbled and you felt it deep within your chest. Tugging your silk cloak closer, you closed your eyes and prayed that the driver would get you through the storm. There was no one to comfort you, to reassure you that a little rain and noisy sky wouldn't delay your journey.

Your father had insisted you take your sister or even a friend, but the two day’s journey didn’t seem consequential enough to need a companion. Besides, what would they have done once you arrived? Your elderly aunt had only asked for you. From what you could decipher from her letter, she needed you to be a companion as she traveled to the southernmost coastal town. Apparently, it was now the ultimate fashion to travel to for the summer. Just the idea of rolling waves made your stomach churn. But what was worse was who else would be there–

The carriage jolted to the right. You spread out your arms, only barely catching yourself from falling to the floor. No sane person would have endured such dangerous weather. This storm had come from nowhere. Skies blue and cloudless as you had ever seen bid you farewell in the late morning. Most of the day's journey had been uneventful. Then the joyful light faded. Thunder shook the walls of the carriage. Rain pounded on the roof. When would you reach the inn? Bile rose up in your throat, burning the sensitive tissue as the carriage continued to rock violently. The horses neighed over the sounds of the storm.

The carriage shifted hard to the left. And kept falling. You slammed into the door, nearly opening it with the force. You didn't know what was happening. The floor was now the wall and the wall the floor. A downward momentum made it impossible to stand. Screams ripped at your throat.

Then it stopped.

The rain continued to pour and the thunder roared on but the carriage was still. Your legs wobbled as you slowly stood. With your palms, you pushed open the door. The thin wooden panel clapped against the outside of the carriage. Immediately you were pounded by the storm. Large drops pelted your face, obscuring your vision. It was dark. You could tell that much. And there were trees. In every direction.

You climbed out of the carriage, calling for the driver. Your feet slipped in the mud, but you managed to keep your balance–for now. The mud was thick and sticky as you trudged to the front of the carriage.

No. No, no, no. Both of the horses were gone. And so was the driver. Somehow, the carriage had fallen down a hill or ravine. With a storm this terrible, you needed to get to higher ground or risk possibly being carried away–or drowning. Clawing and digging your hands and feet into the soaked dirt, you climbed the hard incline back to the road.

Once you could make out the road, you called for the driver again. No answer. He was nowhere to be found. You needed to find shelter. The storm gave no promise of letting up. You wouldn't survive the night in this forest, even if you went back into the carriage. The only choice was to find sanctuary. You stared in the direction you believed you came from. Nothing but trees and darkness. You turned to the other choice. All the same–wait.

There was something... when lightning brightened up the sky. Your heart began banging in your ears. Spires, towers. Not trees. It was some distance away, but it was shelter nonetheless.

With near tears in your eyes, you picked up your skirts–your fingers numb from the cold–and hurried towards the castle that could be your saving grace.

*****

The manor was calm tonight. Odd, considering the amount of bodies roaming around these haunted halls. Only the beautiful storm outside and Chanyeol's sorrowful melody from the piano broke the silence. Jongin had draped himself over one of the arm chairs as he inspected the wine mixture within his goblet. The taste was… adequate. The cellar would need replenishing soon.

In the corner, a rather lax game of cards covered the small, round table. Minseok smirked at his winning hand. The faded wooden chips with bits of white painted around the edges were piling up in front of Yixing, who leaned back carelessly, sure of his next win. Little did either of them know that the youngest among them had a little... trick his sleeve. As the quickest, Sehun had perfected sleight of hand long ago. None had caught him yet.

A fire roared, coaling the usually gray and brown room in flickering orange. With how close he stood near the fireplace, Kyungsoo's silhouette was visible through his loose shirt. He leaned his palms on the mantel and let the warmth of the flames engulf him. Warmth was all they could feel after all these years. It could be an addiction so strong it was tempting to throw himself into the fire.

Junmyeon joined him at the fireplace, leaning his shoulders against the brick. The bite of the edge hardly registered in his mind. Pain of that measure... it was only a ghost that had nearly crossed over.

“Such strong thoughts for a night like this.”

Kyungsoo didn’t look from the fire, but raised a questioning eyebrow in response.

Junmyeon shrugged a single shoulder. “I can’t read minds, but it's obvious you're turning something over more times than a praying rock.”

“It's the same thoughts,” Kyungsoo murmured in his strange, monotone voice. “Always the same thoughts.”

“One day you will have to let it go,” Junmyeon sighed. “This is our existence now. And forever will be.”

“Acceptance of the present doesn’t erase the past.”

“But it does make the present more enjoyable.” The red liquid sloshed against the rim of the goblet as Jongin draped an arm over Kyungsoo’s shoulders. He wore a mischievous smile. A clear indicator of his true intention.

Junmyeon shook his head. “We’re not going out tonight. There’s nothing out and about in this storm.” Hunting in these conditions would wield no trophies. Tomorrow would be a better night.

“Jun’s no fun tonight,” Jongdae teased as he and Baekhyun emerged from the hallway.

“If you want to go out in this mess,” Junmyeon waved towards the front door. “Be my guest. Just don’t you dare get mud on the rug–”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Help! Please! Help!”

Nine pairs of eyes snapped to the echoing sound. None moved.

Bang! Bang!

BANG!

One of the double doors burst open and a figure fell to the floor, landing on its knees and palms. It looked up. A flash of lightning illuminated the face.

The face of a beautiful young girl.

*****

Your knees vibrated when they hit the wooden floor. Water fell from your loose hair that clung to your cheeks. The chances of the door opening when you pushed on the handle had been low–yet the barrier that kept you victim to the storm fell open and you crashed downward with it.

Greeting you in this strange hall were several men, their jaws hanging open in a mirror of your own surprise. More men appeared from a side parlor, curious as to who dared intrude on their evening. One, two, three–you counted nine total. Nine men. This was not ideal–a bit terrifying, really–but you didn't have a choice. The storm raged outside.

"P-please," you stammered past chattering teeth "The st-storm overturn-overturned the carriage.”

The men stayed silent as they exchanged unreadable glances. One raised a questionable brow.

"Jongdae, go run a bath," ordered the man closest to you. One of the shorter residents nodded and disappeared into the darkness that led into the rest of the manor.

That's what this place was. A grand old manor, not a castle. Isolated. When you'd first run through the rusted iron gate, you'd feared it abandoned. A long dormant instinct whispered that you might have been better off if it had been.

The first man approached, each motion slow, deliberate, and hauntingly graceful. He crouched down in front of you and captured your frightened stare. The fear in you began to melt away. He was… beautiful. Obsidian fell over his forehead in gentle waves. His tunic was of a fashion your grandfather would have worn. There was something strange about this man–all of these men. Something... different.

"Let's get you warmed up." He held his hand out and you were up on your feet before you even realized your fingers were resting on his. "Don't worry," he murmured. "You're safe here. My name is Junmyeon."

You nodded, somehow believing him, but unsure if you should. Through your violent chattering, you managed to stammer out your name in response.

Bang!

You jumped at the sudden noise. One of the other men had somehow appeared behind you to shut the door you'd fallen through.

"Thank you, Yixing," the man beside you said. The one named Yixing nodded and then shifted his eyes to you. “Come.” A hand pressed into the space between your shoulder blades and guided you down the hall, leaving a trail of mud in your wake.

The man led you down several halls until you reached an unoccupied bedroom. Red blankets draped the oversized bed. Matching curtains hung limply from the canopy. All of the wood was a dark sort, rich in color but not quite welcoming like other, brighter woods.

Jongdae emerged from another door on the other side of the bedroom. Steam rolled out after him as if it were following him for its next set of orders. “Anything else?” he asked drily.

“No, thank you.”

Jongdae strolled the from the room without a glance either of you and closed the door behind him. Your breath hitched in your throat. The two of you were… alone. It wasn’t appropriate. It was…

You looked to the man still with you, fear causing your heart to pound painful against your chest. You tugged your cloak closer to you, but it was soaked from the rain. Shivers violently raced down your arms and spine. The man didn’t seem to notice as he walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He pulled out a long white cloth.

“These should suffice for tonight.” He held up the cloth for you to see. A nightgown. An old one by the cut of it, though thankfully it hadn’t been devoured by moths or mice. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

He visibly suppressed a laugh at your small voice and waved you into the adjoining bathroom. Taking the nightgown, you tried your best to avoid his gaze. You scurried inside and shut the door.

*****

Junmyeon smirked at your mousy state. It was understandable why you were so frightened. The women of this period were warned of being alone with a man. And now you were alone with nine.

Nine very dangerous men.

The proper action for him to take was to leave your room now that you were safe inside the bathroom, but his feet didn’t move. Somehow, the storm had stranded you in their forest. What had happened to the driver, he wondered. Surely a gentlewoman such as yourself was not controlling the carriage. And yet, you were all alone. Circumstances were… ideal.

A small hiss echoed in the bathroom. It stretched out, along with the sound of sloshing water. Junmyeon frowned.

Hm.

He stood there for a few minutes more, listening to you sigh as your skin grew used to the scalding water. The sound of soap scraping against skin reached his ears, followed by more sloshing water. Soon, you would be getting out of the tub. Time to leave.

He emerged from the bedroom, careful to close the door as quietly as possible. Everyone had gathered out in the hallway since they were too curious about their visitor to go about their night. Junmyeon found Jongdae blending in with the cluster. He glared at him as he hissed, "The water was too hot."

Jongdae merely shrugged. Why would he care about water possibly being too hot? It would never hurt him.

On the opposite end of the group, Yixing cleared his throat. "What are we going to do with her?"

Junmyeon glanced at the door behind him. There was only one best option, for all their sakes. "Tomorrow morning, we will send her on her way."

The eruption was instant.

“Enough!”

In an instant, the hissing ceased.

Baekhyun huffed and folded his arms against his chest, collapsing against the wall. Jongin scoffed. "Such a waste."

“A waste that will keep this household from tearing itself apart,” Junmyeoun countered. It was an outcome none of them wanted. No one wanted to cause a fight, but resisting was difficult. The temptation was great. The quicker you left, the better off they would all be.

"Do you really think it’ll end so well?" Minseok’s mocking comment hung in the air. Silent agreements rippled through the air.

Junmyeon looked to Kyungsoo, whose answer was to look away. "No one touches her," he ordered. They all would try, he knew. But their strength would only get them so far. He stared down a few of them especially, so they knew he meant it.

Sehun pushed off the wall with a roll of his eyes. "Just get her out of here so I can get some peace."

Junmyeon started to call after him but was interrupted by a soft thud from the room behind him. Confused, he opened the door to find you lying on the floor.

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sky-kiss · 5 months

Text

Doll

A/N: I don’t know how to tag this one. It’s not technically dubcon or noncon. I’d describe it a “fuck around and find out.” Loving doll ending, basically. We’ve had so much soft-Raphael lately.

I wanted some horrible fiends.

Raphael x Haarlep x GN! Tav/Reader: Tonight is Consequential 18+

Ah, but what an ignominious end to the tale. The hero finds neither hellfire nor glory, no salvation or damnation; there's nothing at all in the end. Raphael returns to his House of Hope to see the threads of his tapestry severed and the story cut short. The brief wash of pleasure he'd experienced earlier is buried beneath immediate delight and then secondary repulsion.

You're waiting for him, you see. Pretty as a picture, stretched out amidst a sea of dark silks, sweat-slick and spent. You stare at him, through him. Motionless as Haarlep tracks their fingers across your shoulders, down your sternum, over the soft skin of your belly.

"We had a visitor, Raphael," Haarlep says, laughing, gesturing with their free arm, fingers spit-slick. They press two into your open mouth, delighting at the way you instinctively move to suck, so pliant to their wishes. "Less…spirited than before, pity, pity. But just as useful!" They hum, pretty features turning downward. Haarlep pulls their fingers free, wiping the saliva across your neck. "Perhaps more, considering their prior showing."

"What have you done?"

Haarlep frowns, features turning in genuine confusion. They sit up against the headboard, letting you roll away. "Only what they asked, princeling! I am nothing if not a good sport. 'Body and soul,' requested, and 'body and soul' they gave. And for such a low price." They chuckle, "Mmm. Raphael. Raw and undiluted."

Raphael stares at you: eternally bound to him, to the House, a prize fit for a king, a hero's soul. He sees fool's gold sullying his sheets.

Haarlep's arms weave around him, nails scratching over his cock. They fold around this human force, nosing his cheek, licking to the corner of his mouth. "Don't you like your gift? Call me generous, little brat."

Raphael sneers. The comment will cost them later, but it will only satisfy Haarlep, carnal pleasure paling in the face of the inconveniences they've caused. The incubus smiles, eyes hooded and dark. They push, breathing in the words in his ear, plastering themselves against his back. The hard line of their cock presses against him. An artlessness in the little jerks of their hips, betraying genuine pleasure rather than their usual disinterest.

"So silent. Are we displeased?"

"No," Raphael flicks his fingers. He is himself again: cambion and king. "A moment of surprise." You've not moved at all—a lump of flesh, a still-warm corpse: all for their pleasure.

And you do please him. You've cost him a Crown, but he claws some of its price back. Foolish mouse, caught, batted too many times by too many paws. Raphael turns your face into the pillow, fucking you hard. Tight and wet and tedious.

He reflects on the latter point most frequently in the coming years. The devil sips his wine, watching Haarlep have their way with you. Your mouth slackened with pleasure, eyes glassy and vacant. He's hard, yes, a natural response to the pleasure licking through Haarlep and visual stimuli.

You are still lovely, mouse, and Haarlep moves with a liquid grace he will never tire of watching. The incubus tosses their head back, fangs barred, jerking you back against them. Splotches of purples and greens, yellows, paint your skin, a mottled canvas he'd admire under less reflective circumstances.

Raphael is hard but not aroused, and the disparity between those two states sticks like a splinter in his mind. He cannot fathom the…

(Haarlep flips you onto your back, takes and takes, and you are still as eager now as you were then).

…why of the matter.

(You manage a shout of dumb pleasure).

"Keep it quiet, won't you?" Raphael snaps, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Haarlep laughs, one hand covering your mouth. The cambion's eyes drift over the bruises again, and it comes to him: understanding, clarified in Avernus' heat.

Oh, but you.

The ruin of you. So many words, so many languages, dozens upon dozens known to him, but Raphael can think of only one word for you. Not love or promise. Not hope or savior. No, darling, you are so simply summarized:

Disappointment.

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #haarlep x tav #haarlep x raphael #bg3 smut #tw dubcon #my writing #needed some dark devil

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goodnightmemes · 7 months

Text

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER SENTENCE STARTERS

❛ I'm sorry for your loss, your...your losses, rather. ❜

❛ Nobody gets away with anything. Not really. ❜

❛ Don't lecture me about family values. You're just as shit in that department as I am. ❜

❛ That day was the last day we were all in the same place. Alive. ❜

❛ They will love you because I love you, and the only thing stronger than love is how scared they are of getting cut out of the will. ❜

❛ And most people go their whole, wasted, stupid lives without one minute of true resolution. Not me though. ❜

❛ You know what a resolution is? It's a deal you make with the future. ❜

❛ The people in charge of making us healthy make us sick. We cheat the dying. We fleece the poor. Promote the racist. Let the demons run amok. This world needs changing. ❜

❛ You're supposed to be shadowing me. Shadows don't fucking talk. ❜

❛ This is beneath you. And you're going to kill it. But you're better than all of this. And the minute you figure that out, you're going to be unstoppable. ❜

❛ There's no such thing as a step back. You go forward. If you hit a brick wall, you don't go back, you go through. ❜

❛ Nearly realized is the sweetest. It's better, I promise, in the moment just before than in the moment after. ❜

❛ You are consequence. And tonight, you are consequential. ❜

❛ You are a pretty, pretty little thing. ❜

❛ You wonder why people hate us. This is why. ❜

❛ Everybody knows that edible arrangements are what you send to people you hate. ❜

❛ If you start thinking this is reality, you'll just slip into the abyss. ❜

❛ We can talk about it after because I've had a shit day and I really just wanna starfish and forget the world. ❜

❛ Don't talk to me until I've come at least twice. ❜

❛ I love how deliciously, pointlessly mean you lot can be. ❜

❛ You still didn't need to come here though. It could have happened quiet. Peaceful. In bed. But I guess it's got to happen like this. ❜

❛ It's amazing how far you can get on denial. You know why so many people use denial to get by? Because it really fucking works. ❜

❛ You can't enhance this image? You see it all the time on TV. They hit a button, it enhances it. ❜

❛ I don't even own anything funeral black. ❜

❛ Satin is silk for poor people, no one should wear it to a funeral, unless they died in it. ❜

❛ Nobody knows they're the fall guy until they're falling.❜

❛ Women are the natural leaders of the species. Ancient Egypt had it right. ❜

❛ Okay, just because the door's open doesn't necessarily guarantee you a seat at the table. ❜

❛ You're not who I thought you were. ❜

❛ I really didn't want to think it, but...you're all fucking monsters. ❜

❛ Watching you shit on your principles would have been worth every fucking penny. ❜

❛ The mind of guilt is full of scorpions. And I wouldn't wish their sting on anyone. ❜

❛ Don't have to be smart to be dangerous. I'm not scared of rattlesnakes 'cause they're so smart. ❜

❛ You're so out of touch with your human side...you can't even listen to anything outside your own head. ❜

❛ I haven't seen you sleep in like...I mean, it's been a fucking long time. Like, horror movie long. ❜

❛ Life is insane. It is madness. The sooner you understand that, the better off you'll be. ❜

❛ The world might not be safe but listen to me, and listen carefully. I won't let anything happen to you. ❜

❛ All these terrible things and I thought, that's when people come together. But we've never been further apart. ❜

❛ Tell me it's worth it. Tell me you know the risk and I'll be there with you. I'll back you up. Just tell me. ❜

❛ Shut your mouth, get your shit together. The fuck is wrong with you? ❜

❛ Men, when they think they're immortal, all they want to do is fuck. When they figure out they're going to die, all they want to do is fuck. ❜

❛ It just makes you think, you know, life is so fucking short. ❜

❛ You don't have to be a tyrant, but if you don't want to be consistently cruel, then you have to be sufficiently brutal at least once to establish authority. ❜

❛ I thought it was an act. I figured you just played the housewife so you could keep a roof over your head. Spread your legs or suck his dick twice a week and you're set. You never have to work a day in your life. And I thought, "Good for her, she found her angle," but...this is really you. Isn't it? ❜

❛ Words got us into this, words can get us out. ❜

❛ You're a collection of impeccable, elaborate masks in orbit of a stunted heart. ❜

❛ There are certain things one shouldn't have to face in life. Time enough for self-reflection after. ❜

❛ I don't normally like to get my hands this dirty, but honey, you earned it. ❜

❛ I see you now. I look at you and I see... You. The poverty of you. ❜

❛ The real world is Darwinian. Survival, chaos, power. Leverage. ❜

❛ You feel it. In the air. We're sitting outside of time and space. ❜

❛ This is the moment luck meets opportunity. ❜

❛ In the ancient world, we'd seal this with blood, or spit. And then later, papyrus. But, a deal's a deal all over the world. ❜

❛ We're a... virus, I think. People, I mean. ❜

❛ But everyone loves something. And in that love there's collateral. ❜

❛ I say this with love. Let it go. Let it all go. ❜

❛ So I say, we stand tall and proud. Bill's come due. Let's not hide here in the basement like we've got something to be ashamed of. No. Not us. You and me against the world. ❜

❛ It may not have been perfect, but you can't say we didn't change the world. How many people can say that at the end? ❜

❛ I knew I would climb to the top of the tower on a pile of corpses. ❜

❛ It don't matter in the end why you did any of it. I don't fucking care why you did it. We don't want your confession, or your rationale, or your explanation. ❜

#a condensed version of the previous two #rp meme #rp prompt #sentence starters #sentence meme #roleplay prompts #roleplay meme #inbox memes #*tv #*tfothou

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fayes-fics · 1 year

Text

Reprimand

Double Bind Masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Follow on to Endeavour. Anthony suspects you may have been seduced by another and reprimands you.

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, dom/sub relationships, mean dom, jealousy, consenting-non-consent (CNC) play, deepthroat breathplay, rope bondage, whipping with a riding crop, rough vaginal sex, orgasm control, emotions, confessions.

Word Count: 5.8k

Authors Note: Here is part 4 of the Double Bind series requested by @eleanor-bradstreet where our reader finds herself back with her original dom, Anthony. Please note, everything here is very consenting; they are just playing as if it's not. If that is at all triggering for you, please do not read this. Thank you to @colettebronte for the beta read, particularly around the CNC play. Enjoy! <3

The following night you see Anthony at a gathering—a very dull musical recital just a few doors down from Bridgerton House. He accompanies you as the respectable courting partner, your gloved wrist gently resting in the crook of his arm as you circuit the room before the show.

Once the decidedly mediocre entertainment begins, he leans close to your ear.

“You have about five more minutes, then we are leaving,” he drawls quietly.

“Where are we going, my lord?” you whisper back.

“Anywhere I can fuck you,” he states plainly as you struggle not to spit out the champagne you just sipped, a dribble still escaping down your chin that you attempt to dab away discreetly. He intentionally did that—waited to drop that line when you were taking a swig.

A warm finger catches the drip and pushes it back to your mouth, his pupils dilating. “Can’t quite swallow it all; that looks familiar,” he murmurs, intentionally being utterly filthy.

“Anthony!” you admonish quietly but fiercely.

“We both know being on your knees is your favourite place after being face down over my desk,” he mutters, knowing this sort of talk always gets you breathless.

And indeed, it does. “Are those five minutes up?” you ask archly.

Wordlessly, with a bemused huff, he grabs your hand and pulls you out into the aisle, briskly walking towards the rear of the room and out of the door. He keeps marching, out of the building, into the street, making a beeline for his home less than a hundred yards away.

“Your family…?” you check as you realise where he is headed.

“All at that dreaded recital. The house shall be empty except for staff. Not that it is consequential, for we are not going into the house,” he smirks back at you.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you realise he has veered into the mews running behind his property.

“Stables,” he answers as if that explains everything.

“Why?”

“You are asking an awful lot of questions tonight,” he comments, then pauses and crowds you into a cold brick wall in the narrow dark lane. “How about you trust me and just do as you are told, you wilful little thing?” his warm breath gusts over your cheek.

Oh. It's already playtime.

“Yes, sir,” you respond instantly, and he nods and beams at you.

“Good girl,” he compliments, grabbing your chin. “Now, you will do whatever I tell you from here on out. Do you understand me?

“Yes sir,” your breath speeding up, excitement flaring low in your belly.

“I do so love you obedient,” he sighs and kisses you bruisingly, trapping you forcefully between his body and the wall. “Take off your underwear,” he commands.

“I'm not wearing any,” you stumble honestly.

He growls, “I love when you do that, behaving like a wanton whore.” He knows how aroused you get when he calls you that in play. “Show me right now; pull up your dress.”

You scramble to obey, but he quickly stills your movement. “I see people in the window of our neighbour's house. We should move on,” he offers sagely, stepping out of character and retaking your hand.

Anthony has never been one to attempt play in public; his image as Viscount so very important to maintain. And so contrasting to his younger, bohemian brother, memories of Benedict’s sinful voice talking of you crawling naked to him in front of strangers suddenly haunt you. How can they be both so very alike and so very different simultaneously? They are an addictive cocktail.

You continue down the mews until a gate leads you into a rear courtyard—this must be the back of Bridgerton House.

“Wait here,” he says curtly, disappearing into a side building. “Alright, you may come in; the coast is clear,” he calls a few moments later, and you follow.

It's the tack room for the stables. It smells of leather and brass. It’s warm and dry; the mahogany wood-panelled walls give it a cosy air.

“What are we doing in here?”

“There is all sorts of equipment in here I want to use on you,” he crows, closing the heavy door shut and bolting it. The only light in the room is a faint glow from the oil lanterns flickering on the courtyard walls outside and a shaft of moonlight splicing across the room from a high window.

Something in your heart rate spikes as your eyes adjust and look around to see saddles, bridals, whips and ropes. And in the middle of the room, a padded leather bench likely used to change into riding boots.

“Now, do as you were told before we were rudely interrupted,” he prompts, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms casually, an expectant eyebrow raised.

You grab your dress and gather the layers over your forearms until you feel the air swirling around your intimate area. He growls at the sight and is on you a millisecond later, kissing bruisingly, just the way you like. There is nothing more arousing for you than Anthony, this powerful, titled man, so very desperate and out of control just for you. He spins you around, and you are pushed into the wood panels, his hands wrenching open your dress buttons as you breathe hard.

“Open your legs wider,” he gruffs, nudging your ankles with his shoe. You do so, widening your stance to shoulder width as your dress and chemise are yanked off your shoulders. “Wider,” he instructs as your clothing drops to a pool at your feet.

You obey, kicking away your dress, standing there now in stays and silk shoes only.

“Good girl,” he compliments, pulling your hips backwards roughly, your hands reaching out to grab the wall in front on instinct. “That's it, bend over, and hold on tight,” he orders.

Your insides dance with anticipation as he drops to his knees behind you. He is usually savage with his tongue when he eats you from behind like this—pushing his whole face into your slit, into the cleft of your cheeks, very thorough in his attentions. So you are somewhat surprised when he doesn't do that. In fact, he is silent behind you for so long you almost ask what is wrong.

“What… the… fuck….is that?” he spits angrily. But it's not his play angry; it sounds worryingly close to genuine.

‘What is what?” you ask, suddenly nervous, twisting to look over your shoulder.

He jumps up to his feet and yanks you roughly back upright against him by your hair, and you squeak in shock.

“Care to explain why there are teeth marks on your inner thigh, my girl?” his voice cutting and right at your ear.

Your stomach plummets as if you have fallen from a high branch of a tree or gone over a waterfall in a barrel. Everything inside you tumbles, and your vision swims slightly.

Benedict.

It could ONLY be him—last night. You vaguely recall feeling him bite your inner thigh as he teased you. But you were so deliriously aroused you barely felt anything. Washing this morning, you did not think to look there; you just quickly bathed and went about your day.

“It cannot be, sir,” you instantly obfuscate. “It must be a mark, from I do not know what…. from my saddle, perhaps?” you offer, taking inspiration from what is right around you.

His grip on your hair slackens. You are uncertain he believes you. Something feels tender at this moment. Precarious. Like he is vulnerable to what the marks could signify but cannot handle his response in any other way but brusquely—needing the upper hand.

“I have been foolish, perhaps, in not being clear with my boundaries. So here they are. If you are with a Bridgerton, you should only be laying with a Bridgerton, do you hear me?” he lectures, unwittingly giving you a very convenient loophole.

“Yes, sir,” you answer instantly. “I shall only lay with a Bridgerton,” you reply, almost gleeful.

“Why does that appear so entertaining?” he asks cuttingly.

“It is not, sir,” you attempt to school your expression and tone, “more that your order is very… arousing for me, sir,” your response coquettish, knowing the diversionary flattery will work on him.

“You want to be owned by me?” he gusts hot in your ear, a warm hand snaking around your belly, pulling you back forcefully into his muscular frame.

“Yes, of course, sir”, you answer. “I want to wear your name with pride,” you pant gently, slipping into your submissive role with practised ease.

“I will brand your bottom with the family crest,” he snarls, the possessive rhetoric notching up significantly.

You goad him with a challenging look over your shoulder and roll your hips, catching your bottom on the growing hardness in the front of his trousers, knowing it will spur some kind of response.

“You wanton little whore, rubbing yourself on me like some animal in heat just because I offer to brand you with my name,” he rumbles, enjoying your tactics, grabbing your chin and making you look at him as he leans forward over your shoulder. “I should tie you up and whip you to make you obey me,” he declares, staring into your eyes.

You suddenly know why he has brought you here, to this room—to try some more advanced punishment. The fact there is now the added dimension of his suspicion makes it feel even more charged, like the static before a storm. You can't seem to look away from his turbulent mien, knowing tonight will be something new and exciting. You can feel butterflies against your ribs as he speaks again.

“You would just hate that, wouldn't you?” he smirks, and you intuit what he wants.

This is a power play to make you remember who is in charge, a way to brand you as his symbolically, not physically. By making you pretend you don’t want this as much as you do. Achingly so.

“You want to play that game?” you check quietly, ensuring what you think is happening is true.

“You are so very observant, my smart girl,” he whispers flatteringly, and you know exactly what to do next.

“Sir, please don’t,” you play up, voice getting louder, twisting to catch his eye and winking, letting him know your reticence is all for the scene.

“Who said you have any say in what happens?” he chuckles darkly, his hold tightening as he roughly strips your stays from your body so you are completely naked.

This. You perhaps shouldn’t want this, but by god, you do—a little twisted role play. Elation ripples through your body. Somehow you know you both need this today. Anthony to process his suspicions about the bitemark. You, cathartic release of the guilt you carry about your tryst with Benedict. Perhaps it's a dangerous path to walk; you know you are likely playing with fire, but with Anthony, by god, it's nothing but excitement. Mutually assured destruction can seem so appealing behind glowing brown eyes and sharp cheekbones.

“Please, sir, no!” you ratchet up your theatrics, struggling slightly in his hold as he spins you around to face him.

“Shut up!” he grouses and pushes you down to your knees with a firm grip on your hair. “Now, if you don't keep quiet, I will find a way to silence you,” he warns, yanking your head back so you look up at him.

And you know what is coming, your thighs rubbing together almost gleefully at the prospect. Your insides roil excitedly at the idea of him using you, rough and rugged, as you pretend it is against your will. Trust Anthony to take you to the edge of your needs, push your envelope and make you crave him. This is why you can’t resist him. He knows how to give you things you never knew you needed but want so much your blood sings—makes you ache for him, addicted to him like no one else.

You stay on your knees, panting lightly with anticipation as he walks away briefly, his boots seeming to clatter much louder as he returns. He yanks your hands behind your back, and you feel a thin rope wrapping around your wrists.

“You know your safety word and action,” he leans over and mutters in your ear, and you nod, twisting to meet his eye. Confirming that today no won't mean stop; only that word or gesture will.

“No sir, please, no god, I’m sorry; please don't tie me up,” you act up.

He laughs menacingly and keeps looping the rope, tying it off with what feels like a bow. Then a hand grabs your jaw.

“Too late for that; open your mouth,” he commands gruffly.

You instantly obey as two fingers slide thickly over your tongue. They taste of ink, smokey cigars and the tang of money, all Anthony.

“Now I know a certain way to stop this little mouth from being so insolent,” he states, casually pinching your tongue before pulling out his fingers.

“No sir, please, please don’t,” you volley back, a flash in your eyes as you lick your lips, your gaze falling to the tented shape in his trousers as he roughly unbuttons them.

His cock springs free, and you feel a frisson over your skin as you drink in the sight of it, already rigid and leaking. Without preamble, he grabs the back of your head; you can barely take a steadying breath before he pushes into you, hot over your tongue, not gentle in using you, nudging towards the back of your mouth. His cock is always so surprising in size, especially when he does this, showing you no mercy. Gripping your hair and starting a rhythm that pushes deeper on every stroke until he holds your nose pressed up to his body, filling your throat. You want to cough, speak, do anything, but he holds steady, his scent so potent.

With your hands tied as they are, you have no control over how he uses you, but you are determined not to give you safety action, to take the punishment he wants to meter out. Your clit throbs as your lungs burn for air—heady and intoxicating. Still, he does not allow you reprieve.

“Look up at me.” You tilt your eyes up as water gathers at the corner of your lashes. His thumb swipes through them. “Finally, she is silent and obedient,” he chuckles richly, his cock vibrating in your throat, “and looking so pretty on her knees, taking all of me.”

He pulls halfway out, and you inhale sharply before he pushes back in with a groan, and you are again unable to breathe. You want this so much your thighs dampen, and you look back up at him with wide, pleading eyes, playing the part of the victim you most definitely are not.

“Take it,” he stutters gruffly as you feel your throat convulse slightly, wanting to gag. “Stay down,” he orders, crushing your face into his body, his balls against your chin. You feel a pulse in his cock and then a sour tang, that little salty bead of pre-cum sliding down your gullet.

Just as you begin to struggle for air and feel woozy light-headedness, he pulls out entirely, ropes of saliva webbing from your mouth to his glistening tip as you gasp deeply, your throat burning.

“Get on your hands and knees and crawl to that bench,” he grits out, and you do as told, taking a few crawled paces to the padded leather bench in the middle of the room as he loosely refastens his trousers. Your deep wracking breathing sounds so loud, even in the wood-panelled room, as he tells you to climb up and straddle it face down.

“If you move an inch or make a noise, this will be much worse for you,” he threatens.“You will be whipped, and then you will take my cock. Maybe then you will finally remember who you belong to.”

“Please, sir, no,” your protesting murmur is weak and raspy as your throat recovers, but you turn slightly to meet his gaze challengingly, eyes blazing. You had better fuck me so hard, you mouth silently at him.

He twists his face into a bemused pout. I will, you wilful little one, he mouths back.

“Now, do I need to tie you to the bench, too?” he warns, but you get no chance to challenge it as, almost instantly, more rope loops around your back and under the bench you lay on.

Fire flares in your belly; he has never tied you down so wholly. You cannot wiggle free of this; you are entirely at his mercy. The leather sticks slightly to your heated cheek as a hand spanks a glancing blow onto your left bottom cheek, and you groan and push your hips down into the padded leather. Everywhere between your legs tingles, aches even, and feels hot, getting off on the thrill of submitting to his will, the utter commanding way he handles you. You need him to put his mark on you. To make it bigger, better than his brother’s.

“Make it hurt,” you sigh, barely a breath. But you know he hears it from the sharp inhale he makes.

You look back at him pleadingly. It could be the look of a captive pleading for mercy from their captor; it could be the look of a willing participant in a provocative game, conveying just how much they want this. Indeed, it’s both, so many layers swirling in this erotically charged moment.

“My girl, you will feel it and remember tonight,” his voice a low forewarning.

You twist to watch Anthony walk away and snag a riding crop from the selection hanging on nearby hooks, heart speeding up as he walks near your head, brandishing the implement. The cool leather tongue brushes the nape of your neck. He traces it slowly, achingly so, down the length of your spine to where your bound hands lay. Your body shivers in response, and he chuckles, seemingly delighted at how he can elicit such reactions from you.

He leans low over your back, the crop raising from your skin. “Now you can't run and get help; no one is coming to rescue you from me,” he growls. Something in the tone suggests bitter experience.

There is a faint, almost whistling sound in the air then you feel a sting lashing across your left buttock. The strength of this first blow is sharp, taking you by surprise, and you yelp in response.

“Be quiet!” he orders roughly, grabbing your hair. “Or do I need to gag you as well?”

“Please, sir, don't,” your lips plead while your mind hopes he might. You enjoy it when he gags you, especially with his cravat, as he did just a few days ago during your last encounter at Aubrey Hall. That fateful night you physically bumped into his younger brother.

Anthony releases your hair as Benedict's voice and face fill your mind. A similar blow to your right bottom cheek brings you back into the room, and you groan loudly, grinding against the bench, feeling the rope around your waist resisting your movements. He is pacing around you in a circle, his footsteps echoing up the walls; you pant in anticipation, trying to crane your head to track his movements.

The crop tickles your open, bound hand, then traces up the inside of your arm, so ticklish you try to tamp down a giggle. Then you gasp as he flicks the crop on your upper arm across the flesh of your muscle there. The leather tongue drags back down to your hands, then swaps to the other, tracing up your arm in that prickly way until, again, there is a flick to the other bicep. You sense it's coming but still whimper slightly at the lick.

It's a guessing game about what he will do next. These flicks on your arms have been light, not like the force he used on your bottom, but enough to sting and keep you on your toes.

“I do so enjoy the slight of you bound,” he hums, almost absent-minded, as the crop trails back down your arm over your hands, your fingertips and onto your lower spine.

“Please, sir, don’t hurt me,” you play up, panting with anticipation about where he might strike next.

“What part of ‘be quiet’ are you not understanding?” he utters through clenched teeth; it’s all the warning you get before the crop reigns a sharp blow onto the back of your thigh, right below where it meets your bottom.

You hiss and writhe as the crop insinuates between your legs, encouraging them further apart.

“If you keep talking, I will crop you right here,” he cautions, running the smooth leather tab over your labia. You fold your lower lip into your mouth to censor any response you might have. “Good girl,” he intones, and the crop is gone.

You are almost relaxing into the soft bench when he strikes a lick onto your ribs, it's not hard, but it takes you by surprise; your yelp is instinctual. Then with an almost predatory gleam in his normally beguiling eyes, he rains little blows across your back. Short, sharp lashes that sting, not hurting but not pleasant. You flinch at every blow but feel a paradoxical sense of relief with each one, the discomfort as cleansing as it is arousing.

It's when the crop disappears between your thighs that you tense slightly. But he does not flick it against your pussy; he holds it over the spot you assume are the teeth marks, his breathing uneven. Then with a determined glint, he lashes the area hard, and you feel redness instantly bloom there as you cry out. He has done exactly what you wanted; he has covered up Benedict's mark on you with one of his own, bigger, better, bolder—so very Anthony. It almost feels akin to a twisted game of one-upmanship you will wear on your skin for a few days.

Then he flicks little marks on the back of your thighs and buttocks. Again each one feels like absolution and a step higher towards a blissful state where you float outside your body, utterly pliant to his demands and treatment.

“Stay with me,” he dictates.

He senses you slipping into a subspace but wants you alert and responsive to every move he makes.

“Who do you belong to?” his question is a bark.

“You.” It's a reflex.

“And only me, do you understand me? I will not share,” he grits out.

“Yes sir,” you slur as the crop makes one last resounding blow on your cheek, so forceful you scream.

There is a clatter as the crop falls to the ground, and he is tearing off his clothing as you watch covetously and panting with anticipation, your skin burning hot in the places he has cropped you.

“No sir, please don’t take me,” you fib with a small smile, catching sight of his delicious, engorged cock as he strips.

“Oh, but you are mine to take,” he laughs menacingly as he rounds behind you, kneeling on the floor where he lines up to enter you.

With a grunt from him and a cry from you, he plunges into your body; the stretching invasion always steals your breath. The artifice of the game you have been playing falls away as you sigh his name and murmur for him to please take you hard, wanting him to fuck all the guilt out of you.

And he does what you need. He shows no mercy as he grasps the rope around your back in his fist so it digs into the sensitive flesh of your sides and begins a punishing rhythm. Thrusting with such force, your whole body rolls, the bench squeaking in protest. You struggle to form thoughts and just quieten your mind, lean into the intensity of it—allowing your body to be used, taken, finding pleasure in your passivity.

His hand spanks a glancing blow over your left cheek that he has left flecked with crop marks, and you squeal at the layering of this sharp pang over the dull throb from his earlier discipline.

“Keep quiet,” he hisses, leaning over your back and biting the nape of your neck. His incisors grabbing flesh and pulling, a pinching searing pang you know will mean teeth marks and wearing scarves to cover up until they fade.

You are shocked at how fast your body is hurtling towards a climax, your clit squashed into the rounded end of the bench as he fucks into you. You start to pant little noises and writhe in your bindings, your wrists still in the small of your back, starting to feel pins and needles as your movement causes the rope to dig in harder.

“You are so very close,” he observes, suddenly holding still, buried deep inside you. “That will not do,” his tone almost disappointed, “do not come yet”.

You fight the urge, your pussy squeezed tight around him, fighting the little convulsions you feel, every inch of his cock engraving on your walls like he is leaving his imprint inside you.

“I mean it,” he warns, “you will not come until I permit it.”

“Yes sir,” you croak, gusting hot breaths into the bench and trying to calm your body. To stave off your orgasm until he allows it.

Then there are fingers resting on your clit, and you inhale sharply, twisting in your binding to look at him over your shoulder, something wild in his manner, his eyes glittering.

“No,” he says firmly as he teases your bud with expertise, edging you but refusing permission to let you break.

“This is not fair,” you groan, puffing hard as he begins to fuck you again, this time with an unhurried rhythm, withdrawing then surging in as his fingertips expertly hook under your hood to massage your engorged little nub.

“Fair is not my concern,” he dismisses, “what is my concern is demanding your utter obedience.”

Every ounce of your body is aflame, the tension of holding to a precipice as each welt on your body throbs in sympatico with your clit.

“Please,” you mumble, unsure you can stem the tide building; obey his rules.

His grip on your bum tightens as he spears into you roughly, making you grunt as your whole body rocks with the force. Boring into you now, unforgiving in his mounting of you, he once again wraps the rope that lashes you down around his knuckles, ensuring you gasp at the harsh binding, the rough fibres repeatedly rubbing until small welts appear.

He is setting an almost punishing pace, ploughing into your body repeatedly as you listen to his panting breaths, desperate for his consent to release all the tension, almost an unbearable weight.

He spanks your right cheek for good measure. You moan, and the pleasure-pain that blossoms makes your break impossible to fight anymore. Your eyes screw shut as his fingers slide over your sensitive bud, the grip of his spanking hand now banded around the crest of your hipbone, strong enough to leave more marks on your delicate flesh.

“You may,” he pants, perhaps sensing the inevitable.

You call his name and bury your nose into the bench, your teeth snarling and biting against the leather as your body, denied over and over, finally relents, your pussy palpitating around him so harshly you almost propel him from your body. Each synapse firing so hard your mind blanks out, a snapping of something inside that is your tether to reality. Then you are floating, somewhere far away, on a cloud of throbbing skin and pumping heartbeats, the pain transmogrifying into something beautiful, like amnesty, appeasement, peace.

You are barely cognisant as he rapidly withdraws from your body with a shout, spilling his seed onto your aching cheeks, the splash of it somehow both stinging and soothing the ache, bringing you back into the room as he slumps over your back, head between your shoulder blades.

For a few moments, there is nothing but the joint sound of your laboured breathing and the creek of the rope as you shift lightly under his weight.

“That was… truly something else,” he pants, drawing upright to untie your body and wrists delicately.

“It really was,” you agree, as he rubs the sore spots on your wrists from the chafe of the rope.

“Thank you. For giving me your trust like that,” Anthony says quietly, sincerely. “It is a rare thing to play like this…. Very rare indeed.”

He looks so thoughtful you don't know what to say in response. “Any time, Anthony. It was a very cathartic experience for me,” you admit honestly. “Something so freeing about playing that role for you,” you clarify before he asks what you mean, Benedict’s face flashing in your mind, guilt flooding your heart.

He jumps up, gathers a padded blanket from a hook, and lays it on the ground, pulling you into an embrace atop it. You settle into his arms, allowing your body to feel soothed by his idle, gentle strokes as he speaks again.

“I have come to realise that you are chasing challenging experiences. And my darling girl, I always want to be the one, the only one, worthy and able to do that, to challenge you in all the ways you may need,” he offers as he nuzzles your temple, dropping a light kiss there.

“That's so funny; Benedict was just saying the same last night,” you giggle lightly, your idle tongue running away from you in your post-orgasmic haze.

“You talk to my brother about such matters?” He freezes and sounds strange as he says it, and instantly you wince inside but try not to let it show.

“Sometimes he and I talk. Of you and I, our compatibility, our courtship,” you attempt breezy nonchalance, gesturing into the air. “We bumped into each other at the Trowbridge Ball, and perhaps I had too much champagne,” you offer, relieved that partial truths and alcohol may explain how you came to talk of such matters with his brother.

“But you said this was last night?” Anthony argues, slowly twisting and sitting up away from you. “And the Trowbridge Ball was two nights ago. I should know; I was not well that day.”

Bile rises in your throat. You try not to let your panic show on your face, but you suspect your acting skills may be somewhat lacking. “Oh, of course, I… I am mixing up my days. The season is such a whirl, is it not?” You overshoot, mugging a smile too large and too brittle, clutching at proverbial straws.

You sit up and instinctively grab your chemise to cover yourself up, feeling the need for a physical layer of protection, your skin registering a cold draft that breezes along the floor, making you shiver. There is a few moments of silence where you curl your lip under your teeth. Scared, you will slip up more, knowing Anthony is too smart not to see it.

“I thought I warned you to stay away from him,” he intones, his voice going low.

“Come on, Anthony. He is your family; why would I not talk to your family? To the outside world, at least, we are courting.” You try to appeal to his logical side.

“Do you converse with Colin? Do you talk such intimate things with him?” He bristles, and you stay silent. Knowing what he points out is true. You have barely spoken more than five words to Colin, all mundane. “Yes. As I thought,” he adds, more than a little bitter. “And I find it strange that I went to call on you yesterday afternoon to apologise for being unable to accompany you to the ball, only to be told you were not home. That you were, in fact, receiving art lessons from my brother. Indeed, your family valet seemed most perplexed that I was not aware, seeing as I had apparently arranged the whole thing.”

Oh god.

He knows.

He knows something is happening between you and Benedict. And he has kept it in until now. Again you are tumbling over that waterfall. Suddenly, so much of tonight takes on more nuance than you could possibly have imagined: the desperation, the possessiveness, the want to tie you down and punish you hard, the now-weighted phrase that no one is coming to rescue you. Part of you wants to run away, be sick to your stomach, but part of you wants to stay and fight.

“Anthony…” you appeal, not knowing what else to say.

“Don't,” he chides, and you feel him building up his walls, brick by brick, cutting you off. “But thank you for confirming what I didn't want to know. You may leave,” he adds bitterly, and you can see untold hurt in his eyes.

You can see that trying to reason with him is a lost cause at this moment. So silently, you pull your stays on loosely over your chemise and then your dress, the initial panic giving way to a melancholy sinking into your bones about how he is closing himself off. You slip out of the stable door and don't allow yourself the luxury of a glance back, or even a tear, as you walk the few hundred yards back to the recital venue and your awaiting carriage.

You suspect that were it any other man, Anthony would not be so very agitated—his younger brother very much his Achilles heel, right from that first warning at Aubrey Hall. Perhaps he sees something in you that is a kindred spirit to Benedict more than to himself and fears the choice you may make. Little does he know, you crave them equally and more than ever, even as you feel uncertain about where you stand with either brother now. Both knowing of your dalliance with the other, and neither happy about it—precisely what you didn't want. In hindsight, it was never going to be easy playing off both brothers. But you never expected Anthony’s reaction to be so emotional, the hidden depths he keeps so well concealed under the mask of responsibility.

And things are about to get even more complicated when Benedict sees what Anthony has done….

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld@eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton

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teataglia · 2 years

Text

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎: 𝐁𝐚𝐣𝐢 + 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐨

pairing: baji x f!reader

warnings: smut, somnophilia, DC, explicit consent given when awake, oral (f!receiving), implied vaginal penetration at the end

tea’s note: really wrote this on no sleep and not proofread im so sorry friends and lovers, but anyways day 10 is down, look forward to lauren’s fic tomorrow: ushijima + breeding, but for now enjoy <3

kinktober masterlist !

All night Baji’s been missing your presence next to him, constantly checking his texts hoping to see your notification pop up. Tonight’s a cause for celebration, a risky deal that everyone had been anxious about was finally resolved. And Baji and the boys hit the bar. While all his friends are fooling around, placing bets on who will be the first to take someone home, Baji remains seated. His head swims with thoughts of you. How you’re probably getting ready for bed by now, slipping on one of his shirts as you cuddle into an empty bed, all alone. His heart yearns to be home, holding you tight in his arms, but for now, he’s on celebration duty.

He tunes out the raucous laughter of his friends, instead focusing on how his shirt would be much too large for you. He thought about how it would cover down to mid thigh, and how you don’t like wearing pants to sleep, leaving him plenty of access for when he gets home. His dick strains in his pants, and he rushes to subtly to adjust himself. He forces himself to focus back on the present, not allowing his willpower to snap to return to you.

After a few more hours drag by, Baji stumbles home. While his cheeks are flushed and he’s a little more off balance than usual, he’s not drunk. Baji’s a big guy, and even though he drank more than almost everyone there, save for Draken and Pah-chin, he can barely feel the liquor that courses through his veins. At most, he just feels happier, lighter. Needier. He has enough self control to be able to stave off his most depraved and obscene thoughts, however, you constantly dwell in the back of his mind. You practically live there, so it would be a lie to say that Baji stopped thinking about you entirely.

But now, he does his best not to trip over his feet as he climbs the stairs to your apartment, fumbling with the keys when he reaches the door. The lock clicks and he pushes it open, greeted by a dark and still living room. He heads to the bedroom, cracking the door open slightly to see your resting figure, just as he had predicted. You look so precious in the soft glow of the moon, your features peaceful and unaware.

Baji smirks, baring his canines as he slowly pulls the covers off you, careful to not wake you up. His eyes darken with hunger as his gaze rakes over you, starting at your breasts. He witnesses how your nipples pebble at the cold air and fights the temptation to latch his mouth onto them that very moment. Instead, he takes his time marveling at the rest of you, noticing your bare legs sprawled out, giving him a perfect view of your panties. Specifically the growing dark patch of slick, and his mouth waters.

How cute, Baji muses, she’s been dreaming of me. He commends your patience and wants to apologize for making you wait so long. He licks his lips and slots himself between your spread thighs, hands wrapping around them to keep you open and on display for him. He stares right at your clothed cunt, wondering how he’s going to get them off you without waking you. He shakes his head to himself. That’s a problem for later, right now, he needs to feel you on his tongue.

His eyes stay glued to your face, watching for any signs of stirring, as he places a sweet kiss right onto your clit. He senses nothing, except maybe the slightest hitch of your breath. He continues, growing bolder, and licks a fat stripe over the damp spot of your arousal. At this he feels a small twitch of your hips, but nothing consequential.

He dives in again, harsher this time, his tongue running over the drenched piece of fabric till it clings to your folds so tightly he can see its outline. The stronger his strokes get, the harder you squirm. But Baji isn’t surprised you’re still asleep, you both know you sleep like a log which is why you agreed to him having his way with you in the first place. Nevertheless, your sensitivity outweighs your slumber and your hips buck in his tight grip.

Breathy whimpers tear from your lips and your head falls back, digging into your pillow. Your eyes scrunch tighter together, as if your consciousness is fighting your pleasure over which brings more bliss, rest or Baji’s tongue. Amidst the thrashing, Baji finds the perfect opportunity to slip your panties off. Once removed, the uninhibited essense of you floods his senses. The feeling of your tight, fluttering walls coupled with your divine taste overwhelms him, and suddenly his restraint is gone. He pushes his face deeper into you, humping the soft sheets beneath him, desperately seeking a respite from the unbearable ache.

Your eyes slowly open after Baji’s tongue licks a certain spot on your walls, your hips never ceasing their jerks. Sweat covers your body as your mind’s groggy haze is replaced by a much denser and familiar fog. Your eyes shoot down, and the sight below you almost makes you cum on the spot.

Baji’s tongue buries deep in you, his eyes screwed shut as he attempts to lick up every single drop, getting lost in your taste. His hips rut uncontrollably into the mattress and the vibrations of his moans feel delicious against your clit.

Your hand shoots down to fist into his hair, tugging on the pretty locks.

“Shit, baby, didn’t mean t’ wake ya,” Baji pants, breaking away from your cunt to catch his breath. “Y’just taste so damn good, can’t get enough.”

His head dips back down to give a pointed lick. When he looks back up at you, his mouth and chin glisten in the dim moonlight with your juices. An insatiable, ravenous expression crosses his features as he stares up at you.

Your body’s already exhausted, but you’re dead set on making him feel good too. You pet his hair lightly, smiling down at him as you beckon him upwards. “Kei, come here.”

He scrambles up your body, wasting no time diving into your arms. His cock twitches against your stomach as he presses himself against you, holding you so close to him. He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your comforting scent and nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat.

You gasp and grind on his shaft, a shudder running up his spine as he feels how reactive you are to him.

“Damn, babe, if you wanted my dick so bad, all ya had to do was wake up sooner,” Baji grunts jokingly. “But now that you’re up…” he aligns himself with your entrance, rubbing your folds teasingly.

“Just put it in already,” you huff impatiently.

“What’s the rush, baby? We have all the time in the world.”

#l+t.kinktober22 #˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᴛᴇᴀ ʟᴜsᴛs #｡⋆ʚ♡⃛ɞ ᴛᴇᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇs #baji x reader #baji x you #baji x y/n #baji smut

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notstilinski · 8 months

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The Fall of the House of Usher Starters !

Taken from the Netflix 2023 series, The Fall of the House of Usher! Some of these have already been edited. You can change them however you see fit! There may be some light spoilers present!

“Listen, I’m sorry… For your loss. For your losses, rather.”

“Have a glass. See what a few years of your worth tastes like.”

“Don’t lecture me on family values. You’re just as shit in that department as I am.”

“The gates are always open but that doesn’t mean you answer the phone?”

“Don’t mention them ever. They don’t exist. Do you understand?”

“They will love you because I love you, and the only thing stronger than love is how fucking scared they are of getting cut out of the will.”

“All good. Right behind you.”

“You guys, we should really get together more often. It’s just a balm for the soul.”

“You know what a resolution is? It’s a deal you make with the future.”

“You’re basically 80% cum, I can fucking smell it on you.”

“Jesus, (Name), when you get going, you get going.”

“The oven mitts come off and the nail polish goes on.”

“It’s better, I promise, in the moment just before than in the moment after.”

“You are consequence, (Name). And tonight, you are consequential.”

“You are a pretty, pretty little thing.”

“Opportunity doesn’t give a fuck what you’re going through.”

“(Name), damn it, everybody knows that edible arrangements are what you send to people you hate.”

“If you start thinking this is reality, you’ll just slip into the abyss.”

“You shouldn’t be here and you don’t have to be here. That’s all I was saying.”

“It’s amazing how far you can get on denial.”

“Christ, no one knows they’re the fall guy until they’re falling.”

“Don’t complain about the drugs.”

“He throws us the food and watches us fight for it. You know that.”

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I didn’t want to think it but… you’re all fucking monsters.”

“Don’t have to be smart to be dangerous.”

“You gotta be smart. You have to realize, you can’t trust people. Not you. Not anyone.”

“Don’t stand there and look all hurt, you asshole! You think I don’t know?”

“Shut your mouth, get your shit together. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Both of us lucky in one way, at least. Got good people at home who love us anyway. Let’s not let them down.”

“I trusted them, so I trusted you.”

“All of the best of (Name) without… without the broken heart.”

“You don’t have to be a tyrant, but if you don’t want to be consistently cruel, then you have to be sufficiently brutal at least once to establish authority.”

“I’m sorry. Why the fuck would you do that, sweetheart?”

“No, I’m afraid you’re ringside for my reckoning, old friend.”

“You’re a collection of impeccable, elaborate masks in orbit of a stunted heart.”

“You’re a monster, you know that?”

“Should’ve died here, honey. It would have made you an honest person.”

“You only ever wanted to be loved by them. You only ever wanted their approval. And it’s still no fucking excuse.”

“If I die, this stops?”

“Outsourcing intimacy.”

“I look at you and I see… you. The poverty of you.”

“We’re a… Virus, I think. People, I mean.”

“It’s a slap on the wrist that comes with a blowjob.”

“I say this with love. Let it go. Let it all go.”

“I knew I would climb to the top of the tower on a pile of corpses.”

“Because it don’t matter in the end why you did any of it. I don’t fucking care why you did it.”

“We don’t want your confession, or your rationale, or your explanation. So take all that with you, why don’t you.”

#rp meme #sentence starters #sentence meme #starter sentences #ask meme #ask prompts #inbox memes #inbow prompts #television sentence starters #all i can say is ... michael what the fuck #tfothou spoilers #the fall of the house of usher spoilers

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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year

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Love to Spare - Part 6 (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader; Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Warnings (?): Angsty feelings, smooching Word count: 2k Part 5 Part 7 Masterpost

Summary: You receive a proposal at a moonlit ball.

The ball the following night was being held, of all places, at Bridgerton House. The viscountess’ chosen theme was ‘Midnight’, and the dress code called for dark hues of blue, the Bridgerton family color. You were outfitted with a gauzy navy gown smattered with sparkling silver embellishments, long silver gloves, and a glinting crystal tiara, filigreed with shapes of stars. You acknowledged how beautiful you looked, but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to appreciate it when you knew it was done to appease your new husband and make you worthy of display when your engagement was announced. Your stomach was rolling with anxiety all day and it only increased as the hours grew later.

Walking up to Bridgerton House was surreal. Seeing the elegant mansion that was Anthony’s property somehow made you feel small. Your nerves were at fever pitch contemplating what awaited you inside. This had been the entire purpose of your entry into society. It was what was necessary to protect your family’s welfare, it was what you had been readying for for weeks. And yet, now that it came to it, something inside you was trembling and not with excitement. You needed to see Anthony. You needed to tell him about Sir Edgar’s proposal and get his perspective and his blessing before you made the most significant commitment of your life. You needed to borrow some of his strength. But he would be playing host. You couldn’t take up too much of his time. And Benedict…you couldn’t even think about Benedict, or the cruel irony of getting betrothed to a Graham while in the Bridgerton home.

Your head was spinning so much by the time you entered the main hall, you felt faint. You begged off your mother for a moment of fresh air and stumbled out onto a small terrace that overlooked the back garden. The clear night was participating famously with Lady Bridgerton’s theme, as a large moon shone bright in the sky, casting stark shadows everywhere. You tucked yourself into a wisteria-choked corner away from the windows and wrung your hands, just trying to breathe.

A familiar voice broke through the stillness as if on cue. “Miss y/l/n?” Benedict, devastating in a dark blue ensemble, walked up the terrace steps from the garden, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You look…” He shook his head, gaping. “Tell me I’m awake because I fear I may have strayed into a dream.”

The poetic cheek did force a small smile from you. “You’re awake, Mr. Bridgerton. But please, the flattery isn’t helping my nerves.”

You resumed tugging at your gloves while his brow furrowed. “What is there to be nervous about?”

There was so much you wanted to tell him but couldn’t. Like the fact that the very sight of him, looking as handsome as he did, was only adding to your distress. You heaved a shaking breath. “I am expecting tonight will be…consequential.”

He paused and something seemed to shift in his eyes. That fathomless depth you had seen the night before was back. His voice reverted to that honeyed tone which made you lose all sense of time. “What a coincidence, I am expecting the same.”

You had no idea what he could mean. Was his family making some announcement? Would he be making his own proposal that night? Something icy clamped around your throat envisioning a smiling young woman taking his hand amidst applause. You silently chastised yourself. These thoughts simply had to stop. You tried to keep your voice cool and even. “And what consequences are you anticipating, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He stepped toward you, his long shadow starting to rise up the length of your dress. “Significant ones.” His voice had somehow lowered even further to a rumble.

“That my joy is multiplied.” Another step closer.

“That my heart is unburdened.” And another.

“That my very life is altered from this night forward.” He was looming over you, crowding out the moonlight as your back pressed against wisteria and brick, his dark eyes locked into yours.

Oh god…he couldn’t…this couldn’t be…he wasn’t…

But you could sense what was coming in your very bones, and despite how you knew you should protest, you didn’t. You swallowed thickly, offering up your last feigned attempt at ignorance in a choked whisper. “Significant indeed. What event could occur that would have so great an impact?”

“One which includes you.” Then his large hands gently cupped your face and his lips descended to yours, and colors exploded behind your eyelids that you had never seen in the natural world. You sank into the flowers behind you and his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady against him as his lips caressed softly.

When he pivoted his head, you panted, “Mr. Bridge…”

“Benedict.” He murmured against your lips, his voice reverberating into your chest. “Call me Benedict.” Then a second kiss, stronger, needier. You drank him in, savoring every detail, your body drawing you into him while your heart and mind warred in confusion.

He pulled back, his eyes alight in a way you had never seen.

“Benedict…” You breathed. The name so precious to you, used for the first time.

He held you, brushing his knuckles along your jaw as that crooked grin spread across his face. “Y/f/n, would it still your nerves if you spent the night on my arm as my fiancée? If this house suddenly became your family home?”

For just a brief moment your heart soared. Your most daring dream was yours for the taking. But then you thought of Anthony, of his reaction the night of your first ball, of all the help he had given you in securing an engagement from Sir Edgar. You began to stammer, feeling yourself torn in half a dozen directions.

Benedict stepped back and held your hands in his. “I can’t bear it any longer, this game of ours. You are a learned woman, trained to seek the truth. I believe you know my truth.” Then he sank to one knee, his grey eyes piercing in the moonlight as he looked up at you with a smile. “I want you to be my wife. I want your future and I want to make it everything you desire. Marry me, y/f/n.”

You couldn’t breathe. Nothing had prepared you for this. Somehow being offered the thing you wanted most in the world was only serving to break your heart. Though your lungs were struggling to work, your mind somehow snapped into focus. You were trained to untangle life’s messes by following the logical path, stating the facts, making your case.

“Benedict, I am courting Sir Edgar.” You said breathlessly.

His face fell a bit, but he shrugged off your statement. “You are not engaged to him. You can turn him down. Do you love him?”

You almost snorted at the simplicity of his question. Love was the last thing you had been worried about in your criteria for a husband. “Love is not the only factor in a successful relationship.”

At this he chuckled and stood again, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Spoken like a true solicitor.” Then he leaned in and whispered, his tone the very definition of seduction. “Consider these factors. My every waking thought is of you.” He kissed the skin below your earlobe. “Your name is on my lips every night.” Another kiss, lower on your neck. “And your face is in my mind every morning.” A kiss on your collarbone. “Every time we part, I’m driven mad waiting to see you again.” A final kiss just above the neckline of your dress. “I know that we suit one another.”

You shuddered at the heat of his lips and how he was reciting back to you all of the ways you felt about him. Your voice was shaking, “How do you know that?”

“Because of how you treat my brother. You care for him the same way I do. I didn’t know I’d ever meet a woman with the spirit and smarts to put up with the likes of him.”

Anthony. You had to remember Anthony and how he had forbidden this. You simply could not marry Benedict. Despite everything your body and heart were screaming for, you wouldn’t allow it to happen. It was too much entanglement. You didn’t want to be the cause of spite between these men that you cared for so deeply. You felt bitterness at being forced to choose and mocked him. “So a marriage would be convenient because I could help you look after him?”

He was taken aback. “No, no, it’s more than that.” He shook his head and took your face in his hands again. “You are so much more. You were building a life for yourself outside of all this.” He gestured vaguely back toward the house where the sounds of the party could be heard. “Do you know how rare that makes you? A jewel among pale stones.” He ran a thumb across your cheek and looked at you in that marvelling way again. “That is all I want too. Let me take care of you and we can build that life together. With passion, direction, a sense of purpose! Let me share in the beauty of your mind and your soul.” His hands travelled down the length of your arm and he brought your hand to his lips.

“You are exceptional.” His voice grew soft as he kissed your glove, the same way he had when you first met. “And I have felt exceptionally happy spending time with you.” He turned your hand and kissed your palm. “I love you, y/f/n. And will do so until my heart stops beating.” Then he held your hand to his chest.

Everything within you was shattering. You had never heard such beautiful words, and they were uttered by the most beautiful man you had ever seen. He could be yours, for the rest of your life. But at what cost? Your feelings for Benedict ran so hot, but you knew that your feelings for Anthony ran deeper. You could not betray your oldest friend, not even for a chance at what seemed to be perfect happiness. For all of your long years together, Anthony had always been a loyal friend. You owed him the same in return. Tears began to sting your eyes.

“Benedict, we can’t.”

He let your hand fall, pain creasing his brow. “Why not?”

Your voice was hoarse as you tried to keep from sobbing. “We would make a mess of things. It’s too complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all!” He threw his arms wide, desperation cutting into his words. “Do you have feelings for me or not? It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not.” You were crying freely now.

“It is!” He shouted, his voice wounded. “Either I’m mad or you’re not being honest. Look me in the eyes.” He closed in on you, searching your face. “I know you’re too ethical to lie to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you have felt nothing between us. Tell me how you truly feel.”

Blinded by your tears, all you could see was his anger. But you knew that if you were going to have one Bridgerton brother despise you, you would rather it was him. You needed to get out of there.

“I’m sorry.” You gasped, then tore away back into the house.

You somehow managed to find your mother and make it to a carriage before you broke down sobbing. She didn’t press you for an explanation, likely assuming that you were mourning your independence as you approached your engagement. All she did was soothe you and promise to sort everything out tomorrow. You hadn’t even seen Sir Edgar that night, nor Anthony, and you didn’t know when you would again. You didn’t know what you should say, or who you should say it to. You laid awake, tears running into your pillow, letting your sense of reason silence, for the final time, the protestations of your heart.

Tagging: @venomsvl @colettebronte @faye-tale who are following along so sweetly; and @makaylan @chaoticcalzoneranchsports to whom I apologize again for pain <3

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laceswan · 9 months

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Until I See You Again

Poe Dameron x fem!reader

established relationship, fluff, mild angst C/W: mild swearing

Poe had some extra time after a mission and flies over to Naboo to see a certain someone.

They were making wonderful time. It was a simple mission, and in all honesty, Poe could probably have done it alone. It was simply to infiltrate a First Order moon base of Naboo, and get a little bit of info. In and out, easy. But, Leia had decided it would be done with a group, so here he was, landing a ship full of exhausted and sleeping rebels. They wouldn’t be awake until morning, and didn’t need to be back for a while. So tonight, he was going to do his own thing. Normally, he would have been likewise tired, and he was, but that exhaustion was overridden with excitement and anticipation. The First Order had taken Naboo, but it was a big planet, they couldn’t have full control over all of it. There was no way they would even bother looking in a big field of inordinately tall grass for a resistance ship that just happened to be resting for the night. And that field of tall grass happened to be on the edges of a little town that the Order didn’t care to heavily police. It wasn’t nearly consequential enough to warrant such energy. Too far from the capital, too small of a population, no one important. No one important to them at least. But for Poe, the most important person in the world lived somewhere on the edge the town, in a small cottage and a decently sized garden. So, with an unnaturally large smile for such a tired face, he walked out of the ship and towards the house he hadn’t seen in far too long. As he got closer, he could see a silhouette in the window, moving about. And as he walked closer to the door he could hear the voice he so dearly missed. She was singing, not loud, but loud enough to be heard just outside. He hadn’t heard that beautiful voice in so long, and my did he miss it. Breathing became a task, his pulse was roaring in his chest, but the smile didn’t leave, only joined by a little water in his eyes. Everything was familiar here, even the sound of the wood as he knocked. Whether the singing stopped or just got quieter, he couldn’t tell, but it was certainly done by the time the door opened. And for a moment, the world was still. Crickets were quiet, the wind fell asleep, nothing dared move. Her eyes were wide, frozen in simple shock and a touch of disbelief.

“Poe?”

She reached a hand forward. It found its place caressing his cheek, finally registering that he was really there. And not a moment later, she was pressed against him, her arms wrapped tightly and face pressed crying into his shoulder. He was gentle as he pulled her closer, speaking quietly so too.

“I’m here,”

They stayed like that for a while, soaking in all that they could of this one moment. Her warmth, her fragrance, the slight pressure of her body on his, he missed it, and only in having it back for this moment did he realize just how much.

“So… we gonna stand in the doorway forever of are we gonna inside?”

Her giggle was muffled, but he could feel her smile as she stayed close. Once the door was closed, the two of them sat down, not entirely knowing what to do. They did stay practically glued to the other, touch-starved and unwilling to let go. Eventually, (y/n) regained some semblance of cognitive function.

“What are you doing here? Wh-why are you here? Nothing… nothing’s changed, why did you come back?”

All of her questions came rapidly tumbling out of mouth, falling in jumbled pieces onto the floor. Poe wanted just to hold her tighter and say he missed her, but that’s not what she was asking.

“We had a mission nearby, had some extra time. I figured I would come and visit.”

She tried to hide her disappointment, for she knew there was nothing that could be done. They were doing the best they could with that which was given.

“How long can you stay?”

“Just ‘till morning, then we have to go back to base. I know it’s not very long-“

“No, it’s ok,”

There was a subtle, loving warmth in her gaze as she spoke.

“It’s better than nothing.”

Poe could feel his heart breaking. He had never felt this strong a desire to throw caution to the wind and just stay on Naboo, with her. But as much as he wanted to, the war was still very much active, and he knew he needed to at least try, do whatever he could to make the world better. And she knew it too. So neither of them said a thing. Something could be heard by the door, a banging of sorts

“Shhhiiiitt-“

Poe very quickly rose from where he was sitting, rushing to the door and opening it with haste. (Y/n) quickly followed, asking all reasonable questions.

“Poe, whats’s going on? Does the order-“

His head snapped around and was soon followed by his body, which had been previously fiddling with the lock. He placed his hands tight on her arms and gave her a little smile.

“No. Definitely not, I made sure of that. We’ll be safe.”

“So who’s on the other side of the door?”

Poe said nothing, just smirked and turned back around to open the door. On the other side was a little droid, white and orange, and all too familiar. She dropped to the ground at seeing him, smiling wide and hugging the droid.

“Beebs!”

“He was following me, I guess we shut the door on him.”

A series of beeps and boops caused (y/n) to laugh.

“Yeah, he sounds pretty steamed.”

“Eh, he’ll get over it.”

The three of them settled back inside the house, enjoying what little time they had.

The night passed quickly, in a mixture of chatting, dancing, and kissing, catching up on the life that they hadn’t gotten to live together for so long. The two of them lied down to sleep, still cuddled up close. It was incredible to have her in his arms, to finally know she was safe and happy.

“Darling,”

She hummed in response, prompting him to continue

“I love you so much, you know that?”

Her small laugh echoed on his chest.

“Yeah, you’ve said it a lot tonight. And for the record, I love you too.”

She rose from her position ever so slightly to look him in the eyes.

“I love you so much.”

(Y/n) woke in the morning, with a distinct lack of warmth. The spot beside her on the bed was vacant, clearly previously occupied, but no longer. He had left already. She sunk into her body, not quite sad, just a little dreary. He was gone already and he didn’t even say goodbye. She wasn’t angry, she couldn’t be. He was out, fighting for a better life, for both of them. He was doing what she wished she had the courage to do. But the warmth in her heart, the butterflies in the cage of her ribs, they were so bright just a few hours earlier. When the sky was dark and the crickets and cicadas buzzed, she had so much joy. And it wasn’t totally gone. Or maybe she didn’t want it to be. But there was no denying that something was missing from her heart. A gaping hole that she’d grown used to in recent months. But last night, she had felt it again. A drop of water after ages in the desert, just to return to the sand and heat. And with this hole in her heart, she curled into a small lump of empty sadness, within a cocoon of sheets and blankets that still smelled like him. She could still hear his footsteps, walking about the house alongside the droid.

“(Y/n)? Everything alright?”

She snapped up, half out of spite, just to prove to herself that it wasn’t real, that she was seeing things. But there he was, standing with a glass of water in hand, and the droid by his side. In a flash, she was out of the bed and bounding across the room towards him. Her arms made their way over his shoulders, her body pressed flush against his. She clutched him like he was the only thing in the world, like her life depended on it. He was startled to say the least.

“(Y/n)?”

“I thought you left,”

He wrapped his arms around her in solidarity and understanding. The war had done so much to them, to their whole world. There had been many times in which Poe had woken up, in his shitty Resistance cot, in a daze. He thought, for just a moment, that she had been there. That the pillow between his arms was her, and that he was home. But then his gaze would clear, he would look around, and reality would be all the more devastating.

“You didn’t even say goodbye-“

And again, he could feel his heart breaking.

“Oh darling…” he cooed.

“I would never,”

She hummed, nuzzling further into his chest.

The two of them slowly made their way to the kitchen, not really saying anything. There was a bag on the table, one that held a bit of food (y/n) recognized from her refrigerator. He was planning to eat on the ship.

“Do you have to go?”

Poe looked to his feet, struggling to spit out the words he wished weren’t true.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Ok.”

She went to put on day clothes and then walked to the door, where she found Poe and BB-8 waiting.

“Let me walk you to your ship.”

They walked hand in hand out the door. Around the back of the house and out toward the field, they walked, slowly and full of hesitation. Poe closed his eyes for a moment. He soaked in all he could of home. The warm breeze, the smell of the flowers in her garden, the sun on his skin, and of course, her hand in his. They arrived at the ship in little time, where they saw some orange-clad pilot waiting.

“Where were you all night, huh lover boy? Not even a note?”

“Sorry man. Couldn’t exactly wait.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. C’mon. We gotta get back.”

The pilot walked back into the ship, leaving just (y/n) and Poe, lying in wait. For once, the ever optimistic and witty pilot was downtrodden, unsure of how to continue, and far too saddened to try.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

(y/n) was silent, considering his words with care.

“No, I don’t think so. I think it’s until I see you again. ‘Cause we will.”

“Hmm. Okay, until I see you again.”

He kissed her forehead before cupping her face in his hands.

“It’ll all be over one day. I promise.”

“I know. I’ll see you then.”

Both of them had tears welling in their eyes as they pressed together, kissing for what was hopefully not the last time.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too. So so much.”

With a final kiss, Poe walked onto the ship. He looked back to see her, wiping tears from her eyes as she backed up. He had taught her to do so long before the war, to avoid getting debris in her eyes. He felt his heart swell with joy, a bit of pride, but mostly sorrow. And he too wiped a tear or two away, watching as home got smaller and smaller. But he would be back, one day.

Until I see you again, darling.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe #poe x reader #female reader #poe dameron x female reader #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars angst #star wars fluff

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around1302 · 1 year

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XVII. YOU HAVE ME

SPARE PARTS: a series (17/20)

BOLOGNE, ITALY

(W) strong language, family restraints, alcohol use, fingering

good lord this has taken me some time to finish. i’m so sorry, life just got in the way. hopefully 4.3k of a smidge of angst and a fuck-ton of fluff makes up for it!

HARRY’S POV

“What’s the move for tonight?”

“You can do what you want, I’m taking Charlie out.”

Niall’s usual grin twists into a smirk, his eyes glinting. I resist the urge to roll my own.

I am taking Charlie out. Not that she necessarily knows that yet.

I don’t mean to sound like a desperate man, but I need Charlie and I to move on like I need air. I can feel her warming to the idea of me, but at the end of the day she still just sees me as her annoying bandmate who’s up to giving her an orgasm or two.

I need to be more than that to her. I can’t be either nothing or just her temporary fix.

And if there’s one thing that’s apparent about Charlie, it’s that she’s a hopeless romantic. She doesn’t crave sneaking around and fleeting glances and meaningless moments. I’ve seen her face light up more from seeing a couple holding hands in public than when I’ve been literally going down on the girl.

In fact, in the time I’ve known her, she’s only ever dated one person – Zayn, which is also why this could get messy.

(But fuck him. I was there first).

“I’d love to say I’m surprised about this whole thing, but I’m really not.” Niall snorts.

I narrow my eyes, but before I can ask anymore questions, the guys barge into Niall’s suite.

“Fuckin’ Hell, Horan. You have it fancy in here.” Louis gawks far too loudly for the fancy establishment we’re in, but I have to say, I share the sentiment. We all have nice rooms (it’s the most expensive hotel in Bologne, for God’s sake) but Niall managed to bag da Vinci’s fucking shrine.

Niall shrugs, sitting up with that mischievous flicker in his eyes.

“Lia still out?”

“Yeah,” Liam explains, “she’s dragging Charlie and Zayn round the shops. Tried to rope us in but we managed to escape.”

My chest tightens. I force it to relax.

Liam throws his legs up on the Ottoman, stretching out. After the show last night, we’re all exhausted. After nearly four months of touring, non stop performing and the consequential non stop partying, we’re all wiped the fuck out. It’s why Niall and I said no to their little day trip around Italy. To put it frankly: I can’t be arsed with the tourism shit when there’s a mini bar five feet away from me up here.

“Good,” Niall reaches behind him, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

“What the fuck is that?” I spit.

“This, my friend,” Niall flicks the box open. My suspicions are confirmed, “is about to get me the best head I’ve ever had.”

“Holy shit.” Louis grabs the diamond, making Niall fly up and snatch it back.

“For real?” Liam stands too, while I’m still sat in shock.

“Why I got this fancy suite,” Niall’s as giddy as a kid on Christmas, “want to do it tonight. Italy’s always been her favourite place and I figure–”

“You’re twenty-one.” “Twenty-two this year.”

I scowl. Niall’s cheeky grin droops.

“Oh come on, man. Who cares how old we are? I know I’m gonna be with this girl till I’m all old and gross and grey, why not seal the deal now?”

“Because it’s insane!” I splutter. I’m not angry. Am I? Why am I angry?

“Hardly,” Louis sharply laughs, “they’ve been basically married since they met.”

“Okay, but being basically married and being actually married are two very different things.”

“Dude, don’t you think I know that? I have thought about this, you know.”

My jaw tightens.

My best friend is about to propose to his girlfriend, and I can’t say I’ve ever even had one. The girl I’ve been in lo– whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I can narrow my anger down to one, ugly thing: bitter fucking jealousy.

So, I do the mature thing; I storm out.

Luckily for me, the second I step out into the hallway – all heaving chest and unnecessary frustration – Charlie, Amelia and Zayn bump into me. They’re all laughing about something, a million shopping bags between them.

“Oh, hey man–” Zayn starts, but I cut him off by grabbing Charlie’s waist and pushing her in the direction of my room. The sliver of skin given to me below her crop top sends a spike through my spine.

I don’t care that Zayn is probably about to start quizzing Amelia to no end, all I care about is the universe quite literally handing me the only person I want to talk to right now.

“Yo, what the fuck?” She twists, staring at me with what I assume is a mixture of vexation and confusion, but I’m too busy staring ahead to notice. Charlie doesn’t make a move to escape my grip (something I know she’s more than capable of doing), so I keep walking us to my room.

I messily scan my keycard and grab her shopping, setting it down as carefully as I can in my haste before closing the door with her body.

There’s something else I want to do before talk.

But, I hesitate for a moment, brushing my lips against hers. I silently ask for permission, pulling her toward me so her lower back lifts from the door and our torsos press together. She hesitates, too. Brushing her nose against mine before kissing me with as much urgency as I got her into the room with.

I sigh into her mouth, completely wrapping my arms around her back to hold her flush against me. “Missed you,” I mumble against her lips, trailing my hand up to hold the back of her head. I rake my fingers through her hair, loosening her ponytail.

“Missed you too.” She gasps, looping her fingers through my belt hooks.

I nearly let myself smile, but then she palms me over my jeans.

Quickly, I hold her wrist, preventing me from dragging her to bed and insisting we don’t leave my hotel room all night. “Go out with me.” I let the words tumble like a subconscious spill, letting my chest do all the work so my brain doesn’t have to.

Frowning, she pulls back. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I want to rewind and let her do whatever she wants with me. Why the Hell did I–

“Go out with you?” She’s smiling. She’s smiling.

“Yeah,” I feel my cheeks heating. I’m getting shy, for fuck’s sake. I don’t do shy. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said those four words over the years, and I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve said it to. I don’t recall nerves ever being a factor in that habit.

“You realise I’m a sure thing, right?” She cocks her head, and I want to kiss the faint dimple that pops beside her lips. I settle for her bottom lip.

“I want to take you out.” I pull her lip between my teeth, bathing in the way she sighs. “Properly.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Nope,” I pop. I need to banish this shy thing. Fuck the shy thing. I realise our proximity might have something to do with that, so I step away, flicking the light on so I can see her properly.

Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are dark and her hair is mussed and– and shit. I’m so gone on this girl. She folds her arms across her shirt, and that’s when I notice the shirt. It’s my shirt – the one I gave her weeks ago, the band she claims to hate, the shirt I’ve dreamt about fucking her in ever since.

The shirt which now rests just below her bra.

“Oh,” she clocks my thought process – probably because I’m staring at her chest – and fumbles with the messy hem. “Shit, sorry. I never even asked if you wanted it back–”

“Never.” I murmur.

A pause. “What?”

I blink back to reality, back to her eyes. “I never wanted it back,” I clear my throat, try and regain some conviction, “the band sucks anyway.” I wink, she chuckles.

God, maybe we should just stay here. We could order room service and continue our theme of fucking in hotel showers and spend all night getting sweatier and sweatier in between the sheets and–

No! No. I need to take her out.

“Be ready by seven.”

I bend to pick up her shopping, handing it back. Charlie takes the bags slowly, looking at me like I just told her my name’s actually Bill.

Then, softly, nearly meekly, she whispers, “I thought we had rules?”

My lungs stop working. “We did. We do.”

Right – I’m not even considering her right now. I know what I want, and I know I want it badly. I need to learn I can’t just demand this. Sure, I’ve waited six years, but she sure as shit doesn’t know that.

Patience is a bitch.

She looks at me, scrutinising, studying. I want to read her mind, it seems to all work so complicated up there. A million bolts and cogs working tirelessly; I’d give it all up for just a peek.

“I suppose I’d be pretty stupid to deny we’re at least friends at this point, right?”

I can breathe again. “Right.” I rush to say.

“So… dinner as friends. Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” No, fuck no. “Bonding time.”

She purses her lips, seemingly amused. Nodding, she swivels from the door, palm wrapped around the handle and about to let me stand in my room and punch the air but…

“You sure you don’t want me to help you out first?”

Her eyes flicker accusingly at my crotch. Specifcally, my hard on, from just kissing the girl.

It’s like I’m fucking fifteen again.

I snort, pushing my tongue against my cheek to stop the habitual impulse to say something inappropriate. I want to scream yes, God, yes but I can’t. Charlie’s like some kind of kryptonite – one handjob will turn into one blowjob will turn into round after round after round.

“I’m good, love.”

Charlie scowls. “You’re really just going to try every nickname in the book, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan, sweet pea.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she swings the door open, so before it slams behind her I shout a reminding,

“Seven!”

And then I stand in my room, and punch the air.

“Jesus, Styles, this place is fancy.”

I smirk. “Only the best for a princess.”

“Hey–”

“I’m kidding! Here,” I let go of the small of Charlie’s back to pull her chair out for her, “sit, before you hit me.”

“I can still reach you from over here.”

I playfully roll my eyes as I take my seat. She definitely can. I made sure to get us a table hidden away, close enough for our legs to accidentally tangle and far enough away from anyone else Charlie doesn’t need to worry about people.

She’s always panicked about mobs. The first one was pretty traumatic I guess, and ever since she’s been the overly cautious one in public. Never seen without heavy glasses and an even heavier hoodie, so I made sure she wouldn’t be spending our first date (that is what I’m declaring that is, friends or not) in fear.

It’s not conceited if saying your name for a last minute res at one of the most established restaurants in Bolonge works. Fame has it’s perks, I’m allowed to admit that.

… I think.

Within a few seconds, a waiter comes over with a bottle of red I preorded on the phone. Charlie leans back, looking at me quizzitivley as he pours us both a glass and leaves the rest between us. We thank the waiter, and I gauge her reaction.

A pause. My heart awaiting a beat.

“I’m impressed.” She raises her brows, a glimmer of a smile on her rouge lips.

“Good,” I lift my glass, clinking it against hers before we both take a sip.

I let my eyes properly roll over her for the first time since I met her outside the hotel. It was too dark and too much of a rush to the car for me to drink her in, and God. She looks fucking edible. She’s wearing a strapless dress that lets my wind wander to every inch of skin I can kiss with her still in the thing – but, Jesus, stop.

Tonight isn’t about that.

Quiet falls on us, because, well. What do we talk about if not for the security of sex or argument, if not for the safety net of anyone else around us? Here, we’re uninterrupted. In fact, no. We’re not anything.

We’re two people on a first date. We’re fresh.

“You know,” Charlie chuckles to herself, setting her glass down and leaning on her palms, “I love trying to figure out the other people at restaurants like this. Like, okay, that couple,” she nods behind me, so I try and turn as discreetly as I can. She hits my leg. “Don’t be so obvious!” She hisses behind a smile.

I’ve just gone and made things worst myself by taking Charlie out, haven't I?

“That couple is on their first date, and he’s trying to figure out how to leave.”

“And how do you know that, Sherlock?”

Charlie shrugs and leans back to take another sip.

“I know people. He’s fidgeting like crazy, looked at the bathroom like five times in the past thirty seconds. For sure planning his escape.”

“Or he just really needs a shit.”

Charlie snorts into her glass, spraying wine onto her cheeks. I guffaw, and both of us fall into laughter too loud for an establishment like this. “Fuck, my makeup.” Charlie taps at her cherry stains aimlessly, so I lean across with my napkin.

“Here, hold still,” I chuckle, pinching her chin between my fingers and trying to get as much grapejuice from her face. In the midst of the scene, our waiter returns.

“Are you… oh.” He clears his throat, and we pause to look up.

“We might need a few more minutes.” I mumble. Charlie grins sheepishly.

Yeah, okay, maybe it is conceited – but thank God we do what we do, because judging by the compressed scowl on the guy’s face as he leaves us, we were one 0 in our bank accounts away from being kicked out.

As I’m wiping at her face, our eyes lock, and the words tumble out before I can think about what I’m saying.

“Niall’s proposing to Amelia.”

She gasps. I sit back.

Silence holds us, until a slowly whispered, “shit,” punctures it.

“Yeah.”

I see her reach for her wine. Then she downs it.

“So I told my mum Gemma was a drug dealer. Of course my mum was like, Harry, she’s nine. But it was the worst thing I could come up with at six years old.”

Charlie throws her head back at the story of myself and my sister, one of my favourite memories to relay. I stab my fork in my pasta and try and muffle my grin as Charlie giggles away.

“I never thought you’d be the type to take WWF wrestling so personally.”

I shrug. “I was a dedicated fan. I still refuse to believe it’s staged.”

Her laughter dies, and she gets this sort of gone off look in her eyes. Like she’s thinking about something, someone, and then it hits me – I’ve been sat here reeling off stories about my sister without any regard for the fact she no longer has hers.

“You know,” she shifts, eyes dropped to her plate. She pushes a piece of broccoli around with her silverware, chewing on her lip. Then, her voice gets quiet, small, when she admits, “I don’t think my parents have called me one time this whole tour.”

She chuckles to herself, but it’s void of any humour.

“They did their usual prayer for my safety before I left, and rang to see if I had changed my mind, but…”

I dip my head to meet her eye. She looks up at me, meekly. Like tears are threatening to spill but she’s using every muscle to hold them back. I’m so terrible in situations like this, I never say the right thing because, truthfully, people don’t often open up to me.

(Not like this, at least.)

So, I go with my gut, and pray it doesn’t betray me.

“Pretend I’m your parents.”

Charlie piques. “What?”

Confidence begins to slip from me, evident in the way I mess with my hair and twist my rings beneath the table. “Pretend I’m your parents,” I repeat – despite the out she just gave me.

“This apart of that daddy kink you were talking about?” She smiles smally.

“No,” I lilt. “Tell me about tour. Look,” I sit up straight, bringing my hair forward and cracking my neck. Getting into character. I lift my hand to my ear, pretending to be on the phone. “Hi sweetie, how’s tour going?”

Charlie snorts. “That supposed to be my mum?”

“I’ve never met the woman, go with it.”

She rolls her eyes, but she sits up and lifts her hand, too.

“Hi mum. It’s fine.”

“Fine? Come on, you’ve been away for months.”

She sighs, giving me that look through those lashes. I lift my brows.

“It’s been amazing, actually.”

I smile. We’re getting somewhere.

“Everyone really likes our album,” she continues, “and I started banging the one with long hair you always tell me I need to stay away from.”

“Heey,” I drop the ‘phone’. She looks pointedly at my hand. I raise it again.

She heaves a breath, her expression stone again.

“I wish you’d try and understand my job a little more. I think you’d see what I’m doing is actually really cool if you took the time.”

My chest aches. I knew Charlie had a strained relationship with her parents, I just never knew why. They’d never come to shows, she would never mention them. I don’t even remember them sitting with her at Poppy’s funeral.

Maybe when Charlie blamed herself for her sister’s death, her parents did too.

“You were wrong, by the way.”

I got so lost in my own anger I forgot we were doing this.

“Wrong?” I ask.

“About the dude with long hair. He’s actually alright.”

I couldn’t let this night end.

We practically got kicked out of the restaurant when we wound up being the last two in there, and then we stumbled our way to my hotel room and have been laid on the bed giggling over nothing for the last hour.

Red wine is strong shit.

So far, I’ve learnt Charlie hates the colour purple, secretly loves 90s horror and sometimes worries she made a mistake by going to that audition six years ago.

“I just want a dog, y’know?”

“You can have a dog.” I laugh.

“No, no,” she flips, her hair messily cascading her shoulders as she hovers above me. I let the wine guide my hand, tucking a strand or two behind her ear. She leans into my palm. “I want a dog, and a spouse, and a kid.”

I caress her cheek, and then she lays her face completely on my chest. I freeze, watching in awe as she shifts so her legs hang off the bed and her head is on the spaces were my shirt gives way to my skin. Charlie tilts her head, closing her eyes when my fingers find home on her scalp.

I just want this, I want to scream.

“What?”

Fuck. Wait. Did I not think that?

The domestic bliss lasts all of ten seconds before she’s sitting up again.

I’m at a loss for words. I’m sure she’s going to leave, that I just fucked up this whole night, but then she’s climbing a top of me. My hands instinctively fly to her thighs, holding her close through the silk while she assesses me from above, her hair a curtain.

“You want friends with benefits forever? That’s your end goal?” She sounds amused, so I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. I want to shout, is that all I am? Even after today, after everything?

I’m better at holding in my thoughts this time, though.

“You really think we can ever be friends?”

Then, she sighs and straightens. Her hair no longer tickling my neck.

“Jesus, you’re confusing. I thought that was why you took me out in the first place!”

This girl will be the death of me.

“Okay, Charlie,” I sit up, gripping her waist to pull her against me. I feel her chest huff out against mine in three quick, fluttering motions. “Let me be crystal clear,” I cradle her face, now, just brushing her bottom lip. She leans into my touch again, and I feel every ounce of self-doubt fade away with the sigh she lets out. I knock my nose against hers.

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

Charlie rushes to say, “You have me,” whilst fisting at my shirt.

As much as I want that to be true, I know she doesn’t believe those words in the same way I want to believe them. So, I stifle a breathy chuckle, shaking my head.

“I don’t think I do.” My throat stutters at the word baby. I haven’t tried that one out yet.

“What do you mean? I’m right here.”

Charlie looks genuinely confused, which I suppose is the problem. The problem I created. I pull back, sinking into her brown eyes till I’m sure I’ve turned to stone. All I’ve wanted for the last six years is to hear Charlie say those words: you have me. Yet, in this moment, I realise I’ve gone about all of this completely wrong.

“I want a redo.” I barely whisper, insecure in my words.

“A redo?”

I quickly lick my lips. “Of everything.” I thumb at her jaw. “I fucked it all up, Charlie.”

“Fucked what up?” She deadpans, clearly tired of my inexplicability.

“You. Me. Us. This.”

Charlie shorts out a huff, as if she’s finally got it.

“We didn’t know this would end up happening–”

“I knew.”

I let my confession barrel before me. If I scare her off, then fuck it. I scare her off. But she needs to know. She needs to know that,

“I’ve wanted you since we were sixteen and you shouted at me for being late to our first recording. I knew the minute you stood there in your stupid scarf and your even stupider boots that I was going to have it bad for you and I’ve not known what to do with it since.”

Charlie looks startled, but she’s unmoving from my lap, so I take it as a sign to keep going.

“I thought that you’d always hate me,” my throat swells, “so I’ve been a prick to you and I… especially after Zayn, I just didn’t…” I shake my head, looking down, losing myself.

It’s the wine, that’s all that’s fuelling this sudden, dumb confession. The wine and the fact that right now my best friend is probably engaged. But, then...

Charlie lifts my chin.

Charlie hesitates.

Charlie’s eyes flick back and forth between mine.

Charlie kisses me.

I kiss back with force, pouring everything I couldn’t say into her lips. I hold the back of her head, moaning against her tongue as she pushes me back to the pillow and grips my shirt so hard it pulls nearly painfully against my back.

And then she stops.

“Zayn told me after Amsterdam he loves me.”

Just found the quickest way to kill a boner.

“Oh.” Is all I can say, apparently.

“But I don’t…” she trails off, her eyes dropping to my lips. “I don’t love him.”

“Okay.” I whisper.

My insides are having a fucking party, right now.

“That doesn’t mean I love you.” She rushes to clarify. I smile.

“I know.”

“But you are the first person I think about when I wake up. And when I go to sleep. And while that’s confusing because most of the time you piss me off, you don’t seem to do that anymore.”

I try not to sound so excited as I respond. “At all?”

“I mean, don’t push it.”

I chuckle, brushing her hair from her face. But then a dreadful pit starts to hole its way through my stomach, and I have to ask,

“You’re not just saying this because you want a dog?”

Charlie smiles against my lips. “I want you, Harry.” One sweet, chaste kiss. “I’m not thinking about the dog right now.”

I lean up to kiss her, flipping her onto her back. My hand slips under her dress, and her breath hitches. “Good,” I breathe against her mouth, rubbing her over her knickers. Her gasp travels to the back of my throat, and I swallow it, keep it, store it, run it over and over in my mind as I push her pants to the side and curl my middle finger in her.

“Stay the night?” I ask, adding my index finger.

“Oh,” Charlie moans, her head tipping back. I kiss her throat, “yes.”

“Yes, you’ll stay the night?” I nip at her neck, losing myself in vanilla and Merlot.

“Yes, Harry,” she pulls my face up, “just assume from now on I will always– fuck, stay the night.”

I grin. Her nails dig into my nape as I pull my fingers out and rub her clit.

“God, like that,” she breathes as I push my finger down harder, tuning myself to every gasp and moan she gives me. I kiss her through her orgasm, muffling her cries with my mouth despite wanting the entirety of Italy to hear how pretty she sounds when she comes.

“Always so good for me, baby.” I murmur, gripping her thigh as I shift my weight and move her core to my own thigh, still covered by the overpriced trousers I asked Amelia to find for me. She bucks her hips, capturing my bottom lip between her teeth. I whimper.

“Baby,” she breathes questioningly. “I like that one.”

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